This Book Is Dedicated To

My Dear Mother
STELLA ADELE ROSS

And to all the wonderful people I loved so dearly -

especially those who loved me in return.

 2

CONTENTS
PART ONE (Page 6) 1963-
1963-1987 THE PAPUA NEW GUINEA YEARS

From Manus Island Through Southern Asia 7

Life In The Hard Lane 27
Return To Asia 33
Mother Returns To Papua New Guinea 39
Life After Mother 43
Tales Of The South Pacific 49
Travels With Eileen 55
The Killing Of John Iredale 69
Around The Mediterranean 73
The United States And Canada 87
Christmas In New Zealand 93
Early Years With Raymond 97
Across Europe, Both Ways 107
Scotland Through Scottish Eyes 117
Retracing Personal History 125
Tales From the Port Moresby Wards 137
Bad News! 141

PART TWO (Page 146) 1988-

1988-2006 THE ADULT AUSTRALIAN YEARS

After An Absence of Twenty-Seven Years 147

Around the USA, Mostly By Rail 151
Travels With Lynly 163
A Teeny Touch Of Australia 171
The South 175
The Indian Pacific Railway 179
The Trans-Mongolian Express 183
New Year in Penang 201
An Australian Walkabout: Twentieth Century Style 203
Mediterranean Cruise 215
Too Much Of A Good Thing 221
A New Look At Hong Kong 227
Seven Nights On The Great Barrier Reef 229
Back To The Old Stomping Ground 233
The Ghan And The Murray River Cruise 237

PART THREE (Page 244) 1932-

1932-1963 BACK TO THE VERY BEGINNING

Pre-School Years 245

Primary School Years 249
Higher Education 256
Those Terrific, Tumultuous Teenage Years 261
National Service 269
Ten Years Of Extraordinary Activities 275
The Territory Of Papua & New Guinea 297
Epilogue 311
ISBN 0-
0-646-
646-46007-
46007-2
Quiet Country Boy, The
Copyright © Ross, Graeme J 2006
 3

The Quiet Country Boy

The Autobiography Of

GRAEME JAMES ROSS

My sincere thanks to Julie Andrews and Beverly Blaauw, without whom this book could never have been completed,
and to Geraldine Cox, who suggested that my time would be best spent writing my own book instead of reading hers.
 4

1934 1956

Four of the many faces of the author.

1970
2004
 5

The Quiet Country Boy

Part One

THE PAPUA NEW GUINEA YEARS

1963 – 1987

From Manus Island Through Southern Asia 7

Life In The Hard Lane 27
Return To Asia 33
Mother Returns To Papua New Guinea 39
Life After Mother 43
Tales Of The South Pacific 49
Travels With Eileen 55
The Killing Of John Iredale 69
Around The Mediterranean 73
The United States And Canada 87
Christmas In New Zealand 93
Early Years With Raymond 97
Across Europe, Both Ways 107
Scotland Through Scottish Eyes 117
Retracing Personal History 125
Tales From the Port Moresby Wards 137
Bad News! 141
6
 7

FROM MANUS ISLAND THROUGH SOUTHERN ASIA 1963-1964

“Whatever you do, Graeme, don’t let this out of your hands. Hold onto it at all times. Keep it in a safe
place and never let it go!” District Commissioner Jim O’Malley looked me hard and straight in the eye as
he handed me my very first passport with the all-important visa to enter West Irian (Irian Jaya).
It was 1963 and I was about to leave for six weeks of my first overseas adventure - well sort-of
first. Let’s say that the first was when I left Australia in 1961 to take up a two-year contract with the
Education Department in what was then known as The Territory of Papua and New Guinea (TPNG).
During those two years my only contact with the outside world was a small transistor radio and a
mail delivery, along with food and essentials that arrived by sea about every six weeks. I wasn’t too
concerned with news from outside the island, although I was aware that the United Nations had passed
control of the Western half of the country to Indonesia, causing some problems. The local population of
West Irian was unhappy about this, as they considered themselves to be part of New Guinea and did not
want to be under Indonesian control. This take-over of the country occupied the attention of the media, that
was full of Michael Rockefeller who was, at the time, making a documentary film in West Irian.
Blissfully unaware that Malaysia’s grab for Independence was causing hostility between Malaysia
and Indonesia, I flew from Lombrum on Manus Island, to Lae where I caught a connecting flight to
Wewak. During the one-hour flight from Wewak to Jayapura (Hollandia), the capital of Irian Jaya
(previously West New Guinea, the pilot said he would be flying me to Jayapura, then on to Biak in the
'bird's neck' of the western end of the country. This was my first truly international flight, complete with
passport. I was about to become a foreigner for the first time in my life … a somewhat immature 30-year-
old.

Arrival in West Irian

Apart from the pilot, I was the only Caucasian on the plane; the only passenger, actually. The fun started
when we arrived at the tiny airport at Jayapura. A monstrous, medal-bedecked, armour-plated, weapon-
wielding immigration officer demanded my documents. I readily gave both the Immigration and Health
documents, the latter proving immunisation against tetanus and yellow fever, as well as every other
possible wog I was likely to encounter. All the while I kept a firm hold - between thumb and forefinger -
on my precious passport. I was petrified. After all Commissioner O'Malley’s warnings ... the sight of the
rifles and revolvers brought his words to my mind: "Never let it go! " Nevertheless, I was ushered towards a
rectangular hole in the wall that served as a window at one end of the terminal. There I was ordered to hand
over my passport. No way, I thought, holding onto it for grim death, while the sweating hunk of mahogany
on the other side of the glass fought for control of the precious document. He won - I had to let go!
Having lost the battle, the nervous wees hit me and I headed towards the only other enclosed block,
in the terminal. Black lettering above a door seemed to indicate it might just be what I needed. I slowly
opened the door and peered inside. To my horror and embarrassment, I looked directly into the eyes of an
elderly woman squatting over a circular hole in the floor. My face turned scarlet. Naturally I didn't see it
turn scarlet, but it felt like it. I bobbed and bowed, muttering “Sorry Madam, sorry Madam” as I backed out
the door. By this time the nervous wees had become desperate wees, so I headed to the left, did a left turn
at a corner, another left turn, another left turn, then another. Everything looked very familiar. I saw a
similar sign and similar door, but to hell with modesty I went in and there she was still squatting over the
same hole. She looked at me with a face that showed no emotion - it was bland, blank and entirely
expressionless. Quite possibly, she was in a state of shock herself. There was nothing I could do other than
stand over the adjacent hole and relieve myself, no longer worrying about privacy for either of us.
On exiting, I heard a rapid-fire Stamp! Stamp! Stamp! And in no time my passport was returned
to my trembling hand, accompanied by nothing more than an unsmiling grunt. Only the relief of using the
toilet surpassed the relief I felt at getting my hands on that passport again. In broken English the Officer
said that my flight to Biak would be departing “verry soon.” With passport in pocket and cigarette in hand,
 8

I was ready to take on the world. Being the only passenger, it took little time to get the show on the road
and up in the air. The only barrier between a wonderful adventure and me had been overcome.
As we rose above the humid December air and I noticed that Jayapura was built around the shores
of a beautiful lake, fringed with dense vegetation in such a multitude of shades of green that any artist
would weep. It was picture postcard perfect! We flew over lush jungles where thatched-roof houses dotted
mountaintops and riverbanks … across a narrow strip of ocean and then we landed again.

Biak, in 1963, was the ultimate in depression. Military aircraft abounded; armoured tanks were
everywhere, as were military police. The very atmosphere smelled of defeat. Before leaving the airport for
my hotel, the pilot asked if I would join him and a friend for drinks after dinner, an invitation I was happy
to accept.
My one-bed room was spartan to say the least. The bed and a wooden chair were the only
furniture. A small single window with an outward opening shutter was barred on the inside. When I
learned that water would be available only between six and eight A.M. for both bathing and toilet flushing,
I was certainly relieved to be staying for just one night.
At dinner I was not entirely alone - there were four or five gents of Indonesian appearance spread
throughout the vast dining room. Being unable to read the well-worn menu, I decided to wander about and
check what the others were eating, but was quickly ushered back to my own table with the suggestion that I
sit. “Do you eat rice?” the bare-chested waiter asked. “Yes!” I replied. “Do you eat potato?” “Yes!”
again. And that's what the meal consisted of - plain boiled rice with plain boiled potato - no salt, no pepper
and no spices … nothing! A glance at the other tables, to see if salt or pepper was available, nothing
showed there either. With no idea of the words in Bahasa Indonesia, I had the feeling that the waiter would
not welcome my asking for a glass of water, so I went without.
At seven on the dot, Pilot arrived, accompanied by another pilot, saying we would drive a short
distance out of town, picking up another friend along the way. When we arrived at a modest little white
two-room cottage, with the obligatory russet-coloured wooden door, I was told to keep my voice low. A
single-bulb light was on in the lounge. The room was sparsely furnished with a chrome-and-laminex dining
setting for four. All three searched in and under all furniture, tapping and feeling with experienced hands
behind each picture, in the solitary cupboard and drawers, as well as skirting boards and beneath mats. All
so 007-ish! Very quietly I asked Pilot what they were looking for, and learned it was common practice for
the Indonesian military to 'bug' the residences of non-Indonesians.
When cold beers appeared, talk turned to the recent search for Michael Rockefeller. One of the
men claimed Michael had been killed while swimming to shore from a canoe off the southwest area of the
mainland. They assured me he had been involved in instigating tribal warfare, which he was filming for a
documentary. One of the men went to the bedroom and returned with a silver wristwatch with a broken
glass. He said a villager who lived in the search area had given him the watch that he maintained had been
taken from Michael Rockefeller’s body.
As we were about to leave, I was asked if I would discreetly deliver a tourist magazine containing
an envelope addressed to the Netherlands Embassy in Djakarta. I was advised to treat it with the greatest
care and to personally hand it only to one of the Embassy staff.
Suddenly I had become a secret agent this was to be my very first clandestine operation. James
Bond, eat your heart out! Very quietly, three of us left and Pilot and I were returned to the hotel. I put the
mystery document and magazine in my small shoulder bag, together with my passport, locked my door and
spent an extremely anxious night waiting for dawn to come creeping through the shutters. Strangely, fate
had decided that Pilot and I would meet at a later date. How I wished I could flush that toilet!
What a relief next morning to be able to attend to ablutions, and have the luxury of flushing it as it
had become rather objectionable in the overnight heat of the room. My exciting breakfast consisted of a
cold fried egg on dry bread, accompanied by a cup of black tea. Before leaving the hotel I did a strange
thing - I left $500.00 in the hotel safe, for collection on my return. I really can’t imagine what prompted me
to do that but, as it later turned out, it was a very wise decision.

Bali
Surely the first thing that would strike any tourist visiting Bali is the density of traffic and the incessant
honking of horns. These horns come in all varieties and tones, from deep bass, through alto, on to soprano
with every jingle and catchy tune imaginable. I believe that if a driver has sounded his horn before an
 9

accident in Bali, he cannot be blamed. Surely then, no guilt can be laid in regard to any accident in Bali,
because the horn is sounded constantly.
With no reservations made and having no idea of what to expect of Bali, I hailed a cab at the
airport and told the driver I wanted to go to the capital, Denpasar.
How we got to town with all that traffic, and seemingly no road rules other than 'close-your-eyes-
and-go-for-it', I don't know. But we made it to a hotel right in the heart of town safely. Well - maybe it
wasn't right in the heart of town but it was on a corner, very close to the hospital, and had a semi-outdoor
lounge with tables and comfortable chairs, good drink service and open sides with nothing other than a
waist-high wall to keep the pedlars and beggars at bay. Those pedlars were far from amusing - in fact they
were damned infuriating. Day and night the pestering never eased. The only preventative I found was to
have no eye contact with anyone outside the wall ... one teeny sidelong glance and a multitude of carvings
and artifacts would, one at a time, be unwrapped from a cloth and thrust almost right into your face. “You
buy!” “You buy!” “No thanks! No thanks!” It would then be wrapped again and another produced:
“You like?” (Did he mean the merchandise or himself?) The only escape was to bury your face in a
book, or go to the room for a nap. Then, on returning, the same chaps would be seated in the same
positions. “You buy!” “You buy!”
One escape was to wander down the street, checking out the vast assortment of delicacies
prepared on site, which in most cases were well worth trying. Usually, if on the savory side, it could be
washed down with a beer. Street vendors, with their little barrows, could almost always produce a seat of
some kind and a bottle of beer - at the current outdoor summer temperature - and pour it into a glass filled
with large chunks of ice. The first few sips were always refreshingly cool and delicious but, as the ice
melted, if became most unpalatable, especially when accompanied by one of those aromatic cinnamon-
scented cigarettes they sell in Bali. Now, this is strange, I don't recall ever contracting Bali Belly in Bali.

On one of my quieter days I got chatting with a young chap who worked at the hospital. He told me about
the recent eruption of Ganung Agung, the island's highest volcano. The following morning he was due to
drive a truck loaded with food for distribution to children orphaned in the disaster. I learned that many of
the village children had been away at school when the mountain blew its top, killing most of the parents.
So, early next morning we set out on our mission of mercy. The driver and two assistants were in the
cabin, while another volunteer and I sat on top of the canvas that covered the precious cargo of dried fish.
Can you imagine sitting atop a whole mountain of stinking dried fish on a hot summer's day?
The road out of town wound its way through miles of flat, fertile rice paddies where water-buffalo
pulled single-furrow wooden ploughs through the water. The 'master' paddled along behind, while the rest
of the family planted and tended the rice shoots. All along the roadside were bare-footed peasants - mini-
ramis wound around to resemble shorts - with huge sheaves of recently-cut-and-dried rice attached to the
ends of a pole. They carried these over their shoulders, heads covered by wide, flattened conical woven
hats. I was told that the reason those hats have this shape is that they give ample shade while, at the same
time, they can be used to scoop water from the paddies for drinking.
In every direction, hazy blue mountains reared high into the sky, with tier upon tier of sculpted
rice terraces stepping up the lower reaches. Closer to the mountains, huts lined the road. Here, older men
of the villages, wizened and wrinkled with age, taught the younger males the ancient arts. Carvers and
silversmiths toiled at their craft, deftly handling chisels and mallets as they created magnificent pieces for
sale. The driver knew of a temple, not far off the beaten track, that might interest me. Up, up we went,
ever higher into the mountains - and yet still only on the lower reaches - and arrived at the very large
Besakih temple near Ganung Agung. Outside the open entry, a sign caught my attention. It stated in large,
bold letters: ATTENTION: DURING MENSTRUATION WOMEN ARE NOT ALLOWED TO ENTER
THIS TEMPLE.
After a quick look around we drove on, leaving the aroma of the dried fish in our wake.

About as close as we mortals can get to Heaven, the road took us up and over Kintamani from where a
magnificent panorama of hills and valleys stretched almost to the horizon. Between our vantage point and
the majestic Ganung Batur we could see the first traces of the destruction that lay ahead.
Central Bali is dominated by a fascinating range of volcanic mountains, the highest of which,
Ganung Agung, had very recently erupted and presently dominated a scene of total devastation -
reminiscent of Dante's Inferno. All that had previously been lush, green valleys was now filled to the tops
 10

with smoldering, cooling lava. It reminded me of the sulphuric smell of Rabaul where I had attended
Teachers College two years previously. In the lower-rimmed sections, black lava had poured over and
down into the surrounding valleys where it solidified. As far as the eye could see stood the blackened,
skeletal remains of what had once been forest.
From somewhere children came rushing, gathering as much fish as they could carry … in baskets,
in their sarongs, in anything they could find as a suitable container. Further on we passed through villages
that had escaped the worst of the eruption; here the houses were still habitable.
Still smelling like something that even a mother wouldn't love, we arrived at Singaraja - Bali's
second-largest town - on the north coast of the island. Our truck came to a halt outside a rather large,
sprawling dwelling where ornate carvings covered the walls, stone Gods stood in the grounds the obligatory
'shrine' for offerings at the roadside. This was the residence of the Prince of Singaraja - patron of our food
delivery - who came out to meet us. I felt most embarrassed, proffering a putrid hand for a Prince to shake.
It had apparently been pre-arranged that we pay a courtesy call and, at the same time, accept his
appreciation and blessing.
On the way back to Denpasar it rained. The only possible shelter on the tray of a moving truck,
with a canvas covering the leftovers from our cargo of stinking fish was - you know where - right in with
the remainders. We have all been raised hearing the expression that something 'looked like something the
cat dragged in'; but I wasn't at all impressed by smelling like something the cat dragged in, deposited, and
discarded.

One of the many unofficial guides who waited outside the hotel for unsuspecting tourists, had been telling
me about the beautiful mountain village of Ubud in the inland of Bali. His brother, or his brother's brother
had a friend, or a friend of his brother's brother owned a car, that he was prepared to loan to Sari, the guide,
if he found a tourist with US$20.00 to pay for the hire of the car. He would drive me to Ubud tomorrow
and return the next day to collect me. Done deal! I'm very trusting. That night I left the manila envelope
in the hotel safe for safe-keeping and my main baggage at reception, carrying with me only the shoulder
bag and a scant few essentials.
The car, a dilapidated, rusting wreck of a thing had more rattles that a millionaire’s baby and
chugged along at something akin to walking speed. Within the urban area of Denpasar the slowness was
most welcome. Fortunately, all other vehicles managed to avoid us, because we certainly were in no
position to raise sufficient speed to dodge anyone.
We made our way northwards, through countryside almost identical to other days, but nothing
mattered … I was totally absorbed by the beauty of the place as Sari regaled me with tales of his life and
living conditions. By this stage I was beginning to pick up a little Bahasa Indonesia - very limited, but we
managed to communicate quite well.
It was love at first sight when I saw the Hotel Mutiara. Sari accompanied me to Reception to
ensure that I could get a room then left with the promise to return the following day. My room was large
enough to sleep several families, although it boasted only two double beds. The fact that nearly everywhere
I stayed in Indonesia had doors front and back intrigued me. I asked why, and learned that in the old
Colonial days of Dutch rule, the back door was to allow concubines and casuals to exit in a hurry if the wife
- or legitimate lover - happened to show up unexpectedly.
For bathing, a square tub, about one metre high was built into one corner, from which water had to
be bailed and poured over the body. At first I thought the tub was for immersing oneself when bathing,
however a scoop beside it suggested that the water be ladled out and poured over the body. For the
newcomer, this takes some getting accustomed to, especially if you intend using soap and require the
second hand for lathering. At this altitude the water was freezing. After a day in the heat it comes as a
considerable shock to the system to have to pour almost ice-cold water over oneself. However, rinsing off
is a breeze. I was to find that hole-in-the-floor toilets are the norm, and that scooping and sloshing water up
towards the nether regions requires considerable skill. Traveller, be warned! Toilet paper was unheard of
in Indonesia at the time!
After the hustle and bustle of Denpasar, Ubud was Paradise. The Hotel Mutari was on the main
street - nearly everything was. The street was lined with tiny, narrow shops on either side. At one, I found
an exciting length of batik that I purchased and arranged for it to be made to order as a shirt. I was
measured on the spot told to call back the following morning.
There was no hurrying in Ubud so I ambled along, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of the
 11

fascinating little village. One beautiful sight was a temple I called The Lotus Temple, set back about 50
metres or so from the road, with a huge pond of lotuses in bloom out front. Further on, a gate stood open
on my left and, out of curiosity I walked through into a courtyard where a particularly well-groomed
gentleman in formal Balinese attire approached me. He said nothing about being titled, and invited me
indoors for tea. As we sat and sipped, he clapped his hands once and told me that his daughter, Princess
Bianca would like to dance for me. Her grace and beauty was dazzling - the dancing so fluid it was almost
mesmerising. He told me there was a quota on how many expatriates could live on Bali at any one time and
that there was room for only one more. An offer was made that would ensure me the position, but I
reluctantly declined.
On my return to the Mutari I learned that dinner was awaiting me in the outdoor dining area … an
extensive, thatch-roofed area raised like a stage. Although it was only late afternoon, the table and multi-
course spread was already set out, covered and completely cold. Whether or not I was the only guest I will
never know, but I dined alone, with hawk-eyed staff fussing over my every move. That night I attended an
evening of various performances in the forecourt of a temple where traditional Balinese girls danced; a
group of young males gave a stirring performance of the Kris Dance, and there were also two excerpts from
the Hindu Ramayana epic. Both of the latter were particularly noisy and difficult to understand.
Early next morning I wandered over to where I had bought the batik and found that my shirt was
ready. Although the small stall had no electricity, the seamstress had worked by kerosene lamp for most of
the night to finish it on a hand-operated sewing machine: the remainder of the morning was spent resting in
readiness for the return of Sari who arrived before lunch.

Having discovered that there was peace on Earth for those who sought it, I asked Sari to take me back to the
hotel in Denpasar where I would collect all possessions as I wished to go to the coast. I paid Sari off,
giving him a reasonable tip, I think, and thanked him. Arriving at Sanur Beach I removed my shoes and
socks, tied the laces together and threw them over my shoulder with the bag. We parted ways where the
road ended at the beach. On my left was the one-and-only high-rise hotel - the Bali International. I set off
in the opposite direction in search of accommodation.
About 100 yards along the beach my breath was fair knocked out of me when I noticed - set behind
a low wall - small traditional-style bungalows with a sign that read: 'Bed & Breakfast $7.50'. I stepped
over the wall and found the office where I booked and paid for two nights only as time was rapidly running
out and I had to get to Djakarta.
That evening I stepped over the side wall to a wonderful little place next door for a luxury dinner,
with six staff attending me.
The following morning I was awakened by the first rays of sunlight seeping through the shutters of
my front windows. A spectacular sunrise greeted me when I opened the door. The scene was so
romantically picturesque and no-one to share it with, with a pathway of stepping-stones leading to the
dazzlingly white sands that could be seen through a pagoda-type archway - all of which was framed by the
black silhouette of palms. Sanur Beach was famous for its sunrise and calm waters. Set out on my very
own private verandah a breakfast of freshly squeezed juice, croissants, a basket of fresh fruit, and a pot of
lukewarm tea awaited me. Who cares about the temperature of tea when living in Paradise?
Across the waters to my left, the Bali International glowed warmly in the early light of dawn. I
imagined all the wealthy tourists shacked up in their fortress of concrete and glass, with guards at the
entrance, and all the poor souls in their south side rooms, still unaware that morning had arrived.

Djakarta
I arrived in Djakarta (Jakarta) with no luggage whatsoever apart from my small shoulder bag. “No worry
… it come tomorrow!” I was told; but I did worry because the situation was completely out of my control.
Fortunately, my passport was secured on my person and the all-important manila envelope remained in the
unchecked shoulder bag. In those years, security checks were practically unknown and terrorism was
unheard of.
I quote from a Stanley Gibbons stamp catalogue of the time, which stated that: “An independent
republic was proclaimed in Java and Sumatra on 17th August in 1945, and lasted until the end of
1948. During this period the Dutch controlled the rest of the Netherlands Indies, renamed
'Indonesia' in September 1948. On 27 December 1949 all Indonesia except New Guinea became
independent as the United States of Indonesia which, during 1950, amalgamated with the original
 12

Indonesian Republic (Java and Sumatra), a single state being proclaimed on 15 August, 1950, as
the Indonesian Republic.”

Although I had no preconceived expectations of Djakarta, I was amazed at what a huge, sprawling city it
was. The taxi took me along a street of drab, greyish buildings, towards the Hotel Indonesia. I did suggest
at one stage that the taxi stop so I could check out a smaller place, but no! "Small hotel no good. Much bad
man. No tourist stop! All tourist stop Hotel Indonesia!”

In 1962, the 4th Asian Games were held in Djakarta and the massive 'Welcome' monument - featuring an
Indonesian man and woman with right hands raised in greeting - was erected directly in front of the newly
built, luxurious, Hotel Indonesia. President Sukarno was responsible for the construction of several huge
monuments throughout the city, one of which was the gigantic 'Liberation of West Irian' monument. I am
sure the indigenous folk of Western New Guinea (Irian Jaya, West Irian) weren't aware that they needed
liberating and now, after all these years, they are still desperately hoping it will one day happen.
There may be times when you find it confusing to read all the various bracketed place-names. I
want you, the reader, to share some of the confusion experienced when confronted with all the multiple
choices where - in many instances - I was unable to read the language.

My 5th floor room was spacious, with every convenience expected in a Western-style hotel. Americans
would love it! So did I! Looking across the street to the left, I could see the burned-out shell of what I
learned had been the British Embassy. I just couldn't figure out what in the world was going on. Why on
earth would anyone want to destroy a lovely building like that? Maybe, just maybe, foreigners weren't
quite as welcome as the monument suggested. Down below to the right, on the other side of the high
wooden fence that surrounded the hotel, were hovels such as I had never seen. Thousands of people lived
in the most appalling squalor imaginable - their dwellings were scraps of metal, timber, cardboard -
anything to give shelter. And there was I, no more than 50 metres away, in 5-star luxury.
Close by the reception area was a well-appointed restaurant and a hairdressing salon. As all
toiletries including shaving materials were in the lost luggage, it seemed like a good time to indulge myself
in a good clean-up consisting of shampoo, shave, massage, manicure, the lot - you name it - every
conceivable pleasure from the waist up. I have no recollection of what I ate at that evening meal but I do
have very vivid memories of the young Asian gentleman, sitting with his back to the wall at the far side of
the room. Most Indonesian men in professional life appear to take very good care of their grooming and
have beautiful jet-black hair, magnificent smiles and pearly white teeth. It was the smile and the teeth that
first attracted my attention. During the course of the meal he gave a tiny wave with a flick of the fingers, I
guess I responded but thought nothing further of the matter. After signing my dinner chit I noticed he had
left the room. It didn't seem at all out of the ordinary that he should be standing in front of the lift as I
approached and he pressed the button. The door opened silently, he walked in and I followed. With a
gentlemanly bow and wave of the hand he indicated that I should be the first to exit, which I did. I slipped
the key into the lock of my door and was somewhat astounded when an arm reached over my shoulder and
opened the door. He walked in first - I followed. After all, it was my room.
In excellent English he introduced himself. His name was Deral, he was a teacher and would like
to spend time talking with me. During my time in Indonesia I found that most people, especially the young,
wanted desperately to converse with English-speaking people, as in most senior schools, English was taught
as a second language. This suited me just fine, as that was my one qualification in life, teaching English as
a second language.
Deral was most pleasant, very interesting to talk with and, I soon discovered, had a penchant for
extra-curricular activities at the same time. After an hour or so the conversation got around to our mutual
status as bachelors. He said he had few friends in the city and found Djakarta very lonely. He approached
me, took my face in both hands, and kissed me. Oh, my God … an Asian man kissed me … this is exotica in
the extreme! I must admit it was not my first time to be kissed by a male but it was certainly the most
memorable. I knew right then and there it would not be the last. There came a sudden rush of feeling that I
couldn't possibly describe. I felt that that kiss was the greatest sensation I had ever experienced. That was
the final straw … there was no turning back! After all - I was on holiday - no-body knew me, and what the
hell, when in Rome do what the Romans do. I must admit that at the time I didn't give a damn what the
Romans were doing as I was totally engrossed in our Asian neighbours for the time being. I was in
 13

Indonesia I was doing what the Indonesians did to perfection. We slept well that night.
Admittedly, I was no virgin, but I was very naive and uncertain. That night in Djakarta gave me the
proof I had been seeking for years. I now knew, with no doubt in my mind whatsoever, on which side my
preferences lay. I had wondered about this since a very small child - I can’t give an age - but it was at the
time when the only difference I knew between a man and a woman was that a man had short hair and a
woman had long hair. If, in my pre-sleep fantasies I thought of a naked body with short hair, I would get an
interesting little twitch of an erection. A naked body with long hair, however, brought no reaction
whatsoever. Maybe I was about four years old at the time.
School years had come and gone with many excitingly naughty little encounters of which I thought
little, as they were just pleasant little activities that boys did. It wasn't until I was eighteen years old that I
realised the childhood fun was a complete lifestyle that was very hush-hush and most definitely illegal. My
sex life had to be hidden and enjoyed only as an underground activity. Today, in Djakarta, I found myself to
be free of worldly worries. Without any feeling of guilt, I knew I had found my place in life.
Deral and I breakfasted together in the downstairs dining area where we had first noticed each other
the previous evening. He had been a great lover and I trusted him implicitly. I felt I could take him into my
confidence regarding my dilemma about reaching the Netherlands Embassy. He transcribed the address in a
language that a betjak driver could read, gave it to me for pocketing and, with few other words we parted,
never to meet again. 'Ships that Pass in the Night’ … that summed up the encounter; in this case it was a
head-on collision, but definitely no disaster.

Talk about a peasant, staying in the most luxurious hotel in the city and trying not to look like an obvious
spy, I jumped in the first betjak - a trishaw-like pedal taxi - in the line outside. I carried the folded magazine
nonchalantly on my lap, with a grip that would have prevented a dust mite from escaping.
We had gone only a few blocks when I was mildly alarmed by a rumbling sound that grew louder
and louder. Was it an earthquake? We were stopped at a main thoroughfare by a cordon of armed militia as
a procession of military might came rumbling towards us. Hundreds of tanks and an assorted array of
weapons of war rumbled by; tanks, tanks and more bloody tanks. When your eyes are no more than three
feet above ground level, tanks are a very scary sight, especially when so close. Great, ugly, menacing metal
monsters passing by, one after the other within three yards of me. My initial reaction was one of fear: it
flashed through my mind that the authorities had heard about the manila envelope and had sent the army to
get me. Had I known what words to say I would have suggested to the driver that I return to the hotel for a
change of underwear. The tanks passed and I realised clean underwear was unnecessary. Onwards James,
and don't spare the pedal power - I was almost a nervous wreck!
Without further ado, we reached the Netherlands Embassy - a most impressive greystone building set
well back in a neglected garden. It looked like Sunset Boulevard, without Gloria Swanson. I thanked, paid,
and dismissed the driver. An open gateway in an ornamental iron fence led onto a broken path. No doubt it
would have once housed a family of well-heeled Dutch masters. On entering, I was approached by a blue-
eyed, blonde woman who gave the appearance of being of the nationality I was seeking. All I can remember
saying was "This envelope comes from Biak” - and passed it over. I don't know if my mind went blank on
the spot, or when it happened, but I was outa there quicker than the wrinkles in an elephant's whatsit in the
mating season.
Later, after I had calmed down, I was strolling along a street beside the city's stinking, main canal.
The water was several shades darker than the dam in which we swam when we were children. That water
was a dark greenish/brown shade thanks to the dairy cows that shat in it with gay abandon, and no thought
for the offspring of farmers who had no other place to swim. My parents warned us to never open our
mouths when our faces were in the water - that might just explain why I am still unable to swim, even in my
old age. I'm okay under water, but no way can I do freestyle and take a gulp of air with my head to one side.
The very thought is enough to put a nasty taste the mouth.
But I digress … that was the colour of the water, some of which I attribute to the fact that there were
metal rungs in the stone-block banks that gave a good hand-and-foothold when defecating with the rear end
pointing downwards. Close your eyes and you'll imagine the position, hanging on like grim death, with the
putrid water meandering below. As it turned out, I was lucky I had studied the technique as I was caught
short a day or so later when I found myself in the same situation - similar, I should say - and I was
embarrassed beyond belief. My pocket pack of ‘Kleenex’ tissues came in very handy but it was extremely
difficult when holding a rung with one hand, using the other for clean up while trying to protect my modesty
 14

at the same time. I am so thankful that Australia's Funniest Home Video was not on TV in those days.
There was nothing funny about it I can assure you. Tragic beyond belief was the fact that so many people
used the canal for bathing, laundry and - judging by the number of children filling containers - it was also
used for drinking water. I had taken notice of how deftly a bather would swish a curried sausage out of the
way as it drifted along. You may disagree with me, but I am sure they were curried sausages. Trust me!
You can imagine the relief I felt when I arrived back at Hotel Indonesia to find that my luggage had
arrived ... intact, too. The following day I took a ‘taxi’ to the ‘city’ area. I had heard of Passar Bazaar with
its many quaint little shops and found a driver to take me there. The driver insisted that I not rest my arm
on the windowsill as I could quite possibly lose my watch or any exposed jewellery. That was the lesser of
two evils that could happen, he said that it has been known for people to lose their entire hand if the items
did not give way freely.

I was wandering one day through Passar Bazaar - a very well known little shopping area - when I heard,
over the general hubbub of the Bazaar, two slim, white women speaking a very cultured version of
Australian English. Not having heard the language since leaving Pilot and his friends back in Biak, the
sound of those two ladies was music to my ears. I introduced myself and, in so doing, learned that their
husbands were employees of the Australian High Commission in Djakarta. They asked if I would care to
join them at the Commission for Christmas luncheon. “I'd be delighted, but I've lost track of time … when
is Christmas?” I asked. “The day after tomorrow!” one of them replied. We walked along the street and
around a corner to the High Commission, introducing ourselves more formally over a cup of tea and
confirmed the time for lunch
Strangely I had packed a few gum-leaves in my luggage and these I passed around on Christmas
Day. We ceremonially burned them to enjoy the familiar aroma of the Australian bush. That was my gift to
all those present at Christmas 1963 - the farthest I had ever been from home.
After a wonderful meal, coffee, drinks etc., the second lady asked if I was free to have dinner with
her and her husband at their residence that evening. If I was free they would send a car to pick me up at the
hotel at 7 p.m.. It was a very pleasant, informal evening. But enough of socialising - there’s a whole wide
wonderful world out there.

Singapore
Time has changed travel to such a degree that it is now almost impossible to realise what it was like in
years past. One thing that has not changed, however, is that in many instances it still takes longer to get to
and through an airport than it does for the actual flight.
My first flight to Singapore was more memorable than any since, due to one very small event that
scarcely warrants mention. Sitting next to me was a Singaporean businessman - well dressed and
professional looking, you know the type - nice shirt, suit and tie, greasy, glossy hair … I have described
them before. The one thing that did put him in the strange category was that shortly after the seatbelt sign
was switched off he undid his seatbelt, stood up, opened the overhead luggage compartment and took out a
smallish suitcase. He sat down with the small luggage piece on his knee, opened it - and there to my
amazement, was nothing but an inflated, clear plastic bag that filled the entire case. To make it even more
interesting, the bag was almost entirely filled with water, containing a myriad variety of goldfish - beautiful
goldfish from pale brass to deep-golden fantails, googly-eyed goldfish and golden carp. It also had an air-
bubble - hopefully large enough to keep the precious cargo breathing until he reached his destination. He
explained that good tropical fish were difficult to come by in Singapore - the selection was limited and they
were extremely expensive in comparison to what he could buy in Indonesia.

That's about all I recall of that trip, forty-three years ago - that and the young gentleman seated across the
aisle in seat C. He asked where I was from, I explained that I was originally from Australia, but was
currently working and living in Papua New Guinea. I didn't realise at the time that my mentioning that I
was a teacher of English as a Foreign Language would turn out so well to my advantage. He asked where I
was staying. My reply was what would in future become usual for me: “I have no idea, I haven't made a
reservation.” He suggested that if we kept close together after disembarking, he would get me settled into a
reasonably priced hotel nearby to where he lived.
We will call this chap Sani from here on. A friend met Sani at the airport with a car. It was late
afternoon when we pulled up outside a small shop in a suburb called Lion City. With the car parked safely,
 15

we three entered a narrow doorway, and climbed a very steep, narrow flight of stairs to the living quarters
above the shop. This was my first visit to a private home in Asia - the walls were covered with garish wall
hangings, and vases were filled with artificial flowers. I remember the aroma from the cooking - absolutely
fabulous! There was much conversation, completely unintelligible to my ear, with Sani trying here and
there to include me in it. Time passed by with my head in a total spin from flying, landing in a new country
then being whizzed off to a residence filled with strangers speaking a language I did not understand. I was
wishing that Sani would take me to the hotel of his choice away from all this. He must have read my mind
as, without having to ask, he took the car-keys from the table told the others that he was taking me to find
somewhere for me to stay. It was almost dark when we reached a delightful little corner place called The
Lion City Hotel. Maybe this caused my confusion, but I am almost certain the suburb was also called Lion
City. I forget!
Sani did all the talking at the desk and made all the necessary arrangements for me and, while I
registered, he left, saying that if I cared to join him and some family members for dinner at a nearby
Chinese restaurant that evening, I would be most welcome. I accepted the invitation with pleasure and,
after showering, a short rest and a change, I joined the group. Naturally, after all these years, I have no idea
what we ate other than it was the first time in my life to enjoy the deliciously famous birds-nest soup that I
am pleased to say was not made of grass, fur and feathers.
After dinner we said our farewells, and that was the last I saw of Sani and his family.

Next morning I made my way, walking around and past a very busy harbour, past Raffles Hotel, into
Singapore City. On one corner I met a youngish lad named Addie. I can still see that corner very clearly in
my mind, but have never been able to locate it again on any of the numerous occasions I have returned to
Singapore. I wanted to buy a new wristwatch and had long-planned that it would be my first major Duty
Free purchase. I guess I was a bit befuddled at finding so many, and such a varied collection of shops
crowded into one area. I must have been standing there looking very confused. Whatever my expression
suggested, this lad, Addie, approached and asked if he could help me. I told him I wanted to buy a watch
and he escorted me in and out of several small shops, doing the bargaining for me. I eventually made my
purchase and off we went with me, no doubt, smiling like the proverbial Cheshire cat.
Addie appointed himself my sole Singaporean guide. He took control of everything. We lunched
together at the Tiger Balm Gardens - which were disgustingly ornate - and, I believe, created on the whim
of a man who had made his fortune selling the tiny jars of his miracle cure-all balm with the wonderful,
distinctive, spicy aroma that I so dearly love.
As the day turned to late afternoon Addie said he would take me back to the Lion City. We must
have had a snack someplace along the way. At reception I was given my room key and Addie handed over
his I.D. Having lived such a sheltered life I had never heard of an I.D. - it seems that everyone but I knew it
was an Identification Document. I asked why he was giving it in at the desk he said, very matter-of-factly,
“I take it back tomorrow morning!”
My education on the ways of the Asiatics continued.

The following morning I was taken through many back streets of Singapore. We had a taste of practically
everything that attracted my attention at the various food stalls, visited the fruit markets and somehow made
our way to Macritchie Reservoir Park where there were two Indian snake charmers. Cobras - mesmerised
by the music of the flute - waved their heads to and fro at the gates of the Botanical Gardens with its
sensational display of orchids.
Back in the city again I suggested Addie choose a few shirts that he liked. I felt something
substantial, together with what was by now 'my old watch' was a far better way of paying for his time than
money. The time had come for a sad farewell as he had been a wonderful guide, a good friend for the
couple of days and, without doubt, one of the most strikingly good-looking young men I have ever met.
Addie had shown me things I would never have discovered by myself, and taught me a lot about his style of
living. He really was a very genuine, lovely person.

Kuala Lumpur
I took a train to Kuala Lumpur and, for some unknown reason did not like the place, although I did find a
room in the magnificent old Moorish-style Railway Hotel. That room, like the entire hotel, could be a
story in itself. I am not telling a lie when I say that my room was much larger than the entire house I now
 16

live in. The whole expanse of floor was ornately tiled with a mosaic bordering. Everything was tiled with
mosaic bordering, even the walls. At one end of the room a short flight of steps led up to the bathroom with
toilet, hand basin and an actual bath - a monster of a thing - with overhead shower. Previous guests must
surely have had a degree in water management in order to work out the controls for all the plumbing
involved.
There was a very wide bed - all flouncy and beautiful - opulence such as I had never seen and
wonderful, period furniture. I discovered later in the day that the circular portion at the end of the room,
which acted as my breakfast room, was the corner of the hotel, topped by an ornate turret. Look at
practically any photo of K.L. and you'll find the hotel. My room, on the second floor, was the one with the
cylindrical tower section attached at the corner.
I did quite a bit of walking in K.L. as I learned that I had to get a visa for Thailand. The Thai
Embassy was in the suburbs, some distance from town. I bought a map of the city with the Embassy
marked on it and set out on foot, as I was not all that flush with money at this stage. On the way I visited
the recently opened National Mosque, pure white marble that almost glowed in the sunlight, simplistically
decorated with turquoise trimmings the whole mirrored in a glassy still reflection pool. I also visited the
very new National Museum.
I found the Embassy in a particularly mundane suburban street - all very quiet - not many people
travelling, it seemed. My precious passport left my hands for the second time (naughty boy, Rossie) but if I
was going to get a Visa, the passport was required. “Please come back tomorrow to collect it!” Damn!
More walking and more expense.
That evening, with book in hand, I retired to the lounge for a cool beer. God! I could have laughed
aloud at the sight of the white walls, white-tiled floor, potted palms and huge cane lounges with immaculate
drink waiters silently serving martinis and cocktails to the various podgy, boring old farts, dressed in their
suits, each and every one reading 'The Straits Times'. It was all so very Somerset Maugham. I had pictured
this scene in my mind many times when reading novels such as 'Rain'. It was absobloodylutely hilarious.
“Can I help you, Sir?” a waiter asked. “Yeah, sure, get me a beer please, mate!” That’s what I felt like
saying, but upbringing got the better of me. “Thank you, yes, a nice cold beer please!”
I didn’t even bother reading as the silent comedy taking place all around me was entertainment
aplenty. Before I had even finished the drink I determined to get out of K.L. as soon as possible.
The Railway Hotel, as you will have imagined, is near the railway station. What you may not know
is that the ground floor of the hotel is the actual station itself. I haven’t mentioned that I am thoroughly
kinky about train travel. There was one bound for Bangkok the following evening, on which I was able to
get a sleeper and allowed to break the journey at Butterworth - wherever that was. The following morning
saw me in a taxi - Thai Embassy bound - desperate I was to get out of K.L. To hell with my already paid-
for flight to Bangkok, I wanted out in a hurry.

Heading North
There's a very good chance that my First Class sleeping coach may have been the same one used in 'Some
Like it Hot'. This was a new one on me - a central aisle with curtained upper and lower bunks on either side.
The events that followed seemed to come straight from the movie also. Dinner was served in the dining car
- not quite up to the standard of The Orient Express. I saw that movie once but have never found time to
travel on board the actual train. After dinner, I decided on an early night, so retired to my berth and in no
time had been rocked to sleep. That was the beginning of a very peculiar experience. My deep sleep was
suddenly interrupted when the curtain was snatched aside and a hand clasped over my mouth. I heard a
whispered “Please, no talk!” and the curtains were smartly drawn closed again. Whatever it was that had
burst in upon me and so quickly scrambled over to the wall and pulled the coverlet over itself and snuggled
down beside me with head covered. Sounds of running feet reached my ears. Utterly startled, I pulled the
curtain a teeny bit aside and a voice asked if I had seen a boy running. “No, Sir,” I said, which was true
because never once had I seen him running. After the sounds died down a male voice beside me whispered
that he didn't want any trouble - he was trying to get to Holland to find his father. He told me he had little
money and he asked for none. He thanked me for my silence. I told him he could stay where he was until
before dawn then he would have to disappear. I admired his tenacity - in a train in Malaysia, with very
little money, trying to get to Europe. I wondered if he realised how far it was to the Netherlands, and if he
had any idea how many borders would have to be crossed. Somewhere between then and morning he eased
himself quietly from his hiding place, climbed over me, and joined the ranks of people I would never see
 17

again.

Butterworth doesn't deserve a chapter of its own, in fact it scarcely deserves a mention. It was apparently a
base for the Royal Australian Air Force. Just to break the journey I spent two nights there, near the railway
station. Taking a ferry across to Georgetown filled in the following day pleasantly enough, although I had
no idea of the name of the island I visited. Although I always claimed that I had never been to Penang, I
realised on a visit forty years later, that indeed I had, as I recognised the Funicular Railway, the temple of
the snakes, the Kek Lok Si Temple the Ban Po Tha Pagoda at Ayer Itam.
On the next day, a new train, with a similar situation and similar style sleeping carriage. This leg
of the journey took me through fascinating country, where large pinnacles of rock reached skywards from
the green plains. It wasn't until we were turning around a long curve to the right that I noticed soldiers with
machine guns, mounted atop each carriage. I asked why and was advised that terrorists had been actively
blowing up bridges along the line. The gunners were supposed to be a deterrent from future attack. I had
never heard of terrorists. Now they tell me! Living on Manus Island, I had little communication with the
outside world and no idea what was going on.
Feeling peckish, I went in search of the dining car for lunch. I passed through the two doors where
carriages connected and there it was, the dining car, so very close. I sat at a table for four. When most of
the diners had left we formed a group of about eight, most of whom spoke different languages. We sat
there through several station stops and several hours, rapt in attempts at conversation, drawing and
scribbling with much laughter and mime as attempts were made to communicate. Every time I got stumped
for words I would automatically revert to Pidgin, the lingua franca of the New Guinea part of TPNG. Eight
hours passed by. The only person I can recall from this episode was the wife of the Vietnamese
Ambassador to Thailand who asked the familiar question about where I was staying. My reply was by now
standard: “I have no idea, I haven't made a reservation!”
Madame Ambassador, as I have chosen to remember her, offered to take me to a hotel in Bangkok
where she and her husband had once stayed - it was clean, cheap and very close to the station. If we left the
train together she would help me to get settled in.

Woah! … back a bit. Our marathon conversation in the dining car over, the eight of us disbanded to our
various sleeping areas. I walked through the set of doors I had previously passed through to reach the
dining car and, imagine my shock and horror, when I returned through those doors I found a non-sleeping
carriage, absolutely crammed with humanity and livestock. There were bodies and animals everywhere.
There were even goats! At least the bird-life was tethered and kept under control. The stench was
shocking. Back to the dining car I went, then back to what should have been my carriage, just to make sure
I wasn't losing my marbles … I was on the verge of panic because all luggage, money, passport, everything
was in my sleeping berth. I went back to find a porter, or whatever they call a staff member on the trains in
that part of the world. He explained to me that during the many stops we had made, three extra carriages
had been connected in the middle of the train. My carriage was by now the fourth one along.
True to her word, Madame Ambassador took me to a tiny, single-frontage hotel, directly across the
tracks from the station. Speaking Thai, she got me settled in with Management, then had the Manager take
us both to my room so that she could check on suitability. She gave me her personal card asked me to call
her if ever I required assistance. I never did need her assistance, but I did call one day to thank her for the
help that she had given me.

Coming from Papua New Guinea I was familiar with humidity, but nothing had prepared me for Bangkok.
The air was the consistency of water - to breathe gave the sensation of drowning. I'm speaking from
experience when I say that as I was once pulled from the ocean at Lorne in Victoria, after being dragged
under and out by undertow with seaweed tangled around my legs. Ridiculous and all as it may sound, once
you've given up struggling, drowning is not an entirely unpleasant sensation.
For the benefit of the young and the bewildered, let me explain that until 1939, The Kingdom of
Thailand had been known as Siam. The main river is the Chao Phraya and the Mekong forms part of the
eastern boundary. The population is mainly Thai, with Chinese and Malay minorities. I found the Thais to
be an extremely genteel race; no doubt their devotion to their Hinayana Buddhism has a lot to do with this
aspect of their lives. When I arrived, I didn’t know this and, no doubt, could have gone through life being
blissfully ignorant of the fact, without detriment to my social standing. But I do strive to improve my
 18

knowledge as I go along.
I had seen 'Anna and the King of Siam,' also 'The King and I', but neither had prepared me for the
heat and humidity, the splendor and poverty of Bangkok. One thing I did learn that day is that nearly
everything that glitters in Bangkok IS gold.

On my first evening I took a stroll in the nearby area to a spot where I had a most uncanny experience … a
most bizarre feeling of déjà vu: the street on which I walked was familiar, I had walked this very same
dimly lit street in a dream on the night of January 5, 1957. The shops were the same. Some small
businesses even displayed identical, cylindrical-sort-of coffins, similar to those in my dream. There was
more to that dream - an epic in itself - and it was all in that street. It was so damned eerie and particularly
disturbing. Before leaving Australia I had written the story; it filled seven pages. I had sketched it in an art
book it consisted of seven related images. A mural I had painted, based on the dream, still existed in the
apartment I had lived in in Ballarat. And now, nearly fifty years later, I can still picture the entire event
deep down in the recesses of my mind. Strange? Decidedly strange!
Using pedestrian power, I walked to the Chao Phraya river, strolling along the bank to where there
were vast flower markets. The colour, perfume and variety of flowers was mind-boggling, an expression
unknown at that stage of my life. I walked to and through the grounds of Phu Khao Pagoda with its stupa
covered in pure gold leaf, and did likewise at the Royal Palace.

For some years I had been corresponding with a pen friend, Mr. Somboon Dhiranaew, a fellow philatelist
who lived in Bangkok. On my second morning in town - being unfamiliar with the workings of the Thai
telephone system - I asked the Manager of my little hotel to phone Mr Dhiranaew to see if I would be
welcome to visit. I could hear the excitement on the other end of the line. In no time at all (what a
ridiculous expression) he was at the hotel in his car. Neither of us had ever met before and it was a very
interesting experience. His English was
somewhere between quite good and excellent. We
drove out to the northern suburbs, to a small
traditional-style house set well back from the
street. How very different it was to anything I had
ever seen before; what would have normally been
a front garden was, in this instance, completely
taken up by a large rectangular pond.

I lunched with Mr Dhiranaew and three of his

friends at a table in the dining room of his home,
while Mrs Dhiranaew fussed around in the kitchen
preparing the meal and tending to our needs. We
were engrossed in conversation as she scurried
down the ladder to the front ‘garden.’ I watched
out of curiosity as she knelt beside the pond and,
I lunched with Mr Dhiranaew and friends in his home Bangkok.
with one deft sweep of a net, gathered sufficient
tiny shrimp to fill five bowls. She set these bowls before her husband, the other guests and me. I recall
sitting there, trying desperately not to show the horror I felt in regard to what I imagined the outcome was to
be. I was correct - a squeeze of lime over the bowl, raise it to the mouth, then as deftly as possible scrape
the wriggling, leaping little critters into the mouth. To get it over quickly, I tried to swallow without
chewing but I'm sure some of the blighters held on to the base of my tongue like grim death in their attempts
to stay alive, and their antennae tickled like hell on the way down. In very quick time I learned to chew and
ease both their suffering, and mine.
The lady of the house sat on the floor in an adjoining room with small son Siang at her side,
entering the dining area only to serve further food or remove plates.
Fortunately for my stomach, the rest of the meal was all either deceased or cooked animal pieces, or
fruit. In all honesty, I can’t say I enjoyed the meal, but it was an experience.
Towards the end of the luncheon tea was served … that helped to wash the wildlife down. Oddly
enough, Thai Tummy did not affect me.
 19

That afternoon Mr Dhiranaew took me to a most interesting cultural park called T.I.M. - Thailand
in Miniature. There were painters, dancers, carvers and weavers - a cultural park with all sorts of artisans
and musicians from every province in the country - all going about their own business as though unaware of
being on show. Particularly interesting was getting up close and personal with both water buffalo and
elephants. Each elephant had its very own personal mahout (trainer) … and exceedingly bad breath. There
were demonstrations of Thai dancing, ploughing a rice field, treading a water-wheel, net fishing - more
elephants shifting logs and bathing - all in the one area. It was a truly great experience!
The last thing I did in Bangkok was take a cruise to the Floating Markets. This is where the people
live on their watercraft and trade their wares on the river. At the top of the list of must-have interesting
items were wonderful, colorful lengths of fabric. I had the impression that some of the ladies traded their
wares on the river as well. I returned to Bangkok in 2006 but the water level was too low to visit the
markets again.
I reckoned that at this stage time and money had both to be taken into consideration. I had to be
back at my school early in February. I was the headmaster and had the responsibility of over 90 students to
attend to. To save time, I took a flight back to Djakarta with a connecting flight to Bandung.

Bogor -Bandung
The flight to Bogor would have taken little more than thirty minutes. It began by flying low, following a
road and railway line from Djakarta up into the hills, which rapidly gave way to the spectacular geometry
of the rice paddies terracing the hillsides. The terraces had been cultivated and ingeniously irrigated by
man-made diversions, making full use of the waters that slowly made their way from mountaintop, down
through the paddies, to the valley below. Mile upon mile of sculptured mountainsides reflecting the sky in
small mirrors amongst the great expanse of green was a wonderful sight to see. It was like flying over a
vast mirror-ball in a dance hall. Amongst the paddies, peasants could be seen tending their long-horned
oxen while cultivating the fields - men and women, almost knee-deep in water, pushing the roots of the
immature plants into the mud below. Next stop Bandung, set high in the mountains was - and no doubt still
is - used as a summer retreat for those who can afford to escape the horrendous heat and humidity of the
capital city on the coast in summer.
I found a small, completely forgettable place in which to spend the night, and adjusted my
bathroom habits to suit the plumbing situation. A short walk after dinner took me to a small upstairs bar
where The Beatles were hammering out one of their less soothing melodies ... “Yeah, yeah, yeah!” A small
group was dancing and, despite the noise, it was all rather pleasant. Then came the Police! I then learned
that Western-style music was banned by order of the President - and so was all Western-style dancing. I
must have traits of the chameleon as I very discreetly blended in with the background and disappeared,
making my way back to my lodging place - the few hours I spent there was sufficient for me to be able to
say that I had been to Bandung. I can’t recall anything to recommend it apart from the cooler mountain
climate. I learned that a train would soon be departing for Surabaya so deposited my luggage at the railway
station and spent a couple of hours wandering through the narrow, hilly, winding streets.

Train to Jogjakarta
The train had a delightful old steam engine, with coal tender and wooden carriages. One open carriage
would have carried about fifty passengers. There was a toilet at one end - a water fountain at the other.
Compared to other trains I would later find in Asia, this one was spotless. Food and drink could be
purchased on the platforms at stations en route. The scenery was breathtakingly beautiful as we wound our
way downward.
We stopped for water at Jogjakarta (Yogyakarta) and, quite on impulse I grabbed my luggage and
disembarked; mad impetuous youth that I was! I had no intention of stopping in this part of the world as I
had never knowingly heard of it. However, for the rest of my days I will be eternally grateful that I did.
The fickle finger of fate had played into my hands once more. Jogja itself wasn't all that memorable but
there were some unforgettable aspects to it. Firstly I had to find accommodation. Once the train had left
the station there appeared to be a hotel way out beyond the tracks and across a street. Gathering my
luggage I approached and found that it certainly was a 'hotel', set in grounds that gave the appearance of
being a farm paddock, except that a farm paddock would have been better tended.
The hotel building was an unfamiliar style of grey-concrete, with a half-square or deep U plan.
Accommodation was in the two opposing sides and I found it to be reasonably comfortable and affordable.
 20

The middle section was a vast room with a highly polished floor. Whilst registering at Reception I learned
that this evening - being New Year's Eve - was a special occasion and that two dance-bands would be
performing after dinner.
I guess about two hundred folk attended, most giving the impression that they were locals and I'm
sure they came for the music, as the food registered a ‘1’on the Richter scale. New Year's Eve 1963 was
interesting but not all that exciting. The vast function room was filled with row after row of straight-
backed, wooden chairs that held a capacity crowd. Two wonderful Indonesian bands were world-class and
gave wonderful performances of Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey and their buddies -
wonderful toe-tapping numbers - but nobody tapped their toes. Dancing was still forbidden, and about
three hours of wonderful music was entirely wasted. Alcohol was also forbidden by order of the President,
or so I was told. At midnight, after the clock struck 12, tea and coffee was served while the band packed up
their instruments. I bought an LP of their music and all other personnel went their various ways. All
except an American woman - one of the loud-mouthed species - who must have thought she was onto a
good thing. She invited me to her room because she had a 'bartle of Scartch' in her luggage and suggested
we have a New Year drink. I have a particularly strong loathing for Scotch - Brandy, too, but being
somewhat of a rebel I wanted to defy the Presidential decree. It must have taken about 30 minutes to get
the foul-smelling stuff down. I said “Thanks, Ma'am”- without the bim-bam - and went off to bed. Alone!
A sign behind the door of my room proclaimed: ONLY PEASANTS WEAR SHORTS. MALE
TOURISTS ARE REQUESTED TO WEAR LONG TROUSERS AT ALL TIMES.

The year 1964 dawned with all the mixed aromas that only Jogjakarta could create. I wandered a little way
along the street on which I lived and found the township - a rather small, agricultural community, crammed
with stalls and small roadside shops. What I imagined to be the main street crossed the railway line about
fifty metres inland from my hotel, whatever its name was. My tummy told me it was time for breakfast, so
when I came across a likely looking vendor I made all the signs of
wishing to eat, indicating something edible that a local lad had in his
hand. The vendor raised a paving stone from the footpath, reached
into a hole beneath and withdrew a container of something that
resembled sausages. I bought one that he cooked and slapped
between two pieces of something resembling bread. It was delicious!
The village became more active the further I walked towards
the coast and the stench of rotting vegetation became increasingly
revolting. Parallel to the main street I came upon the source of the
stench: the local market! Rotting garbage was piled high on both
sides of the street. Hundreds of vendors had set up shop in a very
cramped area. Animal waste from horses and donkeys and bullocks
did nothing to sweeten the air. I dodged between oxen-drawn carts,
donkeys, tricycles and hordes of shoppers.

It was there that I came upon the first Hindu mosque I had ever seen -
all gleaming white, with pale blue dome and radiant gold trim. I also
found the bus depot and, after making enquiries, found one that
would eventually take me to Borobudur - the world’s largest
Buddhist temple - there and back in the one day. Along the way we
The author at Prambanan Temple, Java. stopped at an interesting group of ruins at Prambanan. I recognized
the massive monument of Borobudur from having seen it in the
background of a Gary Cooper film, ‘The Story of Dr Wassell’ that my Aunty Alice had taken me to see in
1945.
I was told that despite its enormity, the entire temple had been covered with earth as protection
from destruction by some age-old foe had remained undisturbed for centuries because later generations
thought it to be a normal mountain. It appears to have remained that way until an obviously hand-sculpted
stone protruding from the earth intrigued a farmer, who began scratching around it. In 2006 however, I saw
a documentary on television that claimed Borobudur had been buried in volcanic ash during an eruption of
Mount Merapi in ancient times. It erupted again in 2006 causing tremendous damage and loss of life.
 21

I quote here from an undated edition of ‘Wonders of the Past’, bequeathed to me by my dear old
grandfather. The author captured the scene far better than any words of mine could possibly convey.

Excerpts from the chapter: Boro Budur: The Soul Of Java, by T. Athol Joyce, M.A.

The Kedu plateau, rightly named the Garden of Java, is skirted by the peaks of four imposing
volcanoes, which stand in virile contrast to the soft luxuriance of the plain. Beneath a vault of blue
sky is stretched a plateau brilliant with every shade of green, from the emerald of our rice-crops, to
the almost blue of tropical forest. Amid such surroundings the ancient builders selected their site,
a low hill, as a foundation for the colossal pyramid-like structure, which they reared in honour of
some great saint. For the building is less a temple that a gigantic reliquary, since it is clear that
the dagoba, or shrine, at the apex once enclosed relics of some personage or great holiness,
perhaps even of Gautama Buddha himself'.

Never had I seen anything so awe-inspiring as tier upon tier rose from the floor of the forest. In those days
there were no souvenir stalls or street vendors as I have since seen on television - a crime against humanity
has since been committed in desecrating the area with such blatant commercialism. The half dozen or so
who had been on the bus were soon lost from sight amongst all the dagodas in the enormity of the
monument. I spent hours wandering around each level, each heavily sculpted in bas-relief - more than 3
kilometres of them - all of which are square until near the top where they become circular.

'Boro Budur was begun about the year 850 AD, but it's construction must have been extended over
many years. The square base measures 160 metres each way. The terrace walls of the great square
structure, which supports the actual shrine, are adorned with a series of superb reliefs, unrivalled
anywhere. These reliefs, which, for the most part, illustrate incidents in the life of the Buddha,
numbered no fewer than 2,141.

‘The ashes of the Buddha were originally divided among eight towns, but some two centuries after
Gautama's death, Asoka, the mighty emperor of India who ruled from c. 272 to 232 BC, and has
been called the Constantine of Buddhism, opened seven of the depositories and distributed their
contents far and wide; his idea being that all parts of the world might enjoy the possession of a
relic.’

Buddhism waned in Java and was finally replaced by Islam, which laid a sterilizing hand upon the ancient
traditions. The old shrines fell into decay - some have suffered from Muslim iconoclasm, but more from
the unscientific pilfering of 'excavators.' Borobudur is something more than merely an interesting local
ruin, it is incredible. I bought a very heavy, beautiful basalt head of Buddha as a souvenir.

Another interesting event took place during my

stay in Jogjakarta - I was 'invited' out to dinner
by a local betjak rider who wanted to take me to
the best chicken restaurant in the area. I could
see right through the invitation - a good chance
for a free meal - paid for by an all-too-willing
tourist. Still, I had nothing better to do so we set
out late in the afternoon, on bicycles. These
were left on the roadside when we were able to
get a ride on the back of a bullock-drawn dray.
Along narrow lanes well into the countryside we
went, passing many water-buffalo-drawn
wagons, most of which were laden to the hilt
with woven baskets, fish-traps and various
produce. The loads were as broad as the smiles
on the faces of those we passed, as they grinned
at the sight of the strange white man sitting on
A section of the magnificent bas relief stone sculptures of Borobudur
 22

the back of a dray. We were deposited at the bottom of a low hill; an unpaved dirt path like a goat track led
up the grassy hillside to a restaurant. This was ‘the’ Chicken Restaurant. No reservations were required as
it wasn't all that up-market. Actually, it wasn’t up-market at all. I was so pleased I hadn't dressed for
dinner.
After the meal, as I licked my fingers clean and patted my belly as a sign of contentment, I noticed
the pile of tiny bones on the side of my plate and silently thought ‘Chickens don't have rib cages.’ I was
beginning to wonder if I had partaken of Devilled Dog, or possibly Cat Casserole. I mentioned the fact to
my ‘host’. “Oh, I didn't tell you,” he said, (or words something to that effect) "Tonight they no got chicken
… I say rat plenty good!”
No doubt you have all read or heard of Bali Belly. No travel publications - and I don't think even
the Internet - will tell you anything about Bandung Belly. The indications are similar to those of Bali Belly.
Get the message? Try to not catch either if you are travelling long-distance on a train, with a hole-in-the-
floor toilet, without toilet paper.
As you will learn in later chapters the problem can occur in almost any third-world country. It's not
good. In fact it's damned unpleasant. One solution - one that no one warned me about - is to always carry a
roll of toilet paper with you. I was, in this case, lucky enough to be carrying my usual 'Kleenex' tissues.
As you may gather, I had little time to take notice of the countryside and surroundings as I spent
much of the time squatting. It was a long and most unpleasant train journey. Trying to squat and aim
directly at a hole in the floor when the train is rocking is no mean feat. Indications showed that very few
had passed with honours before me.

Surabaya (Surabaja)
We reached Indonesia's second-largest city of Surabaja - a Port City - right down towards the eastern end of
Java on the Mas Estuary. Local industries include ship-building, oil refining and rubber processing. It also
boasts an International airport. This was to be my final stop before returning to Biak and home.
The very first thing I did after checking into a hotel in Surabaja was search for a pharmacy. The
one I found was right out of the dark ages - floor-to-ceiling, glass-fronted showcases of what appeared to be
highly polished mahogany held thousands of labelled bottles. I was trying desperately to explain my
tummy problems in the few words I had been able to learn. Obviously, they were the wrong words. I
reverted to mime, first making signs to indicate pulling a chain - even make-believe button pressing didn't
work. In desperation, I squatted on the floor of that crowded pharmacy, pretending to tear paper from a roll
and wiping my bum. It then dawned on me that I hadn't seen a roll of toilet paper since arriving in the
country. My last resort was to dash around to the back of the counter and scan the labels behind the glass.
As luck would have it, the word Sulphaguinadine leapt out at me. Eureka! I grabbed the bottle from its
cabinet and gave it to the pharmacist. After downing two on the spot, I never needed another.
I stayed at a very comfortable hotel, built in Colonial Dutch style, in the heart of town. The
spacious open-sided lounge was very comfortably filled with cane furniture piled with luxurious cushions.
Potted palms, swaying fans and many large, intricate sculptures contributed to the atmosphere. Barefoot
waiters in white caftans scurried noiselessly between tables.
I was sitting all alone in that pleasant lounge, right near the street side, enjoying a beer when a
drink waiter approached: he handed me a business card and said that one of the gentlemen at a table behind
him would appreciate my company. I turned my head slightly, smiled and nodded my acceptance as I
noticed eight or nine young men seated around a table, all looking to see my reaction. I strode across to
join the group. It was then that I learned that most of them were in the medical profession and that all
spoke excellent English. One who looked to be the youngest said, “My name is Toengkie, today is my 21st
birthday. Would you care to join us?”
All the usual questions a lone tourist could possibly be asked were asked and I must admit I was
lapping up the attention. We hit it off at first sight, Toengkie and I. He was rather tall, extremely good
looking - in fact it could be said that he was beautiful, with a mop of black, wavy hair that I later learned
was never combed. He would run his fingers through his hair, toss the head slightly and all would fall into
place.
I was getting to the stage where I was thinking that discretion was called for, and that I really
should eat something before imbibing in too many more drinks. The group was beginning to disband, with
lots of ‘cheerio’ and ‘see you this evening’ and such small talk. Toengkie told me he was having a party at
the home of his parents that evening and many of his friends would be attending. He would appreciate it
 23

very much if I could join him. I have never been one to knock back a party and so, with an “I'd love to”
from me, we walked out. As we exited the hotel he indicated a jewellery store directly across the street and
told me that was where he worked. We then took a taxi to his home.

Home was in a particularly upper-class suburb with tree-lined streets, not all that far from the city area. I
met the parents, brothers, sisters friends and didn't remember one solitary name, other than that of my
lovely Toengkie. I felt it obvious that the alcohol was taking effect and suggested that, having travelled so
far, I would appreciate a rest before the party began.
With a small house so obviously overstocked with family, I considered Toengkie to be very lucky
in having his own accommodation in the back garden – a small, 2-story place, with one room up and one
room down, fully self-contained. I soon discovered that not only was he as graceful as any ballet dancer
and had the looks of a model, he also had the body of an athlete - a beautifully muscled body - not over
done, and a glorious, golden tan all over. I repeat, all over!
I was allowed time to rest and have another shower and requested to join the party when I felt like
doing so. It was a sensational meal - so was the party. It was on that evening that I developed my taste for
all things hot and spicy, even the food. I really don't remember very much of that night as I was just a teeny
bit inebriated and mildly disorientated, but I knew I enjoyed myself.
On the following morning, on his way to the airport, Toengkie returned me to my hotel where we
said our farewells. He was leaving on a two-week holiday that day. We corresponded for some time then
letters gradually became less frequent, until they ceased altogether. I was to meet Toengkie again some
seven years later and find that things were very different between us. He had changed!

It was time to leave Surabaja - or so I thought. I checked out of the hotel and took a taxi to the airport
where I sat from early morning until very late in the afternoon. Hour after hour passed by with no sign of
my flight. Battling with language difficulties, I could only determine that the flight had been delayed.
Nothing could have prepared me for what was about to happen. Late afternoon all my plans were suddenly
shattered … an announcement came over the PA system that the flight to Biak had been delayed until the
following morning. I was at the stage of settling myself in a position to sleep the night at the airport when I
was told it was not allowed. I checked my finances - not good! I took a taxi back to the hotel for another
night in a cheaper room. The following morning, in order to save money, I took a betjak to the airport.
Another day passed by with little change from the day before. Again the flight was postponed until the
morrow. This is when I learned that all flights were being directed towards a war with Malaysia. War with
Malaysia? I had just been there!
During all this time there were thousands dying daily in the streets from starvation. One would
have to step over bodies of the dead on the pavement, or turn a head away from the sight of an outstretched
hand. As much and all as I am loathe to admit, I finished up scratching through the upper layers of rubbish
bins in the street in search of food. Anything that I felt would save me from ending up on the pavements
like all those other poor blighters.
On the third day at the airport I was fortunate to find another English-speaking chap who was in a
similar financial situation. I suggested that we pool our funds and take a betjak back to the hotel and share
the cost of an even cheaper room. This we did and managed a very mean little snack as well. Day four was
similar to days two and three with the only difference being that three of us shared the room that night.
Next night there were four of us. Then came the day I had been waiting for - a break came with an
announcement that flight such-and-such would be departing later that day, but would be overnighting in
Makassar (Macassar) (Ujung Padang), all one and the same port city, in Southwest Sulawesi. It was a step
in the right direction.

That night was the loneliest, most miserable night in my entire life. I had begun exchanging my clothes for
food in Surabaja and gave the final items away that night for something to eat from a very noisy group in a
Ramadan parade. Even though Indonesians were dying in the thousands in the streets, I was amazed at the
generosity towards a stranger. These people actually fed me. If this was the ninth month of the Muslim
year they were welcome to it. I had no money, no food, and I was sleeping on the ground beneath the
grandstand of a sports oval. My only possessions were the clothes I stood in, the shoulder bag with ticket,
passport, and my basalt Buddha head from Jogjakarta. I vowed never to travel again - it was a feeble vow.
The following day I found myself back at the airport - I now have no idea how I got there - but I
 24

knew that there was a flight to Biak that day. I thanked Buddha and every deity I could think of. I even
thanked Air Indonesia for sparing one plane from the country's conflict with Malaysia. I discovered that
was where all the planes had been getting to - a build-up in a potential war-zone. Of course, with no
newspapers and no radio, I was completely unaware that this had been going on.

Return to Biak
Do I have to explain the relief I experienced in finding myself back at the same old 'boiled-rice-and-boiled-
potato' hotel in Biak? Fortunately, it was an easy walk from the airport to the hotel - and guess what I had
left in the safe in case of need on my return? Money! Glorious money! I had a glorious $500 … more than
enough to make me feel so very wealthy.
I have no idea if I had the same room as the last time - all hotel rooms look the same after a while -
and once you've seen one, you've seen them all. That's not really true - I've stayed in sheer luxury in my
time and in some disgusting hovels as well - take last night, for instance - on the ground under a grandstand.
I gave myself an APC {armpits and crotch} with a damp cloth - then lay down for a well-earned
rest. I awakened to find the room beginning to darken as the sun began to set. I threw the shutters wide
open - and more quickly still, I closed them again. Right there, right outside my window was an armed
Indonesian soldier with a very ugly weapon that he swung around and pointed straight at me. That wasn't a
very nice thing to do - in fact it was as scary as all hell! As I said, I closed the shutters again and then
tentatively opened the door that opened to the corridor and, believe me, there was another of the buggers -
also holding a rifle. He, too, spun around and aimed the thing in my direction. Communication was
impossible. I must have muttered something - I don't know what I said - my brain was racing in circles
trying to comprehend what was going on in my normally uncomplicated little world.
I returned to bed and lay on my back, staring at the ceiling and wondering “Why me? What on
Earth is going on?” All sorts of crazy things were surging through my mind - had the authorities learned
that I had delivered a missive to the Netherlands Embassy? Did someone in authority think that because I
had blue eyes and fair hair, I was Dutch? Was my unhygienic appearance and lack of luggage a crime?
Right on midnight the door opened. A guard indicated, with the barrel of his rifle, that I was to
walk ahead of him. I sensed the weapon aimed right at my back and I honestly thought I was going to be
lined up in front of a firing squad. He ushered me into the dining room where the rifle indicated that I was
to sit - my guard moved to just inside the door where he stood at attention.
Maybe the hotel was short-staffed as even at that late hour I had the same waiter as previously. As
best I could, I queried him about my situation. He knew very little English and my Bahasa Indonesia was
little better. I learned that I was brought to the dining room at this hour because food was forbidden before
midnight in Ramadan custom … now I could eat, infidel that I was. “Do you eat rice?” Oh, no, not this all
over again! “Do you eat potato?” What a delightful midnight snack! Ravenously, I ate everything placed
before me. When it became apparent that the meal was over, my guard escorted me back to my room
where I drifted off into a very disturbed sleep. What I wouldn’t have given for another meal of braised rat!

Morning crept in. I knew from previous experience that now was the time to use the toilet if I wished to
flush it. I felt I had ample time to bathe and dress in the same, stinking clothes. As best I could, I peeked
through the shutters but could see no one. I opened the shutters … no one there! I opened the door … no
one there, either! I heard the sounds of activity somewhere out of sight, so I knew that World War III had
not started and the population of Biak had not been evacuated. I will admit that during the night, this
thought had entered my mind. I wasn't actually scared, but I had been decidedly anxious.
On a sort-of tippy-toe I made my way to the front desk where I was greeted cordially. When I
expressed my concern about the goings on during the night it was explained that the President had been due
to arrive that day and that I had been kept under house arrest until a security check had been done on me. I
was now free to go - but not quite as free as I wanted to be. Sometime later in the morning I was driven to
the airport and put on a flight to Jaya Pura. At that airport I was questioned as to what had become of my
luggage why it was that my sole possession was a head of Buddha. I tried to explain that I was Buddhist,
which I was not, but it did get me through. An Immigration Officer told me that I would be spending the
night at the home of an Indonesian Military Officer and his wife. During the course of the afternoon and
evening I learned that she worked for the local radio station. We drove to what had once been town where,
at the only shop I managed to get inside, I noticed that there was nothing for sale apart from light bulbs.
There was shelf after shelf of nothing but light bulbs. Amazing … light bulbs in a country where electricity
 25

was practically unheard of!

The evening was spent in a state of tension. I could not allow myself to talk freely as I felt that my
every word was being analysed. I retired early and, oddly, slept better than I had done for several nights.
My host drove me to the airport early the following morning where my entry visa was stamped
CANCELLED by the Authorities. I boarded a plane back to the safety of Papua New Guinea. The pilot
happened to be the same chap who had taken me across that border in the first place. There was one flight
attendant and me - the sole passenger once again - on my second International flight.
Even though it was a very short distance to Vanimo, the hostess gave me a packed lunch. The two
of us sat, chatting about my experiences and then the pilot joined in. Of course I had lots to tell him from
the envelope, right through to the return. Somewhere in the course of the conversation it dawned on me
that there were three of us sitting, having lunch and chatting. “Hey!” I called, “Who's flying this thing?”
“Don't worry,” he said, “It's on auto-pilot!”

Return to Manus Island

Landing at Vanimo airport was another new experience for me as I saw the whole thing from the cockpit.
How on earth was the pilot able to settle the plane on that small strip of tarmac - I swear it was about half
an inch wide. The memory of my very first attempt at driving a car flashed before my eyes; how
frightening that was - one lane was definitely not wide enough to drive in - not for me anyway. I needed
both lanes.
It seemed that my problems were not yet over … where was my luggage? How could I get through
six weeks of travel and return with nothing other than a shoulder bag and a head of Buddha? It took quite
some explaining.
I over-nighted at Lae and as we approached Manus Island the Captain asked if I would like to have
an aerial view of my school at Liap, so I spent the final minutes of the trip in the cockpit again, directing
him out along the north coast where we did a few laps around the school (and, in my excitement, I forgot to
take any photographs).

On my return to Manus Island I had to report to District Commissioner O'Malley, who was a very unhappy
chappie. He was unaware that all through the trip, because I was an avid philatelist, I had been writing and
sending cards and letters back to Manus, including to the D.C. himself, so that I would later be able to
recoup the stamps for my collection. I had posted mail in every centre visited - none had been received in
Papua New Guinea. I believe that postal staff throughout Asia run a very lucrative business, stealing mail
in order to re-sell the used stamps at a huge profit.
The D.C. had apparently been aware of problems being encountered in that part of the world and,
because he had not heard from me, had been in regular contact with the Australian Embassy in Djakarta,
requesting assistance in tracing me, with a view to helping me escape from the country. I was unaware that
I had been in any sort of danger. And Djakarta had no idea where I was anyway.
Later in 1964 I found I had more explaining to do.

Sometime during the year I was called to Lorengau to front up to the D.C. again. Questions had been asked
by folk in Australian Security and Intelligence factors about my activities while in Indonesia. I had to give
a broad outline on my trip … where I had travelled, what I had done and, in particular, I was thoroughly
grilled about what I had been teaching my students since my return. I explained that the main thing I had
been teaching was that the civilian population of Indonesia were lovely people who worked very hard; that
they did not receive any hand-outs from the Government - and that the basic wage was one pound of rice
per day. They received no cash at all. I considered that to be sufficient for primary students to understand.
 26

Boro Budur: The Soul of Java

 27

LIFE IN THE HARD LANE 1968

Life carried on pleasantly enough with no travel other than occasional visits to Australia until 1968, when I
left Manus Island and settled in the National Capital of Port Moresby.
This was the year that threw my life into total turmoil. It was a year of despair, of desperation and
destitution. I arrived in Port Moresby after leaving my mother behind on Manus Island to pack and ship our
belongings … to where I did not know. Apart from passing through Jackson's airport on numerous
occasions, I had never set foot in Port Moresby before. I knew only one person in town - Stephanie. I first
met Stephanie when Eddy and I landed on Manus Island in December of 1961. Eddy and I had met and
gone through Teachers' College together and, after graduation, we had both been posted to Manus Island
where Stephanie came into our lives. The friendship between Eddy and me lasted just a few months short
of forty years until, sadly, he passed away, riddled with cancer. In all those years, all the many hours we
had spent together and discussed even the most personal events in our lives, the most intimate contact we
ever had was a handshake. That's friendship! Stephanie was the darling of all the expatriate male Officers.
We all turned to her in our hour of need for a little tea and sympathy … actually it was more like Verve
Cliquot and companionship?
This was one of those hours of need. I took a P.M.V. (Public Motor Vehicle) from the airport - not
knowing that the white people did not do that sort of thing; they - or we - were expected to take a taxi. I
eventually found Bava Street where Stephanie had a modest little Government-owned house. I sought and
was granted refuge. But I needed money and I needed it bad!
It all began quite simply enough - designing and creating greeting cards. From a block of wood, I
would carve out a stencil for each colour that was required and, with careful positioning, print the cards,
one colour at a time, until the desired design was completed. I based the designs for all these cards on
traditional Papua New Guinea artifacts … they were an instant success. I was earning money once more.

A friend, who had gone through Teachers' College with me, asked if I would take over his job at Port
Moresby's most popular little licensed restaurant 'The Hibiscus Room', while he went to Australia for
surgery. Not only did I love the work, but it also gave me the opportunity to meet some of the more
interesting folk of the city. One evening a customer asked if I would be interested in buying his car - a
baby blue Austin Healy Sprite Mark II - a two-door convertible. As I desperately needed transport to get
around town to sell my cards I bought my very first car with the little money I had saved.
Poor Stephanie was no different to any other person, she dearly liked her privacy. Mum had
arrived from Manus Island and moved in with Steph and me. I could see that our host was becoming
stressed at having to share her home with two others. With no ill feeling on either side, Mum and I moved
into a small space that had been converted into a flat beneath a high-rise house at Koki Point, but we
needed money to pay rent. Sensing the difficulties we were experiencing, the landlady, who had her own
newsagency/convenience store, asked Mum (who we will now occasionally call Stella) if she would be
interested in working in the shop. The arrangement suited all concerned. The business was a booming
success … many were the times when poor old Mum would get distressed at seeing Mary crawling up the
steps on all fours, dragging the day's takings in a bag behind her. Poor Mary!
After a few months of listening to Mary walking in her high heels, back and forth over the wooden
floor above our head, the noise became too much to bear. We moved into an old cottage on the Sogeri
Road - just seventeen miles north of Port Moresby - very near Errol Flynn's old copper mine. The
countryside was so very peaceful after the bustle of the city. The only problem was that the house was the
absolute pits … we could cope with no electricity and we learned to cope with gas lights, but we were not at
all fussy about water draining from the kitchen sink into a bucket that had to be emptied several times every
day.
One evening we heard a feeble meowing coming from the darkness outdoors. Taking a torch, I
 28

discovered a frightened little moggie hiding beneath some bushes … a dear little gray tabby of about eight
weeks. While Mum was getting some milk from the fridge, I put a bowl on the floor … Mum stepped
backwards, right onto the neck of the poor little creature, killing it outright. That was a very sad occasion.
If we hadn't tried to help, it may have lived.
I could see Mum slipping back into her old days of depression - a condition she had suffered since
losing one of the twins back in 1929, the twin sister of my brother John. She became further depressed in
1956 when my father took his own life - followed by my departure for overseas in 1961. She had then
decided to go to Melbourne to spend time with one of her sisters.

Now, in 1969, she was returning to her sister once again. As I was driving her to the Jacksons Airport a
bolt on the steering column snapped, and both front wheels splayed outwards in opposite directions. We
were stranded on a gravel road, nine miles from the airport, and Mum had a plane to catch. Fortunately a
passing motorist stopped and offered to take her to the airport. That was the last time we saw each other for
quite a while. Meanwhile, I was left standing by the roadside, until a tow-truck eventually brought help.

When my time at The Hibiscus Room ended, I was offered a position as a waiter in the dining room of the
recently opened four-star Gateway Hotel, in easy walking distance of the airport. This hotel was the very
ultimate in style and the place of choice for Moresby’s upper crust..
On my way to work one evening following an afternoon with Stephanie, I was involved in a car
accident. Although it happened thirty-seven years ago, I can remember it all far better than anything I did
last week. As I sat in my car, with helpers rushing to my aid, I sensed discomfort and tried to stretch my
legs to help move my bottom on the seat. Everything from my right hip down just crumbled away and slid
beneath me; it was sheer agony! People seemed to be clambering all over my lovely little car. I asked them
to please get off or they would damage it. I wanted to black out to get away from the pain, but some poor
unknowing soul kept swabbing my face with a damp cloth to revive me. To add to the insult, someone
opened up with the Jaws of Life and began hacking away at the door frame while I was pleading with them
not to cause any further damage. Eventually I was extricated and laid by the roadside, screaming in agony.
I begged a policeman to shoot me and put me out of my misery … I just couldn't understand why he
wouldn't help. I wanted so badly to either lapse into unconsciousness or die, but that same woman was still
reviving me with the damp cloth. Then came the ambulance … and the pain eased. That was my first
experience with morphine … it sure is wonderful in times of need.

It was only about four hundred metres to the Port Moresby General Hospital. I recall the ambulance
stopping and someone asking:
Do you know your name?
What kind of idiot did they take me for? Did I know my name?
Graeme Ross, I slurred.
How old are you Graeme?
Thirty-six!
You mean twenty-six?
No, thirty-six!
In the background I heard someone say:
He's obviously delirious.
Do you know your date of birth?
Eleven - twelve - nineteen thirty-two!
You mean nineteen, forty-two?
I said nineteen thirty-two!

This all took much less time in reality than it takes to tell ... soon I was stretchered into Emergency.
I asked someone to phone Stephanie and tell her where I was. This was another of those times when I
needed sympathy…who better to dispense some than Steph … apart from her I was all alone in the world.
I recall that I was rather upset when someone began cutting my good, new, hard-earned, black
work-trousers up the leg. “Please don't cut them!”… but it was too late; they came adrift at the waist. It
seemed I heard my mother ask if I had clean underwear on … maybe not. I was drawn back to reality when
they looked as if they were about to cut my shoe off. I pleaded “No, please don't!” and that's where
 29

Stephanie came onto the scene. She held my hand and squeezed it tightly. Someone was still trying to get
the shoe off and must have been losing patience with me. I remember pressure on my knee - yank - the
shoe was off. I screamed again!

After being admitted to a ward I recall a doctor telling me that my right leg would have to be amputated. I
argued that it could hang there for the rest of my life but I was not going to allow anyone to cut it off. I
argued with four doctors for four days … and won! My father always said I was cantankerous. I believe
him! One surgeon, whose name I do not know because he left for overseas the following day, agreed to
operate. The only time I had even been in an operating theatre previously was for removal of the tonsils. I
always thought I would be terrified at the prospect of 'major' surgery … when the time came, I couldn't get
in quickly enough to get away from the persistent pain. There were five major fractures in the femur - so I
was told afterwards - with shattering in between the breaks, one crack running up into the right hip. Plaster
wasn't possible, so the leg was screwed together. I spent the next seven weeks in pain, most of it in
traction.
Seven weeks in hospital in a third-world country is an experience I am not sorry I have gone
through. Talk about highs and lows … I had 'em all. I became very angry with the sister-in-charge of the
ward as she insisted on giving me terribly painful injections of procaine penicillin every six hours. Day by
day it got worse as I had been jabbed in every place possible. Then came the cruncher … as she was
approaching me one day, with needle raised on high, I manage to get hold of the cord that held the weight
attached to my foot, I hauled it up and, as she approached, I swung it, threatening to kill if she came near
me. Naturally, the incident was reported to Matron … the penicillin was stopped. The surgeon had left
written instructions that I was to have the injections for three days only …I had been getting them six-
hourly for three weeks.
A short time later came the 21st birthday party of the offending sister. Oddly enough, I was
invited! Talk about a stretcher case … I had to be carried to a car, carried into the house and deposited on a
chair near the toilet. All went well until after one solitary beer I needed to relieve myself. I tried to hop to
the door on my left leg but couldn't cope … the jarring hurt the right leg too much. After just that one beer
I asked to be taken ‘home’ ... home to my little bed in the Port Moresby General.
I had been experiencing severe pain whenever it was necessary to use a bedpan … something
seemed to be sticking into me right where pressure was placed on the rim of the pan. X-rays were taken; it
was found that one of the screws had missed its mark and was protruding into the flesh at the back of my
leg. Further surgery was required to remove that screw.
There were the hilarious evenings when my visitors came to party and I had just too many friends
gathered around the bed for comfort. At least they all brought their own drinks and, by crowding around,
they hid the fact that all the ice-cold beers were laid down beneath the sheet on either side of my naked
body. Oh God, it was cold! The seven weeks were spent with me not having any clothing whatsoever.
The ward boys loved it! Quite often there were squabbles as to who was going to bathe me that day - soft
hands, warm soapy water and a flannel can give amazing relief to a bed-ridden male patient.
Saturdays were rugby days and the highlight of the week for we patients. We would hold an
informal lottery with bets being placed on how many new injured we would get each week. Our version of
new faces of 1969!
If only Funniest Home Videos had been around on the day I decided to visit a friend in the
women’s ward. I managed to get into the wheelchair - I sure as hell had enough experience - and was
making my way down a long incline when I lost control. Imagine it … me sitting with my right leg sticking
straight out parallel to the ground, hurtling down the slope at about 20km per hour - no plaster on the leg -
and no brakes. I did the only sensible thing possible … crashed into a veranda post! Gor blimey … lucky I
didn't catapult into space as they do in the movies.
Pauline came on the scene. She was a wonderful, very patient, Swiss-born hospital volunteer
worker. Pauline soon learned that my greatest passion in life was art. Out of her own pocket she bought
me supplies that I required for making Gope boards - traditional PNG carvings. With fret saw, stanley
knife, sandpaper and paints I did a roaring trade, selling to staff and patients. But the mess was appalling.
After discharge, Pauline assisted me in organising a one-man exhibition that was officially opened by Lady
Rachael Cleland … sales from the exhibition covered all hospital expenses, giving me a little left over to
survive on for a while afterwards.
On the day I met Pauline, she sensed that I was becoming morose after being told I would never
 30

walk again. She had me put into a wheelchair and took me to

the native wards to see the conditions some of those poor
wretches were surviving in. I made a promise to Pauline that
one day I would walk again!

Right through the period of hospitalisation I kept writing to

Mum, telling her of the wonderfully active social life I was
leading as I did not want her to worry about me. Just after
being discharged I wrote again - telling her the truth - her
reaction amazed me… “Thank God it wasn't your face or
hands!”

The thought of discharge terrified me: I had no idea how I was

going to make my way in the hostile world outside. I had little
money, no home, and no job. My first experience once outside
was to make my way to the workshop where my car had been
panel-beaten and repaired. If you have never had to
experience the problem of having to carry goods when on
crutches, please believe me, it is not easy. That lesson has
made me want to assist anyone with a disability when and
wherever possible. The car looked better than new! Can you
imagine the feeling of getting behind the wheel after seven
weeks hospitalisation and having to drive through the very
same intersection where the accident had occurred?
Lady Rachael Cleland opens my first one-man
Exhibition in Port Moresby 1969.
I was on crutches at the time. Penny and David took me in for a while. They had a polished
floor on which I could slide myself around from room to room
… I looked like Porgy in Gershwin's opera, Porgy and Bess. One terribly hot day while living with my
friends, a pair of persistent Jehovah's Witness pests knocked at the door. I was in the lounge room, clad
only in my underwear when I answered the door. When I saw who was there I told them I was not
interested. It was then that Penny came on the scene, also in her underwear; they asked if they could speak
to my wife. In my very firmest voice I said: “She is not my wife!” They made a very hasty retreat.

One of the male nurses from the hospital became a particularly close friend. Some time later I attended his
wedding and later still, accompanied his wife to the hospital for the birth of their first child, a daughter they
named Stella after my mother.
There was a period when I didn't know how I was going to survive. A young Samarai lad named
Simeon came to my assistance, offering me share-accommodation in his Government accommodation if I
put something towards general expenses. At the time, Simeon was earning $8.00 a week and, with me
selling the occasional batch of greeting cards, we managed to keep heads above water for awhile, until
Simeon's craving for alcohol got the better of him and he lost his house.

Somewhere about this time - in amongst periods of hospitalisation - I was highly amused when told that I
was the first patient they had ever had who could be X-rayed with a Polaroid camera … I knew I was thin
but felt that was really carrying it a bit far.
By now I was managing reasonably well, but after twelve months of being broke and unemployed I
returned to the Gateway Hotel on full-time employment, both for the money and the free accommodation
that went with the job. Although I thoroughly enjoyed most aspects of drink-waiting and the tips were
good I soon learned that there are some very nasty, very rude, very ignorant and rotten people in the world.
It was during this period that I was to meet Lynly and Maureen who have remained life-long friends.
Life in the hospitality industry wasn't all fun and games, however. The compulsory hours for the
breakfast shift were from 6 to 9 a.m.; lunch between 11 and 2, then front up again at 5 for the evening shift
that ended anywhere between 9 p.m. and 3 a.m., depending on the drinkers amongst the diners. The hotel
had its own resident band under the leadership of an excellent vocalist who was later to become the
notorious ‘Woolworth's Bomber’. In order to have Mondays free, I would work the normal hours on
 31

Sunday then, instead of doing the dinner shift, I would take on the role of Night Manager from 10 p.m.
until 6 a.m. Monday. Then, and only then, was I allowed to enjoy a full day off.

Port Moresby was becoming like the Wild West. One evening one of the dining room staff went to the
staff room to have her dinner. On opening the door she came across the body of a PNG national on the
floor. He had been killed! On another occasion a fight broke out in the open-sided outdoor Flight Deck
bar on the first floor. The Manager, who was in the bar at the time, urged one poor chap to dive in behind
him for protection, but he dived too far and went clean off the balcony, crashing to his death on the ground
below.
Even I became involved in a fight one night, on my day off. I had been drinking with the male
nurse I had become friendly with since leaving the hospital. We had an altercation that began in the bar
and progressed into the main foyer of the hotel. Oh boy, did he pack a mean left? One punch and I was
lifted off my feet, over the reception desk, landing in the office out back. I was told not to worry as the
police had been called … if the police came they were bound to find my attacker! My attacker? He was
my friend! My very best friend! He was more than that - he was my lover! I ran out into the car park,
calling his name in the dark and when we caught up with each other we leapt into my little blue 'Sprite'
and got ourselves to the Outpatients section of the hospital in a hurry, where we both received dressings
for minor injuries and absented ourselves before the police arrived - laughing all the way home.

Along came an offer I couldn't refuse, but I often wished I had. A person who I knew only slightly wanted
to sell his mobile hamburger bus. I bought it just a few days before the first Games of the South Pacific
opened in Port Moresby. Being homeless at the time, I slept on the floor of the bus for a few nights before
finding accommodation, albeit illegally. A low budget-housing scheme was being developed in the outer
suburb of Waigani: I found a small house with an unlocked door and just moved in, using the available
facilities. Lynly came on staff to help with the bus, and so did Simeon. Our first day almost became a
disaster – hundreds upon hundreds of hungry spectators stormed the bus in their search for food. We had
to call for police protection to prevent the vehicle being overturned. Our entire supply of food that was
intended to last the whole day went within two hours. The business was rather profitable but after a year
or so we felt we had to move on - financially not much better off. Lynly and I operated that business at
Ela Beach during lunchtimes and in Badili at night. We eventually sold, spending some of our savings on
a weekend at Tapini in the Goilala District.
Landing at the Tapini airstrip was the most hair-raising experience ever … the aircraft must spiral
down into a deep valley towards the lower end of the strip, then rev up and land while travelling uphill.
We taxied up to the top of the strip, coming to a stop just below the hotel.
In was in the early 1970s that we made this first excursion to Tapini and I have no doubt that some
things might have changed in the interim. The best I can say about the place is that it was peaceful, quiet,
relaxing, and a joy being able to indulge oneself in the more simple things in life. Late in the afternoon
we walked down to the lower end of the airstrip, to where the earth just dropped away into a deep gorge.
There was not a sound to be heard; not a car, not a dog, not even a bird. After a country-style dinner we
sat on the veranda in front of our rooms. gazing off into the empty blackness…the only lights to be seen
were stars in an inky sky.
It would seem that there is no way anyone can escape from life however, as in that very same
utterly isolated spot in the wilds of Papua New Guinea we met two friends of mine from Port Moresby …
Glenys and Kurt, both artists, who gave the impression that they thought they had found the ideal place for
an illicit rendezvous. No doubt they thought that Lynly and I were having a dirty little weekend as well.
When I was finally in a financial position, I took a flat in the suburb of Koki. A friend used to
visit occasionally and on one such visit asked if he could leave Robert, a magnificently muscled body
builder, in my care for the evening. What an utterly ridiculous question - one look and I couldn’t possibly
refuse. The very next evening he came to the door again, this time with a bag of his possessions in hand -
and his pillow - stating that he was going to stay with me. Stay he did, for the next eleven and a half
years, and I loved that man with all my heart and soul.
Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly …
32
 33

RETURN TO ASIA 1969-1970

I really had no thought of further travel until one day Eddy arrived unannounced. During the evening we
discussed his forthcoming holiday - visiting his family in Australia and then flying on to Bali. At the
airport the following morning, just before departure, he mentioned that he would be staying at Sanur Beach,
and that was just too much for me … I love Sanur Beach! I rescinded my vow never to travel again. It
was an instantaneous decision when I said, “I'll meet you there next Thursday!”
But I needed a visa for Indonesia and I needed it quickly. That day I called on my travel agent and
discussed my irrational plans. He said that if he sent my passport off that day, he would have it rushed to
the Indonesian Embassy with an application for a visa, and have it processed and available for collection at
Sydney International Airport on the day of my departure.
Being unemployed at the time I was completely free and had no obligations. I flew to Melbourne
the following day and caught a train to Ballarat to visit Mum. She was quite pleased when I turned up at
her door unannounced and, accustomed as she had become to my irregular movements, was not unduly
surprised as I had been constantly making spur-of-the-moment decisions, ever since coming out of National
Service in the Royal Australian Navy in 1951.
After one night in Ballarat I returned to Melbourne to catch a flight to Sydney. I was worried sick
because, if my passport was not at Sydney Airport, my plans were shattered. It was there, and I caught my
scheduled flight to Denpasar that day. I checked the visa and found it valid for travel to Indonesia and
stamped NOT VALID FOR TRAVELLING TO IRIAN BARAT.
Things were getting curioser and curioser. I could travel to Indonesia but not Irian Barat, a.k.a.
Irian Jaya, a.k.a. West Irian, a.k.a. West New Guinea, which was considered to be part of Indonesia. I
wondered if I had been barred from entry to Irian Jaya as a result of my last visit. We'll never know, as I
decided not to test my luck by asking questions.

Bali Revisited
Six or seven hours later, the plane touched down at Bali on January 2, 1970. The honking of motor vehicles
seemed to have grown worse in Denpasar … was I ageing that quickly and losing my tolerance? I paid the
taxi off at the very same corner where I had said ‘goodbye’ to Sari six years earlier. The Bali International
Hotel was still on the left - now surrounded by a high security fence that ran right down across the sandy
beach into the waters of Sanur Bay - making it impossible to walk the length of the beach. The entry gate
to the hotel was guarded. On the opposite corner was the humble little place where Eddy had told me he
would be staying. I felt the thrill of anticipation as I walked to the desk to ask for his room. Imagine the
shock and disappointment when told that nobody by the name of McCormack was registered. I had flown
all that way and the bugger wasn't there!
Thoroughly dejected, I tied the laces of my shoes together and tossed them over my shoulder, as I
had done way back when. I stood on the beach, looking out over the placid waters of the bay, muttering all
sorts of nasty thoughts about my best friend and wondered, “What now?” I was just about to move when
there was a tap on my shoulder and a familiar voice said “Hello there! You made it, huh?”

With shoes and socks back on, we walked across the street to the International for a drink. Eddy explained
that he didn't like his accommodation when he saw it, and had chosen another place further along the beach,
about fifty metres short of where I had previously stayed. After a few drinks, we chatted as we strolled
along the white sands to where I was able to get a bungalow in the same little place as on my previous visit.
Eddy returned to his digs while I deposited my bags and had a rest. On my suggestion, he came
back to my pad after dusk and we stepped over the same low wall just as I had done seven years earlier, to
the same wonderful restaurant. We dined by the light of flares in their luxurious garden with eight waiters
in attendance.
 34

Before leaving PNG, my friend and artist Glenys Kohnke (who Lynly and I had met at Tapini) had
asked me to pay a courtesy call on her behalf to the expatriate Australian artist Donald Friend who lived on
Bali. Unfamiliar with the local telephone system, I chose not to phone in advance. I had no difficulty in
locating his beautiful residence - a short stroll along Sanur Beach from where I was staying - created on the
lines of a Balinese temple, with similar stone fence and ornate archway. A winding path led through the
sandy tropical garden, through palms, hibiscus and frangipani to the house … obviously that of an artist. A
gentle knock on the carved door and it was opened by a bare-chested servant wearing a batik rami. I
explained that I had come from Australia and wished to visit Mr Friend. Leaving the door ajar, he glided
silently over the floor rugs, and up a flight of stairs that followed the wooden-panelled rear wall. The
manservant returned; “Mr Friend can allow 10 minutes. Please come in and sit down.” I was led to a
square of four comfortably large chairs and asked to sit. He returned a few minutes later with a glass of
chilled fruit juice that tinkled with ice as it was set on the table.
“Good morning, Mr Ross!”… sonorous tones from high up on a balcony at the top of the stairway.
The grand entrance was such that he appeared to be emulating Gloria Swanson in ‘Sunset Boulevard.’ Or
did he have delusions of being a Balinese Prince?
We shook hands - it was more like we held hands - limply. He sat across the table from me,
indulged in a little small talk and asked just whom it had been who had asked me to pass on regards to him.
I told him, “Glenys Kohnke, an artist friend of mine in Port Moresby.” “Glenys ... he dragged the word out
as if savouring them ... Kohnke. I am sorry Mr Ross, but I have no knowledge of anyone by that name.
Please excuse me.” He rose and made his way back to the stairway. “Please enjoy your stay, Mr Ross!” he
called - and he was gone. My ten minutes had passed in less than three. The servant showed me to the
door. I had shrunk in stature; I felt as big as that - you know, the distance between an almost touching
thumb and forefinger. I slunk my way back along the beach. The bitch!

Eddy and I passed the remainder of the day away in conversation … we had never been short of words.
Many a night we had spent walking the streets of Melbourne 'til dawn, always with something to chat
about. We made immediate plans and Eddy expressed his desire to visit Ubud. We found a ‘guide’ who
was prepared to take us up there for just a few dollars…we drove up the following morning. I guess I was a
little blase about it all, as I had done that road previously, but rural Bali still holds a magical spell over me.
The sights, the sounds and the smells are exclusively Bali.

The Hotel Mutari where I had previously stayed was still there. We were able to get two rooms, relatively
near each other and checked in. The rest of the day was spent wandering about the area until about 4 p.m.
when we returned to find the evening meal all set out and waiting, as on my previous visit. Nothing hurries
in Ubud … least of all the local residents and their habits. The 20th century seemed to have not yet reached
that far inland. Two nights there and we then found transport back to Denpasar. Eddy decided he wanted
to go to India, while I wanted to visit Cambodia. That was the way we liked to travel … together, alone.
The best of friends with our own personalities, likes and dislikes. Way back in 1961 we decreed that the
best way to remain friends was to never stay together for more than five days. It works!
At Denpasar airport we went our separate ways and, with no definite date set, arranged to meet
again at The Swiss Inn, on Roxas Boulevard in Manila, in about five weeks.
I really don't know anything much about Eddy's trip other than he went to India; he hated it all and
its relative poverty. He detested the way the Indian elite acted more British than their previous Colonial
British rulers ever did. But his likes and dislikes are not our worry.

Return to Surabaja
One short flight and I was back in Surabaja. A taxi took me to the very same hotel where I had stayed in
1963. I had to direct the driver as I had forgotten the name of the hotel where I had last stayed - the one
where I had first met Toengkie. After checking in, I crossed the street to the jewellery shop where
Toengkie had said he worked … at first glance it appeared to be empty. As my eyes became accustomed
to the gloom I realised I was not alone … a ravishingly beautiful woman stood behind the counter at the
back of the shop. Her glorious black hair fell over her shoulders - a very low neckline plunged to reveal an
ample bosom. Her eyes opened wide and from those luscious red lips came the words: “Darling! I knew
you would come back to see me one day!” I was momentarily stunned. "It's me,” she called, “Toengkie!”
My dear Toengkie now lived under a different name and was Indonesia's most acclaimed female
 35

model. True to her roots, however, she remained based in Surabaja and had held the same job all those years.
Time didn't allow me to visit her home, but she did come to my hotel after work. I was thrown into quite a
quandary as a notice in my room that stated GENTLEMEN ARE FORBIDDEN TO ENTERTAIN MEMBERS
OF THE OPPOSITE SEX IN THEIR ROOMS. Now that was debatable - I was still not fully convinced but I
chose to err on the side of caution. With seven years to catch up on I suggested we sit in the lounge to talk.
What an experience! I knew where I stood but, at this stage, I wasn’t too sure about the gorgeous Toengkie.
One thing she did assure me of was that she was one girl who had not lost her marbles.
The time had come to move once more. I flew to Djakarta and bought a ticket for a flight to Kuala
Lumpur as - if I wanted to visit Thailand and Cambodia - I needed to get visas for both countries.

Cambodia (Kampuchea)
I arrived in Cambodia on January 20, 1970. One of the first things a visitor will see in the capital is the Wat
Phnom - or Hill Temple - standing on a hill twenty-seven metres high. It had been built in 1373 to house five
statues of Buddha. This is where the city gets its name. Phnom Penh is situated on the Tonle Sap River, a
tributary of the Mekong, and became the capital of Cambodia after Ponhea Yat, king of the Khmer Empire, fled
Angkor Thom when in 1431 it was captured by Siam. The stupa behind Wat Phnom houses the remains of
Ponhea Yat and the royal family, as well as the remaining Buddhist statues from the Angkorean era. The
Mekong River at Phnom Penh was rather wide and slow flowing, carrying with it some very nasty flotsam.
In all my travels of recent weeks I had been staying in accommodations that didn’t go to the luxury of a
radio, a TV or pool, and I was completely unaware of the political turmoil going on in the world around me, in
particular in Cambodia. For six or seven weeks I had not spoken to an Australian (or any other white person for
that matter). Hell-bent in my determination to visit the ‘Wonders of the Past’ as per Grandfather’s books, I had
travelled north to Siem Reap in order to visit the ruins of Angkor Wat and was completely ignorant of the world
about me.
This was the year that Prince Norodim Sihanouk was deposed and his regime overthrown by Lon Nol
and the Prince went into exile in China. I was unaware of this.

For a miserable few dollars a young Cambodian chap

took me on his motorcycle trailer the short distance
from Siem Reap north to Angkor. There were no fees
to pay in those days and no tourists over-running the
place. As far as I was concerned, I had Angkor
entirely to myself as you can see in the photograph at
right. My motorcyclist friend advised me to take my
own time and I was deposited right outside the
western causeway to Angkor Wat - my brain couldn’t
possibly take in the magnitude of the complex on the
other side of the wide moat. I was able to wander at
my own pace through the ruins … my transporter was
content to sit idly in the shade across the road from the
The temples of Angkor Wat, viewed from the Western Causeway,
causeway. shortly before the Viet Cong invasion.
My world was still one of peace - but the
leisurely days of Siem Reap were numbered.
Angkor Wat before the Viet Kong invasion

Angkor was founded about 880 AD as the capital of the Khmer Empire. It was rediscovered, covered by jungle,
in 1860. I was alone in my wanderings that peaceful day and, as no words of mine can surpass those of Edmund
Candler, I will now take the liberty of quoting from his writings titled: Angkor: A Marvel Hidden in the
Jungle. There is no date to indicate the year it was written but an inscription, in my mother’s hand, in the book
‘Wonders of the Past’ reads: ‘S.A. Ross 1927’.

‘When I visited Angkor Vat, I had the shrine very much to myself. Perhaps the grand old ruin was the
more impressive in that it showed no trace of human meddling for the last thousand years. The chaos of
vegetation had penetrated to the inner courts of the temple; one could see the roots at grips with the
masonry’.
 36

Walking through the outer arch and across the causeway, I passed through a second arch and then my
emotions took hold of me. I stood there - astounded by the grandeur of it all as tears of emotion flowed to
my eyes. The very size and beauty of the temples practically defy description. I climbed through every
terrace right to the tallest, central temple, admiring the incredibly beautiful friezes carved into the stone. I
was in utter awe at the talent of artisans who, all those centuries ago, had created this marvel.
I really don't know how long I stayed there but my trusty transport guy suggested that there were
many more architectural wonders to be found hidden in the jungle. He wasn't joking! There were many
others - well off the beaten track - but being on a motorcycle we could zip in and out of all but the densest
jungle. If detail bores you … skip the next paragraph, but in order to give an impression of how vast the
area of temples is I have to list some of those I was taken to on that day.
We visited Thommananom - a huge and widely spread complex - and the Neak Pean pool (1200
AD). We visited Taprohm Pre Rup, Sras Srang - that was under reconstruction - Mebon with its life-size
stone elephants and guardian lions, and the man-made lake Banteay Kdei. We crossed the causeway at
Takeo and I met and talked awhile with Monk No. 52 who lived in the Poloka Pagoda. I was very tempted
to join the monastery there and then but was aware of my responsibilities at school and thought ‘next time!’
I don't have a name for my motorcycle friend, a lovely person and a wonderful guide. Back in
Siem Reap, diagonally across the intersection from my accommodation, he pointed to a small, carved stone
head of Vishnu in a small, corner shop window and said he thought it looked like me. Being perfectly
aware of my God-like qualities, I bought it. I still treasure it!
That evening he took me to his village where some form of festivities were in progress. It gave an
ideal opportunity to see how the locals lived.

My accommodation in Siem Reap was certainly not a hotel. I guess the best you could call it would be a
pension but it was adequate for my needs. It was but a short walk to the Tonle Sap River where I met a
chap who told me he had seen human bodies floating downstream. Had there been a disastrous accident, I
wondered? Flooding, possibly? I had no idea what was going on upstream.
When I returned to my lodgings after my day of exploration and ‘partying’, I mentioned at the desk
that I would be checking out the following day. I was told: “But Sir, that is impossible, there are no flights
in or out of Siem Reap now”. Confusion swirled in my poor befuddled little brain and I am positive he told
me that the Viet Cong were approaching. I have since read that it was possibly the Khmer Rouge … I still
don’t know have never been able to find out which was correct.
Guests were advised to leave all packed baggage in the foyer in readiness for an emergency
evacuation and not to wander far from the hotel. My mind was stunned at the possibilities of what lay
ahead. Time stopped … I seemed to develop some form of temporary amnesia that helped me cope with
the emergency. I recall being advised to hurry to some departing transport that would take us to the airport
for an evacuation flight over Vietnam to Hong Kong. My passport does not show a departure stamp for
Cambodia but it does have an entry stamp for Hong Kong dated 22 January 1970 and an entry stamp for
Manila, Philippines dated 1/26/70. So much had gone into so little time
At the time I was completely unaware of the awful fate that would soon befall those wonderful
Khmer people. So were they! I often wondered how many of those temples and people survived the horror
of what was about to happen.

Hong Kong
All the thrill and excitement has since been taken out of landing at the old Kai Tak International Airport at
Hong Kong, but on this, my first landing, I thought we were going to ditch in the sea ... the plane seemed to
be moving at an impossibly slow speed as we slid down between the skyscrapers that towered on either side
of us. It was a strange sensation, sitting in a descending plane and being able to look directly out the
window at people in their apartments just a stone’s throw away. And I was safe!
It was practically freezing in Hong Kong; after all it was mid-winter. I found a microscopic little
place on Nathan Road that has since been devoured by development, venturing out only long enough to
cross the street to a store where I was able to buy some winter-weight clothes. Come to think of it, I had
been living in the topics for nine years and was definitely not cut out for Northern Hemisphere winters.
I was able to phone Diana, an old friend whom I had not seen since the 1950s. Diana was then a
showgirl in a touring production that was being staged at Her Majesty's Theatre in Ballarat where I worked
nights as an usher. After the first performance she moved into my flat and stayed for the duration of the
 37

show. She was a character! … a girl of personality plus!

There were some amusing moments at Myer while
Diana was with me. One day I had pre-arranged to be at a
certain counter in the store talking with a frustrated old maid
sales-lady in the Glove Department. On cue, Diana came
racing up to me in the middle of the conversation and - without
hesitation - kissed me on the cheek and said, “Sorry Honey … I
haven’t had time to make the bed this morning!” The inferred
scandal spread through the store like wildfire.

To get back to the story: on that first night in Hong Kong I had
a call to say I had a guest downstairs who wished to see me.
Downstairs I raced … there in the foyer was the most amazing
sight you could ever wish to see ... Diana, in full costume for
her role in 'Camelot'! “Dahling!” and she threw her arms
around my neck. We hugged and kissed right there on the spot,
oblivious to our surroundings. However I do recall all the lights
and the milling throng in the street outside the door on Nathan
Road.
Diana was on her way to an evening performance and
promised to come for me the following morning. She had
married a Filipino musician. They both worked in Kowloon
and lived in a cramped little apartment on the 17th floor on
Hennessy Road, in the bustling World of Susie Wong Wanchai
“This is my opening costume in ‘Camelot’, District of Hong Kong Island. I was taken to see their tiny
Love Di.”
home next day. She had been sensible enough to wait until the
very worst of the winter's morning chill had passed before collecting me and wanted to show me where they
lived, and show me some of the Hong Kong she had grown to love. One tiny window on the seventeenth
floor afforded their only view of the city below.
I recall seeing the Jumbo Floating Restaurant at Aberdeen and the gold-plated Monk at Sha Tin - we
had to climb an awful lot of steps to see him. Word has it that he died sitting in the Lotus Position…and
that’s exactly the same position he was sitting in when I visited him. Gold-plated of course.
We took a train to the Chinese border but were not permitted to cross. I determined to pass through
that border some time in the future. Sometime, not now, it was far too cold. That - and all the stores and
hordes of people - is about all I can recall of my first visit. As I commented in my photo album of the time:
‘Nice place, but overcrowded with Chinese’. And I wondered: ‘Where do the children play?’

Manila
An extraordinary thing happened on arrival at Manila airport … something that has never been explained. I
had left the Arrivals Hall and was heading outside when a hand-held sign tacked to a piece of dowel caught
my eye … MR ROSS – SWISS INN. I mentioned that I was a Mr Ross but nobody was expecting me and I
certainly had not made arrangements for accommodation. It had to be Eddy's doing - but it wasn't - a similar
event had happened to him when he arrived the previous day and, quite naturally, he thought I was
responsible.
Several years after that incident Ian, a young cousin of mine in Ballarat, the son of Dad’s brother
Bob, asked how he would go about marrying a Filipino girl. I suggested that he would need only to fly to
Manila, disembark, and when he walked outside the airport there would be thousands of them clinging onto
the security wire all desperately looking for a partner. “Just take your pick”, I told him! I suggested that
some would want a permanent arrangement but most would be satisfied with a one-night stand. Ian did fly
to Manila, found his Filipino girl and married her before returning to Australia, where he arranged and
forwarded her entry papers - and never heard of her again. Now that's my idea of a happy ending!
We now return to where I left you, the reader, at Manila airport. I accepted the offered reservation at
The Swiss Inn, mainly because I had no idea of where to stay. The place was acceptable, well-located and it
seemed, very understanding or very tolerant. The woman at the desk asked: “You like single bed?” and,
before I could respond, she said: “I give you double, no extra!” She asked if I would like a room service
 38

breakfast for two. I replied, “No, just for one, please”.

I enquired about a Mr McCormack and was told that he had arrived the day before. This was
getting just too co-incidental. As mentioned previously, we never did learn the answer.

About two doors along from The Swiss Inn was a small restaurant/bar called ‘The Red Lounge’, where we
popped in for a drink. The owner introduced himself as being Freddy Gargantillo, and told us he was the
owner of - and lead singer in - the establishment. We dined there and stayed on until quite late at night.
Afterwards, under an incredibly large full moon, we three strolled along Roxas Boulevard, which
overlooked Manila Bay. Maybe it was the balmy night and the full moon - maybe it was the music we had
listened to - and just maybe I had had a few too many drinks. I am no vocalist, but I remember singing
‘Summer Wind’ and ‘Strangers in the Night’ to Freddy. I honestly believed I had fallen in love. As we
walked I sang a little of Marlene Dietrich’s famous number from ‘Stage Fright’: Falling in love again -
never wanted to - what am I to do - I can’t help it! Freddy had never heard of any of those numbers but he
loved them. Curse my fatal charm … I must have got something right.

"Room Service!” It was at my door and morning had arrived.

What in the hell am I going to do? I was not alone and before I
realised I was awake, the maid had already brushed by into the
room. "Good morning, Sirs, breakfast for two!” I had the
distinct feeling that something was up there spying on me. That
day I found and bought the sheet music of the first two songs that
I had sung to Freddie and presented them to him as a farewell
present; he sang them to me in the restaurant that evening.

Eddy and I flew back to Jackson's Airport, Port Moresby the

following day.

Major changes were about to take place in my life. The demand

for my hand-printed greeting cards had reached the stage where I
was unable to maintain the output. I selected those that I felt had
the greatest appeal with both tourists and the expatriate
community and went to print, beginning with runs of 1,000 of
each design. These sold so well that the owner/manager of the
companyThewhere
author the printing
with Cousin was being done - Ray Thurecht -
Beryl
asked me to join the company and open their Commercial Arts
department. This soon took on the role of commercial traveller
as well, visiting all major towns in the country, from Aitape near I opened the Commercial Arts Department of
PNG Printing Company.
the border with West Irian, right down the coastal strip. I made
regularly visits to all major islands - New Britain, New Ireland,
Manus and Bougainville, and across to the Solomon Islands, as well as right throughout the Highlands.

The main Highlands Highway, linking Lae - up the treacherous Kassam Pass to Kainantu, Goroka,
Kundiawa and Mount Hagen - became a regular run.

Late in 1970, I summed up the year in a letter to cousin Beryl, with the following miserable coverage:

It all began with six glorious weeks touring Southeast Asia … followed by sitting about the flat
doodling. With art and this, in turn, I have landed myself a fabulous job as Commercial Artist
cum Sales Rep with a printing company. I feel it is high time I settled down to something that
offers some form of security for the future.

Nearly ten years have passed since I decided to come up here — I now face the problem of
should I build?’
 39

MOTHER RETURNS TO PAPUA NEW GUINEA 1973

Shortly after returning from the Asian trip I received a letter telling that my mother was returning to Port
Moresby. Shortly before her arrival, an accommodation agent found a rather run-down little cottage with
two bedrooms in the inner suburb of Boroko. Mum arrived! She had one room to herself while Robert and
Simeon - the young chap who had looked after me following my accident - and I bunked in the other room.
This peculiar set-up became the centre for all our social activities, a small house where friends gathered
frequently to spend evenings. On the day of Mum’s arrival most of my friends had gone to the airport to
welcome her, after which we all adjourned to the airport bar for drinks and followed that up with a visit to
the garden bar of the Boroko Hotel. Less than twelve months later outdoor venues such as that were out of
bounds to all but the most daring. The stayers … the bold and the beautiful … continued on to gather in
our tiny cottage. There we partied until the wee small hours.

Amongst the guests were Lynly and Cliff from the Gateway Hotel. The best words I could find to describe
Cliff were rotund and flamboyant. He sweated profusely and always carried a box of tissues and a paper
bag in which he kept the used ones. Had the local theatrical group ever decided to do a play on Oscar
Wilde, Cliff would have been the first I would have recommended to play the lead.
On this occasion he was wearing a very effeminate, very expensive shirt that appeared to be made
of white guipure lace. The more he sweated, the more he dabbed at his face with tissues. After most of the
guests had departed a very weary mother, in all innocence, asked: “Who was that lady in the white blouse?”
Nobody corrected her!
Our tiny accommodation finally became too small for four. Robert and Simeon didn't like each
other ... I liked them both. I seemed to be walking on the tropical equivalent of thin ice. Finally Robert
gave the ultimatum; either Simeon went or he would. Robert, the big buck body-builder from Baimuru,
won.

We were back to a threesome but we still needed to find better and larger accommodation. I discussed with
both Robert and Mum the pros and cons of building . Taking into consideration the fact that 40% of my
income was going in rent I approached the bank manager for advice and a request for a loan. The loan was
approved … then began the task of drawing up plans for what I felt we needed, and could afford.
Fortunately I had done twelve months of architecture in senior years at Arts School. A friend, who was a
real, genuine architect, took over the reins from there and completed the plans with all the important details
of which I knew nothing, such as electrical wiring and plumbing. He also found a builder who would do
the job at a mate’s rate price. I bought a corner block of land that was for sale on the hill behind the
Gateway Hotel, with a wonderful view across the airport to the distant blue Owen Stanley Range.

One evening in 1973, when we were still living in the little cottage, Robert and I went out to a function at
Davara Motel on Ela Beach; we left Mum at home as she felt she could do with a little rest and
recuperation. We arrived home a little before midnight expecting the place to be in darkness; on the
contrary, it was ablaze with all lights on. The main front door and the screen door were wide open. We
both sensed that something was most definitely amiss. I was first to enter and, as I did, saw a big male
Papua New Guinean staggering out through the doorway of my bedroom, with his dick hanging out,
hoisting his pants up, and fumbling with the zip of his fly. Mum came crawling out on all fours behind him
… her face all battered, bruised and bleeding. I went berserk and raced to the kitchen to get a carving knife,
screaming something like “You bastard, I'm gonna cut your cock off!” Mum, on the floor, was pleading
with me to be careful what I did, while Robert had to restrain me and wrestle the knife from my hand.
Apart from the scuffle I had with my friend at the Gateway Hotel, and childhood brawls with my brother, I
had never actually been involved in a fight. I was so damned enraged this night that I went almost insane. I
 40

learned the name of the rapist. Robert, being an extremely strong body builder, helped me put him into the
boot of the car. I drove the rapist to the Boroko Police Station where I explained that he and a group of others
had pack-raped my mother. I left him in custody and returned home to phone a doctor. After getting Mum
into a chair with a stiff shot of brandy, she told her story.

She told of how she had been sitting in the lounge when two men appeared at the door, asking for a cigarette.
Mum was a chain-smoker at the time so she could scarcely say she didn't have any. She said she offered them
a whole packet if they would go away and leave her alone. Foolishly, she then opened the screen door and
passed the packet to them. One then said he wanted to use the toilet. Another foolish move on Mum's part …
she agreed to let him in on the condition that he have a pee and leave. As soon as Mum opened the door he
knocked her to the floor and dragged her into my bedroom, where he wedged her head - rather brutally -
between two besser bricks, and raped her. She told me confidentially of how he had forced her legs right
back behind her head and bit her all around the vagina. It must have been a shockingly painful experience for
a 68-year-old. She had no idea of how many had been involved but told of experiencing the ordeal over and
over.
When the doctor arrived he inspected her, gave her a sedative and, while Robert stayed with Mum, I
returned to the Police Station at 2 a.m. to relate what I had heard. I was outraged to find the rapist sitting on
the floor, just inside the door, smoking a cigarette.
I returned to the Police Station again at 5 a.m. to be told that he had walked out. He had just stood up
and walked out! There were ample police on duty but they just let him go. Within a week of searching and
making enquiries he had been relocated and put behind bars. We never did find any of the others although the
one we caught had told of where some of them worked. One day, Mum and I drove to their workplace and
when I explained my mission, the manager ordered us off the property. The police took no further action.

Although it came out in evidence in court that - while drinking at the Boroko Hotel - the offenders had been
looking through a 'Playboy' magazine with explicit photographs of female nudity and had then decided to go
out and find a white woman. The trial Judge suggested that he considered Mum to be a woman of loose
morals and that she was at fault for opening the door. The doctor confirmed my mother's words … that she
had teeth marks all around her vagina. The one rapist I had caught was sentenced to five years behind bars. I
was determined not to be living in that same house when he was released.
In any normal society such an outrage would have drawn widespread coverage in the media but when
I contacted Luke - a personal friend and the editor of the local newspaper - he told me that the Government
had put restrictions on how many such crimes against society could be reported in any one month.

Determined to not be living at the same address when the rapist was eventually released, the building of our
house was given high priority. I literally worked my butt off, holding down two jobs, one as commercial
artist and travelling salesman for the printing company, and one waiting on tables at night. I was desperate to
get as much cash behind me as possible, even doing freelance art early in the morning, during lunch hours and
after work … whenever time allowed. Each and every spare minute went into earning money towards
repaying the bank loan as I was determined to get as
far away from the scene of the crime as possible
before the prisoner’s release.
I was first to move into the new home, albeit
illegally, without electricity being connected, as I
wanted to guard our property against theft or
vandalism. Mum and Robert followed a couple of
days later after the permit of occupancy had been
issued.
I have mentioned before that Robert was beautifully
muscled and immensely strong. He set himself to
creating magnificent, landscaped gardens at front,
back, and along the side street. He was
unemployed and wanted to do something towards
Peter, Mum, Graeme, Lynly and Robert at the Gateway Hotel,
homemaking. Mum never really recovered from her
Port Moresby. ordeal. She never left her Granny flat or the house
 41

and would spend her days sitting in a rocking chair on the front
patio, overlooking the airport. She always seemed to be reading
a little black book, of which I took no notice, but thought it may
have been a Bible as her father had been a part-time lay
preacher with the Methodist church.

One Saturday morning Mum showed signs of improvement and

said she wanted to go with me on a little shopping excursion.
We were having a party that evening and needed supplies. She
made a withdrawal from her bank and gave me $50.00 towards
her funeral expenses. It seemed a strange thing to do but we had
always discussed death and what action one should take if the
other passed away so, although I appreciated the gift, I thought
little of it. Strangely, I bought her a recording of her two
favourite singers from the old days … Nelson Eddy and Jeanette
MacDonald.
That night, March 30, 1974, we had the party for around
thirty guests. Near midnight, Mum asked if I would put her new
record on as she wished to go to bed and listen to it. This was
definitely not party music in the 1970s but the guests all gave
their okay. Everyone loved their Stella! We all said our
‘goodnights’ and Mum retired to her Granny flat. She passed
Stella Ross at home in her rocking chair outside the
door of her granny flat - she died that night —
away peacefully in her sleep that night at the age of sixty-nine.
March 30, 1974.
Sunday dawned. Robert and I lay awake, chatting in bed,
discussing the party and awaiting the usual breakfast in bed that Mum always prepared on Sunday
mornings. When it came to 10.30, I was growing a little concerned and went to her door and knocked.
There was no reply. I got my key and quietly let myself in … her curtains were drawn and I had to turn on
a light. I walked into her bedroom and there she slept. I noticed that there was no movement in her chest.
I felt her forehead - cold! She was as stiff as the proverbial board. I returned to our room and told Robert:
“Mum's dead!” As an afterthought I realised I could have broken the news with a little more compassion
but I was in shock and not thinking clearly. My dear old mother was dead. Robert wept!
And so began what would in any normal society have been the saddest day of my life, but due to
circumstances that could have happened nowhere but in Papua New Guinea, it turned out to be a
tragicomedy.
I discovered that the little black book she had been reading each day was a Birthday Book,
containing all the details of her friends… right back to her school days. Almost all entries in that book had
been marked off as deceased. Without us realising it she must have been living a terribly lonely life -
completely cut of from everyone she knew apart from Robert and me. My wonderful, caring, loving much-
adored mother had left this earth forever.

April 2, 1974
Dear Beryl, I am very sorry to have to tell you that Mum passed away peacefully in her sleep some
time during Saturday night. She spent an extremely happy five months in our new house – died without any
suffering – and will be buried this afternoon in her adopted country that she loved so dearly. It is a sad and
lonely time for me. The house suddenly seems so big and I am surrounded by all the little things we gave
each other to make life the happy experience it has been.

And so ended a life of pain, hardship and suffering. I had a feeling of guilt as I felt I could have done more
for her, but at what cost? My own freedom? No more slaving in the paddocks with a pitchfork in the
summer heat for you, my dear mother!
42
 43

LIFE AFTER MOTHER 1974-1976

The body of my mother still lay in her bed in the Granny Flat and I was almost beside myself. I had to send
Robert away as he was overcome with almost hysterical grief - I needed time to think. I had never lost a
mother before - this was something outside my control - and, despite all our good planning about what to do
in such an emergency, I was confused. This was to be the most concatenous day of my life.
The first thing I did was to phone the Police to explain that my mother had died.

Where’s the body?

She’s in her bed.
Do you have any idea who killed her?
Nobody killed her – it appears to be death from natural causes.
Sorry, Sir, we can't help unless a crime has been committed. I suggest you call an ambulance.

I thanked him and phoned for an ambulance.

Good morning, St John's Ambulance. How can we help you?

My mother's dead - I need to have her body removed from the house.
Did you say 'dead?
Yes, she's dead!
Sorry, we can't help unless the victim is still breathing!

I phoned Lynly and told her the bad news.

Oh shit! I'll be there as soon as I can!

I contacted the ambulance again.

Good morning, St John's Ambulance. How can we help you?

This is an emergency ... I need help. My mother is dead ... she's just lying there, if she isn't
removed soon the sun get onto her side of her house and she will start to stink!
Lying where?
In her bed!
Was it an accident?
No! She went there by herself!
Sorry, we can't help unless it's an accident.
If I drag her out and put her on the road and run over her, will you come then?
If it's an accident, yes!

I called the police and went through the whole story once more.

Do you have the murder weapon?

There is no murder weapon. She died of natural causes!
If she died of natural causes it’s not a police matter!
Please help me … what do I do?
Where is she now?
In bed!
 44

Then it dawned on me to call the doctor. He was there in a matter of minutes.

I called my friend Barbara - the funeral director - and explained the situation. “I'll be right there,
Graeme!”
And that's about when my whole world went suddenly crazy. Lynly arrived and went straight to
the fridge to get a beer. Lynly's reaction to anything - even getting out of bed in the morning - was to head
to the 'fridge for a beer.
Robert came back, still crying his eyes out. The doctor came out from Mum's room and said it
looked as though she had died of natural causes.
Barbara, the funeral director arrived and, at the same time, so did four police vehicles, each with
four Officers with baton in hand. They fanned out all through the grounds beating the bushes - searching
amongst the plants for the murder weapon. Sixteen uniformed policemen searching around in my garden
for a murder weapon! What on earth would the neighbours be thinking?
Barbara went to Mum's room and was just about to exit the door - with Mum slung over her
shoulder in a sheet like a bundle of laundry - when a cop had a go at her and told her she wasn't allowed to
remove the body from the scene of the crime.
Barbara yelled: “You fuck off! I'll do my job … you do yours. This is my job I'm taking her away
from here!”
And that was the most undignified exit any mother could ever have had! The way she was being
carried made her look like an overly-full sack of dirty laundry. Lynly knocked the top off another beer.
On April 2, 1974 - seventeen days before her 70th birthday - Mum was laid to rest in the 9-Mile
cemetery outside Port Moresby, very near the Bomana War Cemetery that contains the graves of 3,819
Commonwealth burials of the Second World War, 702 of them unidentified.

Three days later I flew to the Gold Coast for the wedding of my eldest nephew, Craig. All the immediate
family were there. My brother John and his ex-wife Beve and their two other children, Yolande and Roger.
Two of Mum's sisters from Melbourne - Alice and Ivy, and Ivy’s husband Bob had driven up from
Melbourne. In my earliest memories of this couple I had called them Mummy Ivy and Daddy Bob: I grew
up to believe that they were my parents. Because of all the trauma I had experienced during the week there
was much to talk about. Between the eight of us we had lost a mother, a mother-in-law, a grandmother, a
sister and a sister-in-law. We each felt our own degree of grief.
In our conversation after the wedding Ivy and Bob assured me that they were not my parents. All
my life I kind of thought they might have been, and I kind of wished they had been, as I loved them dearly
and, of course, I had loved my biological mother equally.
I had been estranged from my brother for a number of years - to such an extent that I joked that if
we were a married couple, we would have been divorced. Despite our differences I told John that if he
wished, I would pay his return airfare to see where Mum had spent the final years of her life. In those pre-
Independence days visas or passports were not required for travel between Australia and Papua New
Guinea.
After two nights at the Kirra Beach Hotel on the Gold Coast John and I flew to Port Moresby.

John had a nasty grudge against humanity in general. He felt that the world owed him a living … everyone
was trying to put him down. He considered himself above any written law of the country. And on top of
all that, he was just plain obnoxious. This trait of disrespect for any law passed on to his daughter, my
niece, who feels that there is no law in Australia that applies to her either. Everyone is trying to ‘rip her
off’, and no one has ever worked harder than she. I feel sorry for her as she must have such a sad, sad
miserable life, waiting for the good times to come.
To sum up his few days with me … I took John to visit Mum's grave and the Kokoda Trail
monument. He sold my most-prized possession - an ancestral clock that had been in the family since 1862 -
to a fellow drinker he met at the bar of the Gateway Hotel. I was able to trace the buyer and, after much
hassling, I was able to retrieve it He followed that up by popping the hard word on the wife of one of my
friends, and topped it off by vomiting in my car after drinking too much. And, although he arrived in PNG
with only the clothes he stood in, he returned to Australia with a large suitcase of Mum's clothes and
jewellery to give to his second wife.
I have so often had a chuckle at what the Customs Officers at Brisbane Airport would have
thought when they opened his case and saw the contents. Honestly, although he was reasonably good
 45

looking, he would have made an extremely ugly drag queen. I saw

him only once after that episode, but neglected to ask what had
happened on his arrival at the Brisbane airport.

Continuing our lives together, Robert and I created a masterpiece of

signage in very stylish 9”-high lettering, cut from 5-ply plywood,
sanded and painted with black enamel, then mounted - raised out a
little from the brickwork - along the side wall facing the street that
read in big, bold black letters: ROSS–BIAE. We wanted it known that
we were a serious couple.

One week later I began work as Public Relations Officer with the
Papua New Guinea Electricity Commission. I had been due to
commence earlier but had asked for extra time off until after I had re-
arranged my life after Mum’s death.
During my first week in the job Max Dryer, my boss, came
rushing into my office and said, “Pack a bag … we're heading off
tomorrow. Take all the camera equipment … you're making a film on
the Wabo Dam site!”
Now I ask you … I knew how to operate a box Brownie and I
Robert and me on our front patio shortly after
had occasionally used an 8mm-movie camera but that was the limit of Mum died.
my cinematic experience. Bluff was called for … and it worked!
During the next twelve years I produced, directed, scripted and did the voice-overs of three films on various
hydroelectric projects. Many exciting helicopter flights were necessary - often I was called upon to shoot
still photographs while hanging out the door-less opening of a chopper. They were exciting, interesting days.

During our first Wabo trip we took a helicopter from Jackson's Airport in Port Moresby, to a landing place at
Baimuru in the Papuan Gulf. From there we travelled by a boat of the ‘African Queen’ species. Up the
Purari River we went through country such as I had never before seen. In the early stages we passed though
lowlands where the jungle overhung the banks. Occasionally there would be a cluster of small thatch-roofed
houses; often we passed a solitary fisherman in his single-hulled canoe. Kingfishers sat in the overhanging
branches and flitted away through the foliage.
Inland to the north, storm clouds were brewing. Darkness was about to fall, still we were nowhere
near our destination. The darkness fell like a huge, black leaden blanket that had suddenly dropped from the
sky into the dense jungle. The level of the river began to rise with the torrent that we knew must reach us
soon. In pitch-blackness we hit something - there was a loud bang - we came to an abrupt halt. The Captain
of the vessel yelled: “All overboard!” In the confusion that ensued he said that the engine had blown up on
impact with whatever it was that we had struck. In the black of night the five of us struggled to control the
boat as best we could in the raging river, but we had no idea which way to go for the nearest riverbank. We
were afraid the boat would be washed away in the torrent as we all tried to work together as a team, trying to
beach the craft as best we could. We struggled in that roaring torrent of cold water with no idea of our
surroundings. The night was inky-black due to the massed clouds that hid even the stars from view.
Someone touched bottom … we all worked as one to push the boat up onto the shore.
Huddled in the hull in absolute darkness we tried to sleep. Thump! The tide had receded and the
boat toppled over onto its side. Sleep was impossible in those conditions. Just pre-dawn we realised the full
extent of our problem. In the darkness we had pushed the craft onto a sand bar in the middle of river… we
had thought we were on dry land. Somehow we all manhandled the boat to the riverbank again but there was
nothing anyone could do. The engine was stuffed!
It was learned later that we had reached a point less that one kilometre from the proposed dam site.
The denseness of the jungle was such that it prevented going any further on land than absolutely necessary
… even to answer the call of nature.
A new day had dawned and we all realised that there were people out there someplace who would be
wondering what had happened to us. Our only solution was to push the craft back into the water and drift
with the flow. Honestly, this part was better than the River Caves of Luna Park had ever been, but we were
all aware that on shore, all sorts of nasties prevailed and there were crocodiles in the river as well. We
 46

drifted leisurely downstream all day. Late afternoon we came upon a clearing where we found shelter …
the framework of a native house stood on tall poles high above the riverbank. The vessel was steered
ashore and was secured safely for the night.
We climbed up onto the rustic platform that was the floor of the shelter - there were no walls
whatsoever - but we did at least have cover as there was a thatched roof. Down below, wild pigs and the
occasional cassowary wandered about. I'm not sure about the others but I slept reasonably well. Next
morning we made a breakfast of the few items left over from our supplies that had been catered for one
day only. Then, fortunately, a chap arrived in another boat from the same company as the one from which
our vessel had been chartered. He felt that something had gone astray but knew he could do nothing until
daylight.
He took us back to Baimuru from where contact could be made with Headquarters. The trip was
written about in greater detail for the staff magazine under the title of “Up the Purari”. Because of the
detailed newsletter I had written, shortly after this episode - with no qualifications - I had to join the
Journalists’ Association.

April 29, 1975

It is ridiculous at my age to be so excited about a holiday. Robert and I will be flying to Sydney in
a couple of weeks for a quick visit to Ballarat. We have to be back in Sydney to catch the
‘Cathay’ on May 29 bound for Port Moresby. There will be so many interesting things to show
Robert as he has never been in a 'plane - never seen a train - never seen TV - never walked a
crowded street … it will all be so amazingly different … and so terribly cold.
Time has escaped me... Sydney was hectic ... I had booked an apartment on Macleay
Street at the Cross and we were in the heart of it all. Spent one hilarious evening at 'Les Girls' –
a show I had wanted to see for years but had always been too embarrassed to go to. It was a riot!
We were taken to Long Bay gaol to visit an artist friend of a friend who was doing life for
the murder of his wife. I was amazed at the high style of living conditions some prisoners had in
calaboose.
The trip home on the ‘Cathay’ was wonderful but we were only too pleased to get home
and relax. We seemed to be on the go from 6 a.m. to 11 p.m. nightly. We left home with three
pieces of luggage and arrived home with sixteen … most of which was lovely hand-made Italian
tiles I bought for the house. We arrived home with a combined sum of $10.52 and $400.00
overdrawn at the bank. This means we are on strict rations until payday next week.
Despite it all, we are going out tomorrow morning to buy a new car, as in my logic it is
cheaper to buy a new one when broke than have to pay the registration on the old one next
month … the new one will be registered for twelve months and have a full tank of petrol.
One of my 18-year-old workmates had been stabbed to death in our absence.

Near the beginning of that letter I mentioned that Robert and I had made a quick visit to Ballarat. We
stayed at the Mid City Motel right in the heart of town and I invited old friends, Bob and Ada to dinner.
Bob and I had spent two years together in primary school. I first met Ada at a Saturday night dance and to
this day I can recall her very first words when I asked her to dance and when I asked her name, she
replied: “You can call me Ada Austin ... International Correspondent!” Of course, due to marriage and
children, she was never able to fulfil that dream. After attending their wedding I joined them in Sydney
on their honeymoon. The three of us remained firm friends from that period right up until this visit.
The evening began very pleasantly with the four of us sitting around the table at dinner,
reminiscing over old times, until Ada asked Robert why we lived together. He replied, quite matter-of-
factly: “Because we love each other!” That was the end of dinner, and the devastating end of a beautiful
friendship that had lasted for almost fifty years. Ada became almost hysterical, she shouted and screamed
that she never wanted to see or hear from me again … the two of them stormed out of the restaurant …
limited in their outlook by their ignorance. On returning home I wrote to express my disappointment at
her small town mentality and homophobic attitude but the letter remains unanswered. Her reaction, after
so many years of friendship, shattered me. We had been such very close friends and had corresponded on
a regular basis since the day I left Ballarat - sharing our thoughts and dreams - and that incident shocked
me to the core. Although I phoned on subsequent visits to Ballarat, I have never seen either of them since,
 47

and never has there been any suggestion of a reconciliation.

We were nearing the biggest event in the history of Papua New Guinea … Independence was approaching!
Rumours abounded - most of which were completely unfounded. Most prominent among the rumours was
‘The Night of the Long Knives’ that would come with independence: many thought there would be a
massacre of the white population, others thought it would be only the Chinese and Asian merchants who
had, in many instances, treated the natives horribly and robbed them blind. As September 16, 1975
approached there was a mass exodus of Chinese traders, many of whom fled to Australia.
Although the occasion passed without incident, it was a very emotional experience, seeing the
Australian flag lowered for the last time. I had nowhere to run and no intentions of doing so even if I had
anywhere to go … my life was with Robert and he couldn’t leave the country.
 48

A pen and ink portrait I did of Nancy Parascos, Secretary

to the Commissioner of Elcom.
 49

TALES OF THE SOUTH PACIFIC 1976

Honiara
In March of 1976 I flew from Port Moresby to Kieta - the main centre of the island of Bougainville - and on
to Honiara, the main township on the island of Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands. I had a room in a
pleasant enough little ramshackle beachside hotel, where a sign on the beach outside stated that swimming
was banned due to the prevalence of sharks in those waters. So much for the magnificent blue Pacific and a
tropical paradise!
I walked to the nearby township of Honiara and visited friends, ex-Port Moresby. If you think I am
going to recommend the Solomon Islands as a holiday destination … forget it. I’m not! The most exciting
thing I did for the entire week was laze about the hotel and read.

FIJI - Nadi
I had always wanted to visit Fiji since my Aunty Irene - Mum’s eldest sister - spent her holidays there when
I was a small child. At that stage I thought Fiji was somewhere up near Sydney. Amongst the souvenirs
she had brought back were two toy outrigger canoes, a large one for my brother John, a smaller one for me.
Mine always hung on a hook in the billiards room in the family home at Miners Rest. It was considered too
good for me to play with, and I was forbidden to ever take it down from its hook … a case of ‘you can look,
but don’t touch!’. It was still hanging there when I finally left home in my teenage years. It was that canoe
- and the bamboo growing in Aunt’s garden - that had inspired me to travel in the South Pacific and visit
Fiji.
My flight landed at Nadi (pronounced Nandi) Airport around 2 a.m. and I went to my pre-booked
hotel - the Tanoa Beach Resort Hotel that had been recommended by John Iredale, a Port Moresby
workmate. Even at that hour the place was fair swingin' … it was packed with holidaymakers. The band
was fabulous, the music great. I immediately changed gear to reckless holiday mode.
After checking in I hurried to deposit the luggage in my room and returned to the bar where, after
ordering a long cold beer, I leaned with my back against the bar to check the talent out. I was rarin' to go
and the local talent was brilliant. During the first break for the musicians the band’s vocalist approached
me. A person with looks such as his does not go unnoticed. He invited me to join him at the table reserved
for the band. Remember that this was 1976 - I was forty-three - and I was hot to trot. Conversation was
virtually impossible due to the noise of the revellers. The band started up again leaving me sitting all alone
and standing out like the proverbial dogs' balls in the desert. After the vocalist returned to the stage he
announced that he was dedicating the next number to a friend who had just arrived from Papua New
Guinea. His chosen song, oddly enough, was one of my all-time favourites. I have never been sure of the
exact words but it went something along the line of: “There's a ship that lies at anchor in the Harbour ...”
Imagine my embarrassment when, with no encouragement from me, he reached the part: “And I love you
dearly, more dearly than the spoken word can tell...” and, whilst still singing, strode to the table, took me
by the hand, led me on stage, hugged me closely to him and kissed me right on the mouth. I went weak in
the knees, but otherwise I felt I held my composure quite well under the circumstances and tried to give the
impression that it was all part of the act. I told him so, just before dawn.
During my very brief stay in Nadi I seemed to get along famously with musicians … even the band
members of the nearby Travelodge joined in when we gathered late in the night under a spreading tree in a
small park between the Travelodge and the Tanoa to drink beer from a carton. Those musicians were also
lots of fun and I was on holidays. I love musicians, I love artists, and I love all interesting people.
One day I got into conversation with two of the hotel guests - a father and son combination. The
son - a blind pianist - had won a holiday for two in a competition. It was obvious that the father was
extremely tired in his role of full-time carer and could do with a break. I learned that the son would like to
‘see’ the recently opened Regent of Fiji hotel. I suggested to the father that, to give him a break, I would
 50

take of his son for the day and show him the Regent. This was a very heart-warming experience for me as I
had never previously associated with a blind person. I gained tremendous satisfaction in helping him ‘see’
the hotel through my eyes and voice.
He would ask the colour of the walls, nodding knowingly when I told him. I learned that as a boy
he had been sighted and still had considerable memory of aspects of his childhood. He wanted to feel the
texture of the soft furnishings by running his hands over the fabric, asking the colour. His face would light
up with pleasure every time I explained a detail. Through me he ‘saw’ the foyer and he ‘saw’ the pool; he
asked me to describe everything he could think of in his immediate surroundings. I will cherish the
memory of that day forever.

Yanuca Island
Next stop was the Yanuca Island Resort … in Fijian it is pronounced Yanutha. I took a bus down along the
South coast to catch up with the brother of a Fijian lady who I knew in Port Moresby. He was the hotel's
hairdresser and had suggested to his sister, Akanesi, that I visit him. I was welcome to stay in his house
free of charge for as long as I wished. Now that's an offer that doesn't come along every day.
The tiny resort island is connected to mainland Fiji by a very short causeway. As I did not want to
be seen arriving in a tatty old bus, I asked to be dropped off on the main road then walked across the
causeway with bags in hand. The resort was magnificent … it occupied the entire island. This was a hotel
as I imagined they should be in South Pacific … beach, pool, tennis court and various water activities such
as sailing … everything the heart could desire.
I found Akanesi's brother, my host to be, on the tennis court. He had been expecting me, but did
not know when I would be arriving. Neither did I for that matter. He apologised for having all his clothes
and possessions still in the house and offered to remove everything. Although I wished he would, I
suggested he leave everything on. I even told him that I had no intention of kicking him out of his own
home and that I wished he would stay. It was the most wonderful bure-style house … all thatch and raw,
natural timber. The only time he returned was to get a change of clothes.
At dinner that evening in the luxurious dining room, I dined with a lovely German woman named
Christina; she shouted me a drink … I bought her a drink … she bought me a drink … and so on until I felt
so good that I shouted drinks for the whole band. I walked her back to her room that night, trying to prove
to myself that there was nothing seriously sexually wrong with me but it was obvious there was. At her
door I gave her a peck on the cheek and returned to the dining room singing to myself the words that Frank
Sinatra once sang: “Each time I think of you I’m as limp as a glove ...” which seemed appropriate at the
time. One of the band members suggested that if I bought a carton of beer he would carry it, and we could
go to his village on the other side of the causeway for a drink. This was all so very Papua New Guinea-like.
It was an inky black, moonless night, and I never did see the face of any of my drinking companions … just
the glow of their cigarettes in the darkness.
On the second evening Christina and I dined together again. I don't know what came over me -
apart from the fact that she was so extremely beautiful and spoke with such a gorgeous accent - but I
actually asked her to marry me. I was quite obviously under the influence of her, the alcohol, the night and
the music. We talked well into the night, discussing all the pros and cons of marriage between two people
from such vastly different environments. Eventually as we sobered, we decided that it really was not
feasible. For a start off, Christina lived behind the Iron Curtain in East Berlin, while I lived in the freedom
of Papua New Guinea. Christina could not tolerate the heat . The heat was why I lived in the tropics - and I
loved it. I explained that the one thing in the world that I most detested was the cold. She then told me
that she intended leaving to return to Germany the following day. We were obviously doomed to failure
but it had been very pleasant little experimental interlude. In the course of our conversation I mentioned
that one of my favourite German songs was called: “Ich hab noch einen koffer in Berlin,” from the film ‘I
Am A Camera.’ Not too long after I arrived home I received a record that she had bought for me in
Germany that included the song.

Whilst living in my free accommodation at the Yanuca Island Resort my host asked if I would join him in a
game of tennis. I had not played since I was a teenager and had never been any good at it. I told him that I
had no hope whatsoever of hitting the ball. Undaunted, he said all he really wanted was for me to do was
try to return the balls to him over the net. I tried, I really did try, but I never managed to hit even one ball.
 51

He threw his racquet on the ground and said; “No-one can possibly be that bad!”
I had the feeling he was tiring of me living in his house … but I was apparently wrong. He said he
had given me freedom of the place so that I could entertain whom and whenever I wished and had
apparently not taken up his offer. I thanked him for the hospitality and suggested I would like to leave the
following day and have a look at Suva. He was such a gentleman - and such a perfect host - that he actually
accompanied me on the long bus trip.

Suva
Wandering around the streets of Suva with bag in hand, looking for somewhere decent to stay, I came
across the sprawling, white, Grand Pacific Hotel on Victoria Parade - directly across the street from Prince
Albert Park. It had certainly seen grander days but it was still a most attractive place - one of those hotels
where you could imagine all the glitz of the 20's - big bands and long flowing ball-gowns - with men in
black and white formal attire. But this was the year 1976 and times had changed; T-shirts, shorts and
plastic thongs (flip-flops) were more the rage.
Introducing myself at reception as being from Papua New Guinea was a big mistake. I was told in
no uncertain terms that Papua New Guineans had been barred from the hotel. They had experiences in the
past where previous guests from that country had put the toilet lid down before defecating, doing the job on
the lid, not in the bowl. I assured the clerk that I had been fully toilet-trained, and if I happened to foul the
floor, or any other part of the room, he had permission to rub my nose in it. It worked … I was given a
lovely room.
Had I not travelled so extensively in Asia, or lived so long in Papua New Guinea, I guess I would
have found Suva to be the tropical paradise I had envisaged. It was so like Port Moresby however ... just
another rather untidy, decrepit, dirty little South Pacific city. I was amazed at the hordes of Indian residents
and merchants.
At this stage I would like to share a few snippets of information I gleaned about the country. Fiji
consists of over 800 islands, the largest being Viti Levu. Nadi, where this tale began, is on the Western side
while Suva is down at the southeastern end. Much of the population is comprised of Indians and Fijians,
the balance being Europeans, Chinese and Pacific Islanders. It appeared to me that the Indians had taken
control of most of the commercial operations of the country, as the Chinese had done right throughout all
Asia and the Pacific areas where they had a monopoly on small trade stores or convenience stores. The
Europeans seem to live just to enjoy themselves. The original Fijians had been delegated to the more
subservient roles. That was Fiji, as I perceived it to be in 1976. And by the way, for the Historians
amongst you - Captain James Cook first discovered the Fijian Islands in 1774 … two hundred and two
years earlier than I. No doubt it was cleaner then
Strange happenings and coincidences seem to have cropped up so often in my life. There was one
evening in Suva that I was invited out to dinner and taken to a restaurant high on a hillside. The tables
along one wall were semicircular banquettes…very inconvenient if you are seated in the middle, as I was,
and had need to visit the little boys’ room in a hurry. It just so happened that I was right in the middle.
Seated immediately to my left was a young Fijian lad - when I say young, I mean late teens - early 20s.
Every time I was able to catch his profile I was thinking…I know that face! After some time I just had to
ask whether he had ever met anyone from Papua New Guinea before. He answered “Yes, I had a friend
from there recently … he was a teacher”. “Had his friend ever taken a photo of him?” “Yes, he had!”

A year or so prior to this trip I had met a friend of a friend who was showing photographs of his recent
holidays in Fiji. I had been particularly impressed by a profile shot of a strikingly handsome young man
and had been lucky enough to be given a print of it, from which I had done a large pen-and-ink portrait. It
was one of a collection of six that I did, including the portrait of Nancy Parascos on page 48. Here was
the model, in person, sitting right beside me! I would have liked to send him the original but unfortunately
for him and fortunately for me, I had sold it during an exhibition in Port Moresby.
I really didn't like Suva very much so there was only one solution … get moving again. I chose to
go by local bus around the north coast. This was a big mistake on my part as the bus was slow - very slow -
and the north coast route is the long way ‘round. The road was unsealed, dusty, hilly and winding. The bus
had no windows…completely open-sided, that allowed all the choking red dust in. I have since learned to
study a map before heading off into the unknown. The first of many things to interest me was that all the
 52

tiny off-road hamlets appeared to house the original Fijians, who seemed to eke out a subsistence living
from the land.
However, it turned out not to have been a mistake travelling that way as I saw aspects of Fiji that
few travellers would. At one stage we stopped at a railway crossing for a cane-train to pass - sugar cane -
and it must have been close to a mile long. That, at the time, was a novelty I had never seen before. I had
no idea that my senior years would be spent in the tropical north of Australia where cane trains are a dime a
dozen. (The cane-farmers actually do pay more for them, much more!)
The day was long, hot, uncomfortable and, oddly enough, well worth the experience. I was very
weary when we came to halt at a small village just short of Lautoka on the north coast. Being far too tired
to travel further and knowing I had until the following afternoon to fly out from Nadi, I sought advice from
the driver. He advised me to stay the night where we were as there was a bus the next morning to Lautoka,
with a change for Nadi. That was when I learned that a smooth, sealed road was only a few miles away and
Nadi only a little over an hour further.

A pleasant little hotel/motel was situated more-or-less right across the road from where I had been dropped
off. Accommodation taken care of, I showered and headed for the bar to wash the dust from my throat and
quench a shocking thirst. It was so bad, in fact, that it took a long, long time to quench - during which time
I also cured a rumbling stomach by having a sturdy, basic meal.
After dinner, my thirst still not quite quenched, I realised I wasn't quite as tired as I thought. No
good going to bed too early and awakening at midnight. I enjoyed this tiny rural hotel that was so much
like a civilised Papua New Guinea bar. There really weren't many civilised bars in PNG, and here there
was a pool table with a group of locals playing. One of the men, who seemed to be a tribal leader, asked if
I would like to join in a game of pool and attend a kava ceremony afterwards. You know me by now … in
like Flynn!
The ceremony was a most unsophisticated affair, consisting entirely of males, seated in a circle on
the wooden floor. I was positioned to the left of the head shebang and had no idea of what lay ahead.
Fortunately, at the time, I was unaware that kava is a concoction - as I was later told - of pre-masticated
betelnut, chewed by a woman, who spat it into a bowl where other ingredients were added. Now that I am
aware of the fact … how damned unhealthy can you get? Luckily AIDS was unheard of at the time!
Okay … so I didn't know that then. The head shebang held the bowl in both hands and offered it to
me. Something deep down inside told me that out of courtesy I should accept and sample the contents.
Thank God I'd just about had my fill of beer or I might have swigged the whole lot down without realizing
… as it was, I took one small, tentative sip ... that was ample! It tasted so much like pine needles …
imparting a mild numbing sensation to the mouth. The closest I had ever come to it previously was when I
had chewed betelnut mixed with daka (wild green pepper) and lime (burned and crushed coral) on M’Bunai
Island in 1961. That concoction is a mild narcotic that numbs the mouth, blackens the teeth, turns saliva
bright red, causes prolific salivation and, I can assure you, it knocks your pants off. There should be more
of it!

Tahiti
Between Fiji and Tahiti we crossed the International dateline and flew into yesterday. Tahiti, the largest of
the Society Islands in the South Pacific is in French Polynesia or Polynesie Francaise as the French say.
On this beautiful, mountainous island, Gauguin lived for two years and created several of his masterpieces.
The hotel I was taken to was really lovely…a great rambling modern place not far outside of town,
to where I later walked. I chose to travel by some sort of open-backed mini-bus for the uphill return
journey.
The front desk staff of the hotel was mainly from the Cook Islands … a lovely, friendly lot of
young ladies. On one occasion someone white of the Management department appeared and seemed to
disappear again when she recognised my accent. I do not have an inferiority complex but would surely
have developed one had I stayed longer than three nights amongst those Colonial French.
That one night was most memorable, inasmuch as I was befriended by yet another female
American tourist who invited me to dine with her at her hotel - a magnificent, obviously 5-star job - a little
further around the coast from mine. Why is it that I always seem to attract female tourists? Damn it all! I
dressed in an outfit I had not worn on this trip so far, consisting of bright red ‘Fletcher Jones’ trousers, a
white shirt and bright red shoes. Nothing flamboyant about that! This just felt just like the place to let
 53

myself go tropical, and I had never even heard of Peter Allen.

My hostess was great company … a delightful lady! The meal was excellent with superb food
and service… then the entertainment arrived. It was one of those many occasions when I could have
turned turtle and disappeared. The entire ensemble of performers wore bright red skirts or trousers, with
white blouses or shirts, and here was me with bright red trousers and white shirt. I don’t recall much after
that as one of the floorshow girls came to our table - dragged me onto the dance-floor - and most
unceremoniously deposited me among the chorus line. Jerry Lewis could not possibly have done a better
job of acting like the perfect idiot. Following an impromptu dance routine is something I cannot do - I
can't even do the tango! With a good choreographer and rehearsals I’m okay. It was not long after that
that I thanked my hostess for the lovely dinner and evening and made my way ‘home’. That the best way
I could think of to get out of what could possibly have been another awkward situation.

The port of Papeete and the main street are almost one and the same. Ships berth right alongside in the
heart of town. I had to pass on regards from an acquaintance, Betty, the de facto of my ex-boss Ray, in
Papua New Guinea, to someone who worked at the local radio station. I made enquiries from either a
traffic policeman - or maybe a gendarme - I know not which, as to where the station was. He indicated a
street running away to my left and said, “Bleu, blanc, rouge!” That wasn't too difficult to interpret.
Regards were passed on and, after a quick disinterested inspection tour of the establishment, off I went to
meet my next obligation.
Betty had asked me to buy a length of fabric for her when, and if, I ever reached Tahiti. I was
about to discover something that I am sure will surprise few - the French in France are one thing, I have
nothing against them, and have indeed met some lovely people in Paris - but the Colonial French of Tahiti
are another species altogether. The few I came in contact with were extremely rude, arrogant, downright
unpleasant and only slightly removed from the Neanderthal.
I had taken the precaution of buying and studying a French phrase book. I had even spent
considerable time with a set of recorded French lessons in readiness for this very occasion. I was
reasonably fluent with all the numbers from one to ten and with this newly acquired knowledge set out
into the streets of Papeete (pronounced Pa-pee-et-eh) to do a little shopping. Papeete is by no means a
large town - the shopping centre can be covered on foot in a matter of minutes. I entered the only store I
could find where dress fabrics were sold by the metre … and there was a really glorious range of beautiful,
bright florals of the tropical style Betty liked. I selected a roll of fabric and approached a woman - the sole
assistant in the shop at the time - who was doing a little dusting. I asked something like “Est-ce que
Madame, vous m'excusement peuvent me dire le prix?” Which I think was something like: Excuse me,
Madam, can you tell me the price? I was expecting the reply to be in some numeral I could understand -
like in the one-to-ten range - but she waffled on and on in a language completely foreign to me. ‘I tried
hand signs; I produced pen and paper but nothing of this line brought any results. I thought it would have
been a rather simple matter to write the price down and let me savvy it from there. She threw both arms in
the air, let out an expulsion of air that was obviously intended to indicate disgust, turned her back on me
that was that. She continued with her dusting. I left without being able to purchase anything.
I was so disgusted with the situation I did not even get to see where Paul Gauguin had lived. I
believe there was a lovely gallery on the other side of the island where many of his works were displayed,
however despite my interest in art, I was not prepared to be insulted again. I took a cruise to the island of
Moorea where I had a very pleasant day. This was the island of ‘Bali Hai’ fame, and also the hideaway of
the late Marlon Brando.
That night I entertained some of the staff of my hotel, in my own room, in my own style. No
fancy outfit needed.
While checking out of the hotel next morning one of the Cook Islands lasses enquired as to where
I was flying. When I mentioned Rarotonga there was great excitement. Most of the staff was from
Rarotonga. I was given a card with the name and address of a woman who would see to my
accommodation and well-being. I was assured she would be at the airport to greet me.
I flew out of Papeete - dressed entirely in white and doing my very best impersonation of a virgin.
White is not exactly the correct colour to be wearing after ordering a Bloody Mary on a turbulent flight.
The hostess - as they were called before all this politically correct nonsense was introduced - was about to
deposit the glass on my tray when turbulence hit. Honest-to-God, I think we dropped about three and a
half miles. One whole glass of tomato juice and vodka on an all-white outfit is not a pretty sight … the
 54

most upleasant, I would imagine, since the crucifixion!

The Cook Islands

Imagine my embarrassment on disembarking at Rarotonga … literally dripping with tomato juice and
vodka, to be met by two rows of Cook Island ladies, each draping a lei of frangipani and jasmine around my
neck as I walked the gauntlet. I may not have looked devastatingly attractive, but I sure smelled pretty. I
had to wait at the tiny terminal for luggage to be unloaded, and there and then I changed into something less
colourful. One of the afore-mentioned ladies took my soiled clothes and laundered them for me overnight.
They were, after all, only soiled with tomato juice … I think that was all. I didn't get a chance to check, and
it had been a nasty drop.
I was reminded of this incident some years later when a joke circulated on the Internet about the
flight attendant who was racing towards the cockpit carrying hot coffee for the pilot and co-pilot. As she
opened the door the pilot was in the midst of making an announcement to the passengers … the attendant
tripped and the pilot yelled: “Oh my God!” The passengers were terrified as the plane lurched and lost
height, but soon he was on air again and explained what had happened. He said, “You should see the front
of my trousers.” To which a comedian towards the rear of the cabin retorted: “And you should see the back
of mine!”
One of the welcoming committee was the aunt of the receptionist who had given me the card at the
hotel in Tahiti. She owned and operated a small besser-brick block of rooms with tiled floor, a bed, a chair
and a reading light just east of Avarua, the chief centre on the north coast. Very basic but plenty good
enough for a few nights rest. There was a small tavern across the road, beachside. It was there that the
locals gathered of an evening for a quiet drink, a nice meal, and some good music. It was there also that I
spent most of my evenings.

I was absolutely amazed at the patrons of that tavern - so completely different to the bars I was accustomed
to in Port Moresby that were entirely male dominated. Most furniture had to be concreted to the floor in
PNG bars so that it couldn't be used as a weapon in the regular brawls. Bare concrete floors were the norm
for ease of washing away the usual blood and vomit. I won't go into detail about the clientele in PNG as I
may have need to go back there some time. Life is cheap in Port Moresby but I must admit that despite it
all, we had some wonderful times.
On Rarotonga the contrast was extreme. Wives accompanied their husbands while children played
nearby. Everyone dressed neatly and all were as well behaved as in any Western society, even better than
most.
My ‘landlady’ was an entrepreneur of sorts. She owned the rooms in which I was staying, a small
restaurant in ‘town’ and a vehicle hire business. Rarotonga is not a large island, and the centre has
towering mountains. I could easily circumnavigate the entire place in less than thirty minutes on a little
motor scooter that I hired from my landlady cum hostess. It seemed that she owned and operated almost
everything in town. Each evening I took a ride right around the island, usually clockwise, but for variety,
occasionally anti-clockwise. Near the eastern end of the island was a fascinating and very old stone church
with graveyard. I spent considerable time there of an evening, sitting on a gravestone, lost in my thoughts
and letting imagination take me back to what life might have been like in those dim, dark days of the past,
imagining times of “shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings”, with imaginary glimpses of
pirates on the high seas - while trying to work out a novel I would have liked to write but, as with so many
things, I lost the plot.
In contrast, not far from the airport - more or less on the southwest corner of the island - work was
in progress on the building of a large tourist resort. I have often wondered what effect a large complex such
as that would have on such an unspoiled piece of paradise. I have never been back to check as I feel it
would have destroyed the isolation I so enjoyed.
 55

TRAVELS WITH EILEEN 1977

I had been thinking for some time of how I would like to visit Greece. One evening in Port Moresby I
happened to be talking with a very close friend and workmate, Eileen, and told her of my dreams. Right
out of the blue she asked: “Can I come too?” I thought how nice it would be to have a travelling
companion for a change as I had usually travelled alone. Travelling alone is great - there's no arguing at the
crossroads, but, on the other hand, there’s nobody to discuss the day's activities with of an evening. “Sure,
Eileen, there's no-one I'd rather travel with”.

February 26, 1977

A lot of the kick is being taken out of preparations for the holiday with Eileen due to being so
damned busy at work. I had two trips away just before Christmas and I'm just about worn out. I
am President of the Social Club, and run all the Commission’s functions without assistance. At the
same time I am trying to complete four children's books that I am illustrating (and writing one).
I'm only two weeks home from a fortnight away on business in the North Solomons and Rabaul,
which was pleasant but very tiring. Before I go on the big trip with Eileen I have to do two more
short trips to the Highlands and also two weeks in Sydney, editing and narrating the dialogue on a
film I am producing and directing for the Commission.

Manila
We flew out of Jackson's Airport, Port Moresby, on April 22, 1977 on our first flight together,
bound for Manila. During the flight Eileen told me that friends of hers had advised her to be very careful
when eating in the Philippines as the Filipinos had a custom of eating dogs. I didn't consider that to be
anything particularly out of the ordinary as dogs were a delicacy in Papua New Guinea … it was not
unusual to find a smoked dog hanging in the local market, together with flying-fox, cuscus, tree kangaroos
and such like. There had been a time in the 1960s when no boat came with supplies for the boarding school
where I was Headmaster - the students were hungry - I was hungry, and so was my dog. A group of
students came to my house one evening complaining of their hunger and asked if they could eat the dog. I
reasoned that it would be sufficient for them to have a meal and I knew there was nothing I could do to feed
the dog so, reluctantly, I agreed. I asked them not to tell me when the deed had been done … they
respected my feelings and did not tell me that day, but they did come back the following evening to thank
me because it had been very sweet, and they had saved the head to make soup for the next meal.
On our first evening in Manila we found a quiet little off-street, strictly local type of café, where the
menu read quite well and the prices were definitely in the budget range. We were deeply engrossed in the
menu when Eileen drew my attention to a whimpering sound from a box in the corner. I walked over and
checked … it was a box of small puppies. When I told Eileen, she dropped her cutlery and headed for the
door, clutching a hand over her mouth, trying ever so hard not to lose everything. We didn't go back there
again. This was Eileen's first overseas trip and I expected it to be her last after that. Fortunately matters
improved.
Our Jumbo flight to Athens had stops in Bangkok, New Delhi and Dubai - the holiday was really
about to begin in Greece ...

Athens
We found Athens to be a city of contrasts; it is a city with wide, open, modern streets lined with spacious
shops, crowded markets and bazaars. It is a city of lovely parks and gardens, of squares where one can sit
and enjoy a drink or a meal whilst watching the milling throng. It is a city of crowded tavernas and
restaurants that are alive with music and Greek dancing. But most of all, it is a city that is dominated by the
 56

Parthenon … a massive ruin built upon the rock of the Acropolis, which rises more than 150 fifty metres
above sea level. It is a city I dearly love!
On our first evening we discovered the wonderful Plaka region where the air was filled with music
and the aroma of delicious cooking. Overhead, the buildings on either side of the street were linked with a
canopy of grapevines. I fell in love with Greece, Greek music, Greek food and Greeks, all on my first night
there ... I'm sure we both did.
The Parthenon was commenced in the year 447 BC and was built to house the great statue of the
virgin Goddess Athene Parthenos. The building remained practically undamaged 'til the fatal year of 1687,
when the Venetians were besieging the Turks in the Acropolis, and a shell landed on the Turkish powder
magazine placed in the Parthenon and blew out the middle of the building. It is still the greatest attraction
in all of Athens ... the building, not the hole.
We walked over the top of the Acropolis and down the other side, then down past the ancient
Theatro Dionysou where Nana Mouskari would later perform, around the corner to Amalias and back to the
Square.
A little bit of trivia: I lost my good silver pen on the descent from the Parthenon and returned to
find it the next day. Who was more honest, the tourists or the Greeks, I wondered?
We had booked into a cosy little pension very near Syntagma Square. This is where the Greeks and
most tourists come to sit, sip wine, drink coffee and pass the time. There’s little that I like better than
observing humanity…fortunately I also quite enjoy waiting at airports and railway stations … I say
‘fortunately’ because I have certainly clocked up many hours doing so over the years

A most unpleasant incident happened one day when Eileen went shopping by herself, leaving me to do my
own thing. I was genuinely thirsty - too thirsty for beer - so, when I spotted a tiny, gloomy little bar, in an
alley just off Mitropol, which was, in turn, just off the square, I went in and sat myself on a high stool at the
bar and ordered lemonade; my mother would have turned in her grave if she knew I was drinking soft drink.
A woman was sitting on the second stool away from mine. It was rather dim in that bar, but light enough
for me to see that she looked as if she had worked her passage from the slums to the Square. She asked if I
would buy her a drink and, being a bloody stupid idiot, I did! As I was about to leave she asked me to buy
her another. I answered: “Sorry but No, I can’t afford to!” That's when the bartender hit me with a bill for
US$300. I did my ‘nana … I really went bonkers! I abused all hell out of the barman and called the whore
at the bar every filthy name I could think of, in English, Italian and Pidgin … I had no knowledge of Greek
at that stage. I was not allowed to leave the bar until I paid the $300. The barman took me outside and
showed me a price list on the wall that, in the very smallest of type, written in Greek, that apparently
indicated that Champagne was $300 a bottle. I argued that he had poured from an already opened bottle
and that I was not prepared to pay for a full one, but I agreed to pay for half. He threatened to call the
police. I certainly didn't want to be picked up for soliciting from a low-life tart and explained that I did not
have $300 on me. After I said I would go to my room and return with a credit card I was allowed to leave.
I had noticed a small police station on the street near our pension and dashed in there, trying to
explain my situation. That is not easy when neither person can understand the other. It all ended up with
the policeman escorting me back to the bar - and me feeling like a common criminal - with everyone
watching. Barman, policeman and I, all trying to out-shout one another. I again said that I would pay $150
and, with the police there, the barman agreed ... betcha it was a set-up job! Ladies ... never ask me to buy
you a drink!
I learned that evening that Eileen had been walking along one side of the street towards our pension
when she saw me - accompanied by a police officer - walking in the opposite direction on the other side.
She wondered what I had been up to and thought I was being taken into custody … she had been worried
sick, but decided I was big enough and old enough to look after myself.

Patras
After a few nights seeing the sights of Athens - Olympia, the Forum and such things - and after we had lit
candles in every darned church we came across, we decided it was time to move on. We left the main bulk
of our luggage in storage at the pension in order to travel light, then took a local bus to Patras (Patrai) … a
major seaport on the northwest coast of the Peloponnese Peninsular. Patras is a 19th century city and most
of the buildings still stand in their original condition. We shared a room … a very plain room with two
 57

single beds, a toilet and bare tiled floor. I remember so well being amused each evening as Eileen would
turn the light off before undressing and going to bed.
There was no toilet paper on a roll anywhere, but there was a basket of scrunched-up paper beside
the bowl. I would take a piece out, use it, and flush it away. Then we learned that paper was not to be
flushed down the toilet but after being used should be placed in the basket beside the bowl. I had been
using secondhand toilet paper! Strange that I did not notice any skid-marks on any I had used, but I felt
awful.
On awakening next morning I found myself alone. The bird had flown! All sorts of horrible things
flashed through my mind and I wondered what I could possibly have done to upset her … had she left and
gone home? In reality, she had awakened to a truly beautiful morning and decided to go for a stroll, which
I repeated later in the morning and, I can assure you, it was a climb, not a stroll. Patras is built on two
levels connected by a very wide, very high and very long stairway. However, it was definitely well worth
the effort, as at the top of all 193 steps there was an outdoor restaurant where I had breakfast that offered a
superb view of the city.

Arta
From Patras to Rion by bus, then a short ferry crossing to Antipatras - so called because it is opposite to
Patras - on the northern side of the Gulf of Corinth in mainland Greece. There we caught another bus
through fields of tobacco, travelling some two hundred kilometres north to Arta, a very small, old village
seldom visited by tourists, where English is seldom heard. It seemed that the entire population had
gathered in the village square that evening where a local band played. This was a prelude to the opening of
the floral festival the following day when everybody, including the animals, were bedecked with flowers.
All vehicles, too, were smothered with blooms of every possible description.
We were having a few drinks at a table in the village square when a youth came by and asked if I
would like to see the full moon from the ruined castle, high on a hill overlooking the village. Off we went -
the youth and I - up to see the moon and the view. That's where the youth and four of his friends - who had
obviously been in the square were - and all had obviously been in on the act from the beginning - jumped
me. I was taken down from the castle, across the main road to a riverbank and pack raped by the five of
them. I was crying. I was scared, screaming and in frightful pain. It was sheer agony. I thought I was
going to die. I was told that if I didn't stop yelling they would kill me. Afterwards, barely able to walk, I
struggled back to the village where I found Eileen and told her of my ordeal. We left the square and
returned to our rooms where we discussed the matter and decided that, as neither of us spoke the language,
and we couldn’t afford any hiccups in our travel plans, it would be wiser not to report the matter to the
police. We were sitting on the grass beside the road before dawn next morning, waiting for the first bus
north.

Crossing the Adriatic

From Arta the road winds northwards through the mountainous countryside and groves of silver-green olive
trees. Everywhere - on every mountain peak - the ruins of ancient castles could be seen. Nearing
Igomenitsa the scenery takes on a different aspect as the road winds downwards towards the coast. We
drove through a region of hairpin bends and around a cliff-face to a township nestled into the mountainside.
Igomenitsa was small but rather impressive in its neatness. After an excellent fish luncheon there was
nothing to do but sit on the promenade and wait until the ferry sailed for Brindisi at 8 p.m. - in brilliant
sunshine. In Greece, in the spring and summer months, it is still daylight until way after 9. The crossing to
Italy takes something like thirteen hours. On this ferry we had our first genuine Italian meal and it came as
quite a surprise to find that the spaghetti served on board had only tomato pulp as a sauce. Meat in the
Mediterranean countries is a rarity and a luxury. My Italiano friends back in Ballarat, in days gone by, had
cooked up what I considered a far more palatable pasta.

Naples (Napoli)
The day dawned in pearly magnificence and soon Bari came into view with the ancient fort guarding the
harbour entrance. We found a local bus that took us through tree-lined streets to the railway station. Here
confusion reigned as we tried to find which train went where and when. We bought two large slabs of pizza
- then it was time to board the train for Naples on the western side of Italy. Aaah … Napoli!
 58

The railway station at Naples opens onto a massive square lined with restaurants and shops. As
darkness falls, out come the vendors with their wares and the entire square becomes a colorful, noisy
market - toys, shoes, clothing, records, leather goods, jewellery, ornaments - where practically everything
your heart could desire is on display.
Why on earth do we westerners have to go about changing the beautiful to the mundane? What a
pleasant sound the word Napoli is, while Naples sounds so very ordinary. We stayed at a quaint little hotel
called Albergo Pugliese in a quiet, narrow, one-way street with little traffic.
This was a time when a travelling companion came in handy. I knew nothing of the Naples area
and Eileen was somehow quite well versed on the Amalfi Drive that I had never heard of. We took a bus
from Naples to Pompeii and walked through the excavations of the city buried beneath the ash from the
massive eruption of Mount Vesuvius.
It was on the morning of August 24 in the year AD79 that the forces of fire had burst through
Vesuvius with appalling fury, and had wiped out the entire town. The top of the volcano’s cone
disappeared, leaving a divided summit that remains to this day. The entire population of between 20,000
and 30,000 was buried under four to six metres of ash after the searing, poisonous air, dust and ash had
suffocated them. The city was then left to oblivion - its very name perished and lay undiscovered, until the
year 1748. One can walk through the streets of Pompeii today, visualising how the residents lived long
before Christ was born. Some of the houses are remarkably well preserved and still bear colourful wall
frescoes. Even in those days they had underground lead
water pipes and an excellent reticulation system. The paved
streets still show the grooves worn by the wheels of ancient
chariots 2,000 years ago.

Eileen and I lunched at the restaurant on the left,
La Marinella, Amalfi, Italy
Our bus continued towards the coast and down the most hair-
raising road imaginable … a series of hairpin bends,
zigzagging down an almost sheer cliff-face to Amalfi, the
town in which the film A Good Woman was filmed. We
lunched at a seafood restaurant, La Marinella, squeezed
between the road and the sea, after which I went for a wander
through the village alone. Secluded from the main street I
found a beautiful old church … why is it that I always visit
churches on holidays when I wouldn’t dream of entering one
at home? Along this stretch of coast lived such famous folk
as Marlon Brando, Sir Lawrence Olivier, Marcello Mastrioni
and, below the road, hidden from sight in what could almost
be called a gorge, was the home of the beautiful Italian star,
Sophia Loren.
On the other side of the peninsular is Sorrento – a
lovely, dreamy little resort. This Sorrento, of Come Back To
Sorrento fame, and who wouldn’t want to come back to the
beautiful Sorrento that has all the usual outdoor restaurants,
with tables separated from the street by rows of terra cotta
potted azalea? The entire peninsular is famous for cameos
and inlaid wood furniture, the craftsmanship of which has to
be seen to be believed.

The following day, under the first cloudy conditions encountered thus far, a visit to the legendary Isle of
Capri seemed in order. The Isle of Capri is a tourist's paradise, consisting of twin peaks with the towns of
Capri atop one peak Ana Capri on the other. The roads are extremely narrow and steep as they climb
around the cliff faces. Portions of the road are even cantilevered out from the rock-face above the ocean.
Shopping on Capri is a dream designed for the ultra wealthy. We saw the home of the legendary singer
Gracie Fields; I bought a beaut bottle of homemade lavender after-shave that lasted me for several years.
We visited one of the world's most famous caves, the Blue Grotto - Grotta Azzurra - whilst on
Capri. In days gone by the Emperor used to bathe in this grotto after walking through subterranean
passages from his castle atop the mountain. Legend has it that witches and monsters inhabit the grotto. The
 59

brilliant incandescent blue light, shining through the salt water of the Mediterranean, inspired the name.
Motorboats take passengers to the entrance of the Blue Grotto at the base of the very high,
perpendicular cliffs where passengers transfer into smaller boats propelled by a single oarsman. The
entrance is so low that passengers have to lie down in the bottom of the boat in order to fit through. This is
a very tricky exercise as, when a wave peaks, it almost covers the entire entrance and - during a trough - the
entrance is fully exposed … then there's a mad dash by the oarsman to row furiously through the entrance.
He then hurriedly drags the boat into the cave by a rope along one wall. At first it takes time for the eyes to
become accustomed to the gloom but soon one is able to make out all the features of the cave quite clearly.
When vaporised water reaches the domed ceiling it condenses and drips down like raindrops.
That evening we were back in Napoli again.

Rome (Roma)
After Naples came Rome, the capital of Italy. Rome, so full of history and interest where Eileen - the good
Catholic girl that she is - made a beeline for St Peter's and the Vatican City, with me in tow. God only
knows how many candles we lit that day … but first things first.
St Peter's Basilica - in the Vatican City - is a small independent state in the City of Rome. It is the
seat of government of the Roman Catholic Church. St Peter's Square, St Peter's Basilica, the Vatican Palace
and Papal Gardens are all within its area. It has its own army, police, diplomatic service, coinage, postal
facilities and radio station. The original Basilica, a huge gothic building, was pulled down by Pope Julius II
in the early 16th century. The present Basilica is the largest church in the world. On my reckoning I think
that if the Catholics didn't breed so prolifically, they wouldn't need such large churches ... but that's only my
opinion.
Back to the Vatican, to The Sistine Chapel, the ceiling of which was painted by Michelangelo who
lay on his back for five years, painting the masterpiece to end all masterpieces. That was enough to bring a
tear to the eye of even the strongest man - even Michelangelo - I would imagine. I was so awestruck that I
actually lay on the floor to get a better look and was promptly ordered to either stand on my feet or get out.
Seems such a pity to have such a magnificent work of art and not be able to see it without getting a cricked
neck.
But then there's the museum? Or is it a gallery? Far better to call it a treasure house! I guess there
are two sides to everything, but I feel that the vast collection of treasure held in the Vatican City is little
more than a vulgar, disgusting, ostentatious display of wealth - especially when there are so many homeless
and starving people - even in Rome itself. There is so much on display that it becomes utterly boring and
you tend to walk by without even glancing at many of the most exquisitely beautiful expensive treasures in
the world.
Somewhat on the sick side - in my opinion - amongst other treasures of the Vatican are the glass-
sided coffins that hold the remains of past Popes, resplendent in their jeweled robes, some of whom are
encased in masks of gold or silver - but there are other extremely flat-chested ones who are skeletal, gazing
with sightless eyes towards Heaven. Fortunately they are all dead, looking for all the world like hideous
Snow Whites, waiting in eternity for the kiss of a handsome Prince. I wonder if any Pope has been kissed
by a handsome Prince? It’s not easy to find a handsome prince these days!
Most definitely worth viewing is the famed ‘Pieta’, also by Michaelangelo, and now protected
behind heavy glass, following an attack by a crazed Australian shortly before our visit.
From ground level to the dome of St Peter's is a sixty-lire lift-ride then, to get to the outer top, one
must climb 305 steps - bending sideways at the waist - while climbing between the twin layers of the dome.
From the top is a magnificent view of all Rome, a view that should not be missed.
It gets worse.. the Vatican also has the greatest commercial operations imaginable. There are stalls
where you can buy the brassiest, glossiest, cheap and nasty souvenirs imaginable. There are open-sided
buses acting as Post Offices and Philatelic Bureaus, crammed side by side. Thousands upon thousands of
brass crucifixes, statuettes of the Virgin Mary, even with crass flickering fairy lights as a halo. There are
millions of pieces of the original cross on which Jesus had been crucified … each and every item blessed
personally by the Pope. Little wonder he was such a sick man … he'd been far too busy blessing cheap and
nasty little souvenirs to find time to take his medication. Come to think of it … I don't recall seeing a
Macdonald's at the Vatican … surely the only commercial enterprise they don’t have.
Our visit to the Vatican has bad memories for Eileen. We left the city on a Tuesday and, as we were
 60

nearing Florence, Eileen realised that Il Papa gave blessings to the masses on a Wednesday. She very
nearly flew back from Florence to see His Holiness.

The Colosseum, originally called the Flavian Amphitheater, was begun in the year AD 72 and still stands.
The Forum Romanum, the very centre of the Old World is worth a look. So too is Circus Maximus where
the famous Ben Hur chariot race was filmed. One of the last things we did in Rome was toss a coin into the
Trevi Fountain. Actually we came across the fountain by accident … tucked away in a narrow nondescript
little curving street, trying its best to remain inconspicuous. Anyone who saw the film Three Coins in the
Fountain will be familiar with the Trevi. It is said that a coin tossed into the fountain guarantees a return
visit. If you haven't already noticed, I'll try anything once. I tossed a coin into the water!
Although Italy is a wealth of interest for the tourist, it also gains a lot of its wealth from the tourist.
To sit costs money! For those on a limited budget all meals, drinks, etc. are best taken while standing. It
costs three to four times as much to sit for a meal or drink and - in many cases - there will be an additional
charge for the use of a tablecloth … quite often newsprint paper.

Florence (Firenze)
Florence is Michelangelo's city. It is a city of art, sculpture, palaces, gardens and gold, another city of
squares and plazas - a city of narrow, winding streets - a city of red roofs. Florence is situated on the River
Arno; it is a lovely and particularly old major market town, an administrative and educational centre. I
could waffle on for pages about all the wonderful buildings we visited, but amongst the major highlights I
would put the 13th century cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, the Ufizi gallery and the 15th century
Palazzo Pitti - nowadays an art gallery of exceptional standards - set in the extensive and beautifully laid-
out walled Boboli Gardens. Michaelangelo Buonarroti, painter, artist and poet, had close connections with
Palazzo Pitti during his early years as an apprentice sculptor. He was also responsible for the famous statue
of David that was chiselled out of a single block of marble - obviously on a very cold day.
If you are interested in the beauty of marble and sculpture, don't miss the Loggia of the Signora
where such classics as Menelaus supporting the body of Patroclus Neptune, sculpted by Ammannati (1553-
1575) stands as the centrepiece of a fountain. There is a mighty piece called Hercules and Cacus by
Bandinelli dated 1533. At every turn there are more magnificent pieces on display in the public areas. And
the aforementioned Michaelangelo gets a look-in in the Loggia as one of his David pieces stands there as
well, and another is indoors in the church nearby. There is also another David up in Michaelangelo Square,
from where a magnificent view of Florence can be seen. One of our favourite spots to sit and watch the
pigeons was the Piazza Tre Fontana where - as one would expect - there was ample seating at al fresco
restaurants, coffee bars and three fountains.
I did a particularly touristy thing when I found that bronze boar in the market in central Florence ...
you know the one with the highly polished snout, from centuries of rubbing; everyone who’s anybody rubs
it’s snout so as to get the reputed good luck ... Yep, I rubbed the snout … not because I’m superstitious -
I’m a Sagittarian, I was born lucky - but it had to be done. When in Florence, do as the Florentines - and
most tourists - do!
It was another love at first sight with The Ponte Vecchio … that magnificent age-old bridge that
spans the River Arno, built hundreds of years ago to house the butchers' shops of the day. It is now a bridge
of goldsmiths and jewellers. During the day the bridge is agleam with gold; at night a haven for druggies
smoking pot and strumming guitars as they sing the praise of heroin and cocaine. In the window of one of
those little shops was a gold ring - with the Coat of Arms of Florence - that I just had to own but could not
possibly afford. Eileen was apparently feeling a little bit better off financially than I. After much
deliberating and ‘umming’ and ‘arring’ she settled on a wide band of gold that was just too irresistible. She
bought it! More about that ring later.
The story goes that the Ponte Vecchio was considered to be so beautiful that, on orders from Hitler,
it was never bombed during World War II.

A short bus ride from Florence is Pisa with its famous leaning tower. Nowadays is doesn't lean on such a
great angle as it did at the time of our visit. The tower first began to lean when the earth at one side
subsided after three floors had been built. Work was halted for many years, until it was decided that the
ground beneath was sufficiently stable, then the tower was completed. It is a strange feeling climbing the
spiral staircase, and even stranger when walking around the outside, as there are no handrails and
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everything is tilted.

Genoa (Genova)
From Pisa to Genoa a great deal of the time is spent underground as the train travels through many long
tunnels. When you can see the view, it is particularly picturesque mountain country - the mountains sweep
right down to the sea - hence the tunnels. Genoa (pronounced Jennawah) was a major maritime city during
the Middle Ages. It is now the chief port city of Italy. It was here that Christopher Columbus, the famous
navigator who discovered America - as far as the western world is concerned - came from. No doubt there
are a few American Indians who would be willing to dispute this. Actually Chris was born in Genoa and
later became a pirate. In 1476 he was shipwrecked off the coast of Portugal, where he settled.
Two of the most famous buildings in the city are San Lorenzo, built in 1118 and the university in
1417. It is now a major industrial centre with shipbuilding, heavy engineering, steel processing and oil
refining. The city itself is extremely hilly, and it was necessary to take a taxi from one station through a
tunnel to the other station, in order to catch a train to Milan.

Milan (Milano)
This was our second encounter with rain … it poured down. The River Olona runs through Milan, the
capital city of Lombardy in northwestern Italy. Milan is the focal point of road and rail routes and is the
chief commercial and industrial centre of the country. It is also home to the famous La Scala Opera House.
Eileen badly wanted to see a performance - any performance - in that grand old theatre. With
strong objections on my part, we fronted up, with both of us dressed in seriously travelled-in denim. I felt
bad even standing out front and looking so decidedly scruffy. I was so relieved when the ‘House Full’ sign
went up in the pokey little foyer. Sorry, Eileen … no opera!
Due to the rain, sightseeing was limited to St Mark's Cathedral and the elaborate underground rail
system - The Metro. I would like to warn all prospective visitors to Milan to beware of the pickpockets
outside St Mark's ... a swarm of children, carrying pieces of anything firm like a rectangular board, or a
sheet of cardboard, will crowd around a person, wedging their boards tightly against your waist so that you
are unable to lower your hands to prevent your pockets from being rifled. It is a most exasperating situation
to be in, as there's nothing whatsoever you can do to help yourself.
That was the night we had our first and only argument … and oh boy, was it a beauty! Milan still
has the old-fashioned electric trams. It was reasonably late at night when we were on our way back to our
accommodation. Eileen wanted to get on the next tram, while I, with a small knowledge of the language,
said “No!” because I could read the destination. A ding-dong barney broke out between the two of us ...
Eileen stormed off, boarded the tram, and off she went, leaving me standing alone on a very dark night. I
was determined not to run after it, as I knew quite definitely that she was going in the wrong direction, but I
was also concerned that she would get lost in a strange city with no knowledge whatsoever of the language.
I don't think she had even learned to say 'No'. So I stayed where I was - watching it depart. In the semi-
darkness along the street I could see Eileen disembarking, then ever-so-slowly walking back towards me.
Fortunately, no grudges were held by either of us … we were both mature enough to get over such a minor
disagreement.

Venice (Venezia)
My memory of the train trip across northern Italy has blurred somewhat with the passage of time. To reach
Venice the train passes over a very long bridge - or causeway - that is open to both rail and road traffic,
coming to a stop right on the edge of the city limits. This was where all wheeled - and motorised - traffic
ceased … from here on was pedestrian traffic or, if you prefer a gondola, vaporetto or water taxi - along a
canal. We chose to walk, carrying our bags.
Venice is a seaport city built on and over 200 islands in the Lagoon of Venice. The Grand Canal
and about 170 smaller canals provide waterways for the city transport, which includes waterbuses and the
afore-mentioned gondolas. Amongst the most beautiful of the bridges are the Rialto, and the Bridge of
Sighs - a covered bridge linking the Doge's Palace with the state prison. The name of the bridge came from
the sighs of the prisoners who were led over it in days gone by, many of whom were painfully aware that
they would spend their remaining days in prison.
In a small via or street, of less than two metres width, near Piazza San Marco - St Mark's Square -
we located another of the many exquisitely furnished and decorated little places that offer accommodation
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at an affordable price. It is said that the square is best visited during the early months of summer. May-
June is near enough to mid-summer for me, and the place could not have been more welcoming. One
can’t help but be fascinated by the motorised watercraft on the Canal - Police, ambulances, taxis, fire
brigades - all services are water transport. Unfortunately, the wake caused by this modern transport is
eroding the very foundations of the city. Venice is sinking at the rate of 6mm per year and, at high tide,
many of the houses and pavements are awash … even the famous St Marks Square is flooded at spring
tide.
The floor of the Piazza, when not flooded, is densely crowded with pigeons. The space not taken
up by pigeons is usually crammed with humanity from all corners of the world. At one end of the ‘square’
is the Grand Canal - at the other is the magnificent St Mark's Cathedral that was built in the 9th century.
It was badly damaged by fire in 976 and only temporarily repaired. The present basilica was begun circa
1050 and completed in the 1090s. The tiled floor directly inside the front entrance is taken up by a very
large and wonderful mosaic of Salomon - Solomon - third King of Israel. On both sides of the ‘square’ are
some of the most exclusive shops in the city, interspersed with many and varied cafes.
We visited two particularly colourful islands famous for their lace-making and glass-blowing.
Murano is the lace one, and I think the glass-blowing was on Burano. Another, the name of which escapes
me, was famous like the Gabor sisters - famous for being famous - but otherwise had little to recommend
it. We also took a trip over the waters to the island of Lido, which is a playground for the rich and
famous; here there are cars - very expensive cars - very expensive, and the famous casino. Lido is an
island of magnificent houses and pretty avenues lined with trees and roses of every possible hue that
spring could bring forth. Here, too, are luxury hotels all along the esplanade facing the Adriatic Sea.
From the other side of Lido is a wonderful view of Venice, rising from the blue waters of the Laguna.

Right through Italy, second-class rail had been good enough as it was all short hops, but for the 13-hour
trip to Brindisi, first class was recommended. It was a long, long night … very cold, with eight people
crowded into one small compartment with insufficient room to stretch the legs. During this stage of the
journey we passed through rich agricultural lands surrounding Bologna, then down to follow the coast
through particularly arid country where little apart from olive trees grew. It was a relief to set foot on
solid ground at Brindisi where our Italian adventure had begun … a most uninspiring city from where the
car ferries depart for Greece. These car ferries offer all types of travel accommodation from airline type
seats to self-contained cabins. There were good dining facilities, bars even duty free shopping on board.
The trip from Brindisi to Corfu - with time change takes something like thirteen hours at $US38 with
cabin.

Corfu (Kerkira)
The island of Corfu is the island I would most prefer to re-visit. Away from all the hustle and bustle of the
port is a small fishing village called Benitsa with its small shops, restaurant and The Stone House Pub that
is, after dark, where all the action takes place. The restaurant/bar is run by a group of Cypriots to whom
life and living is all-important. Every evening we went there for the music of the bazouki and the dancing
is non-stop. The local lads would get me on the dance floor, determined to teach me Zorba's Dance. No
such luck … I was hopeless! Outdoors was a different story. The staff of The Stone House Pub rate
amongst the friendliest, most wonderful people I have ever met. Friendly … my God! … you can say that
again!
On the other side of the road, fishing boats had been pulled up onto the dry land and
fishing nets spread to dry. This all added to the atmosphere and just a little further along there was the
motel where we found rooms. We went to Kerkira one day with intentions of hiring motor scooters so that
we could move around at our own pace. This was particularly amusing as Eileen just could not retain her
balance. Fortunately, I had owned a motorcycle in the wild days of my misspent youth and the chappie in
charge of the scooters suggested that we take one bike and Eileen ride pillion. I must explain here that
Eileen was a reasonably large lady and I found difficulty steering a straight path when she got the wobbles
up, at which times the bike did too.
One day we rode down southwards from Benitsa, through silver-green olive groves, fairly
dripping with fruit, to a small fishing village that had remained untouched by time. An elderly woman,
dressed entirely in black passed by, sitting sidesaddle on the back of her donkey. Others led their
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donkeys, the backs of which were piled high with

firewood. Age-old mud and brick buildings stood
no more than two stories high and a narrow canal
crammed with fishing boats came right into the
village. An ancient gentleman with back bent by the
years, gestured towards a small wooden table
outside a corner building - the corner just to the
right of the donkey’s head at left - and indicated that
he wished us to sit. He went indoors and came out
with a sheet of plain white newsprint paper that he
laid on the table. We were served with two cups of
the strongest, sweetest coffee possible ... and I don't
even take sugar in black coffee. Courtesy being
An elderly woman, dressed entirely in black passed by, sitting what it is, we tolerated the brew and somehow
sidesaddle on the back of her donkey. managed to get it down and keep it down. And no,
he would not accept any payment.
The two of us crossed the island on our hired bike to the resort area of Paleokastritsa that lay at the
bottom of a very steep hill, on the western side of Corfu. The rocks reached high out of the ocean at this
part of the coast, giving the impression that they had been tortured to death during creation. It appeared
very rugged and cruel, but the sparkling azure waters were so clear it was possible to see way, way down
into the crystalline, ultramarine depths.
The facade of a large hotel or motel built into the cliff face was completely decked out with towels,
swimwear and clothing laid out to dry. The price one pays when an area is opened up to backpackers! This
was such a pity as it spoiled the atmosphere of the place.
At Paleokastritsa we visited a beautiful white adobe monastery where black-robed priests wandered
in silence. With the cloudless sky and an unbroken expanse of blue it was all so very beautiful … an artist's
paradise.
On our return trip across the island there was the very steep hill that we now had to climb. The
poor little scooter seemed determined not to bear the weight of Eileen on the upward journey … the
puttering of it's motor gave way to a feeble put-put-put, before giving up the ghost entirely. Eileen had to
get off and walk.
When we reached the top of the hill, Eileen climbed aboard again and we were on our way. I was
having difficulties riding on the right-hand side of the road and when we got back into Kerkira we had to
make a left-hand turn, I was at a loss as to what to do, so we had to dismount and wheel the thing around
the corner, then get back on again.

One evening when we were having a few drinks at The Stone House Pub one of the youths asked if I would
like to go over the road to his boat to inspect his nets. I should have been a wake-up to this approach by
now, but no, I’ve apparently been a slow learner. Now honestly that was the feeblest excuse I have ever
heard to get me alone. What would I know about a fisherman’s net? Nothing! But an invitation is an
invitation and I had no wish to offend. After grabbing a couple of beers each, we crossed the road and
climbed aboard his boat that rested partly on its side. There we stayed for quite some time, drinking,
talking, listening to the lapping of the waves and the music from the pub over the way. I must admit I gave
a far better performance in that boat than I ever did on the dance floor. I said they were friendly, didn’t I?

Ioannina
Two hours by ferry had us back at Igomenitsa on the mainland of Greece. The road to Ioannina climbs
steadily for hours up steep rocky mountains, so high in fact, that it was still daylight at 9.20. After nightfall
the lights of tiny villages twinkled in the valleys far below. We climbed higher and higher up a torturous,
winding road, high into the Pindhos Oros mountains, with a seemingly sheer drop to the floor of the valley
below.
We visited the fortress of Ali Pasha. The fortress, also known as the Monastery of Pandilimonos,
was built circa 1740.
Conquered by the Turks in 1430, Ioannina became the seat of Ali Pasha. In 1787, the Turks had
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appointed Ali as pasha (governor) to Trikala. He eventually extended his power and ruled over a very large
territory. His ambition was to rule Albania and a portion of Greece and he was in contact with Napoleon,
Nelson and the Tsar. He was called the Lion of Ioannina because he was ruthless and clever. Ali Pasha
had a harem of over six hundred women in Ioannina and was very wealthy. Let's face it, had he not been
wealthy he certainly could not afford to keep six hundred wives … most men nowadays are unable to afford
even one.
Ali Pasha was a very nasty man … a very nasty man! In 1812 he bought an alchemic laboratory
because he wanted to find a way to become immortal. When his scientists failed to find the secret, he had
them hanged. He created many enemies by robbing people of their territory; they appealed to the Sultan to
have him removed from power. When the Turks attacked the city, his allies and even his sons abandoned
him. After he was promised a pardon he ordered the castle of Ioannina to surrender to the Turkish army - a
force of 20,000 men. He must have had an awfully bad temper, because he really lost his head when he
was decapitated. His head was placed on a silver salver and put on view for three days in the city.
We really should have taken a longer break there, but foolishly continued on to Meteora, where we
arrived at 2 a.m. on the verge of exhaustion. It had been a long, hard day!

Sometime during that long trip, Eileen realised she had left the gold ring that she had bought in Naples in
her room at Benitsa. Further along, at one of our stops, she phoned the manager of the hotel and explained
the loss of the item that she held with great sentimental value. It transpired that after we returned to Papua
New Guinea she had a friend (now her husband) who was going to be passing through Corfu and he was
able to retrieve the precious ring. Who said that there was no decency left in the world any more? I find
that amazing!

Meteora
Next stop was Kalambaka where English is seldom heard and where we arrived in the dark, early morning
hours. The road that we had travelled had become a little, narrow main street completely devoid of traffic
of any kind at that hour. We were desperately tired and in need of a place to sleep. Eileen suggested that
she would sit on the roadside with the luggage, while I tried to find accommodation. At that hour I thought
the task impossible … I really can’t remember now how it was that I raised one very elderly gentleman who
spoke not a word of English. I do recall, however, trying every conceivable sign in hand language to get
my requirements through to him … lots of nodding, accompanied by shrugging the shoulders and other ‘I
do not understand’ type gestures, then out with pen and paper. I drew a sketch of his B & B - or whatever
it was called in Greek - (beta & beta?) - divided it into rooms then sketched two beds. He nodded. I
retraced my steps to find Eileen almost asleep on the pavement. We picked up our bags and hurried back to
where we were shown into two small, comfortable rooms. To each his own … I'm sure I was asleep before
I pulled the covers up.
Came morning … I washed my face and hands and located Eileen's room. On walking out through
the front door we were confronted by the most amazing sight of towering, domed rocks looming high, high,
high above, out beyond the buildings on the other side of the street. After breakfasting we found a driver to
take us to the enormous monoliths. I have been unable to find any connection between meteorites and
Meteora, but surely there must be.
Driving up to the monasteries of Meteora is like being on another planet. The high pillars of rock
seem to reach for the sky from a rather flat landscape. The area is said to have once been beneath the sea.
Sometime in the first century, orthodox monks started living in caves high in the cliffs. They slowly
became organised and met for mass once a week and, in the 14th century, they started building an official
monastery.
Our taxi driver drove us up to The Holy Monastery of Rousanou. We crossed a narrow footbridge
and entered the monastery dedicated to ‘The Transfiguration’ but honoured to Saint Barbara. It was
founded in the middle of the 16th century and decorated in 1560. Wizened old monks, who looked as if
they had been the original inhabitants, wandered around chanting their prayers. The walls were adorned
with hand-painted and gilded icons of Saints.
We visited three monasteries that day, one of which held the skulls of every monk who had died
since the establishment of Meteora. One particular monastery was so inaccessible that the monks have to
be hauled up in baskets on the end of long ropes.
The largest of the Monasteries, The Holy Monastery of the Great Meteoron, was built between
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1356 and 1372. The man behind the project was Athanasios; he also set the rules for the monastic life.
This monastery is now used as a museum and is where I bought an icon as a gift for a work-mate, John
Iredale, back in Papua New Guinea. John was murdered a couple of years later so I guess it wasn't a good
luck charm after all.
Altogether there are six of these Monasteries perched high on the cliff-tops: it was here, amongst
these monoliths that Sky Riders (1976) and the James Bond film For Your Eyes Only were filmed.
Naturally, as at every place of interest in the world, there are the merchants with barrows of
souvenirs. I entered into conversation with one chappie - starting with the usual “Do you speak English?”
His reply was a question: “You from Orstralia, mate?” “Yes!” “What part?” “Ballarat!” “Me, I use’ta
live there ... near Lake Wendouree! Too bloody cold, mate!”
I recalled the words of W. Gordon Smith, Manager of Myer where I worked when living in Ballarat
who, during his farewell speech to me said: “No matter where in the world you go, you'll meet someone
who was born in Ballarat, or someone who has lived there!”
The following day we did another extremely long day's travel from Meteora, through Trikala,
Larisa and Lamia to Athens for a couple of day's rest. We then took a taxi to the airport ...

Crete (Kriti)
A Boeing 747 had us in Iraklion - the largest city on the north coast of Crete - thirty-five minutes after
takeoff and once in Iraklion, with no problem at all, we found wonderful accommodation right in the heart
of town, just a hop, step and jump from the square where everybody met at night. Everyone sat at tables in
the gardens or on the street, which is closed to traffic at night. Between one- and two hundred tables, each
with four aluminium and red plastic chairs would be set out in formation each afternoon in readiness for the
crowd who mingled there nightly. Iraklion is a particularly picturesque little place … the entire population
of the island is nearly 102,000 and, as there is also the second city of Khania to be considered, as well as
rural centres, I would imagine Iraklion to have in the vicinity of 40,000 residents. In every space in Greece,
no matter how small, you will find elderly men sitting in the shade of a tree, usually an olive tree, dressed
entirely in black and concentrating on playing backgammon.
On our first day in Crete we found a local bus that would take us to the Palace of Minos, the
monstrous Minotaur – half man and half bull – to which the Athenians of old sent sacrifices until the beast
was slain by Theseus. This is one of the most impressive archaeological sites that anyone can visit in
Greece. Knossos was built between the years 2100 BC and 1580 BC and was only discovered by the
modern world very recently. The palace stood five stories high and had a particularly intricate sewerage
and drainage system. It is possible to climb the stairways and through the chambers of the most famous
king of Crete, and Minos his Queen, both of whom had their own light-wells and toilets. Many of the
precious finds can be seen in the museum at Iraklion. It was Minos who gave the whole Minoan
civilisation its name. Minos might have actually been a combination of several kings, but tradition has it
that he was the son of Zeus. Androgeos, son of Minos went off to Athens to compete in the games, he won,
but the king of Athens sent him to fight a bull in Marathon. The bull killed Androgeos and when Minos
learnt of it he declared war against Athens. The earthquake that sunk half of Santorini in 1450 BC seems to
have destroyed most of the buildings on Crete as well, and probably caused the end of the Minoan
civilisation.
The following day we took a bus eastwards to Ajios Nikolaos. A short distance further eastwards
we came to Pacha Ammos, then turned to the right, travelling the narrow strip of road up and over a high
mountain range down to Ierapetra, nestled in a valley at the foot of the mountains on the south coast. We
lunched in the delightful little fishing village of Myrtos. You like fresh fish? … visit Myrtos! The chap at
the roadside food stall where we lunched was utterly bonkers about Australians. He remembered the allied
forces from the World War II and the courage they showed when fighting while battling their way up the
steep mountains. I'm sure that the size of the servings we were given was an expression of his eternal
gratitude.
We had hoped to overnight somewhere on the south coast but could not find anywhere to rest the
weary head. Nowhere on this long route could we find any accommodation at all. On enquiry, I learned
that we had travelled only about halfway around the circular route and, with nowhere to sleep, had to bite
the bullet and continue until the bus returned to Iraklion. Conditions deteriorated on this final lap of the
trip, as the road was rather rough, the mountains were rocky, and almost devoid of vegetation.
On one of our strolls in Iraklion we came across a white-walled, flat-roofed, adobe house where a
 66

delightful old lady was sweeping in her garden … or where her garden would have been if she had one. We
were invited to have a look through the house … very sparse in the way of furnishings, spotlessly clean,
with an open fireplace in which a large cooking pot hung from a sturdy hook. We walked down to and
along the waterfront, with the ever-present fishing boats reflected in the still waters near an old walled
fortress. Another elderly woman wanted me to go to her home on the island of Santorini. Unfortunately
there was no ferry connection and no flight to the island, as I would really have liked to visit the place.
This is one of the very few regrets I have in life … I never did get to Santorini! Thera, as the ancient city is
called, is 396 metres above sea level and was founded in the 9th century BC by Dorian colonists whose
leader was named Theras.

Rhodes (Rodhos)
Another Boeing … another island. This time it was Rhodes, where Julius Caesar spent some of his school
years. This is a beautiful island with a waterfront surpassing that of Tahiti. Here can be seen luxury yachts
from many European countries berthed at a restaurant-lined boulevard adjacent to the old market. All this
is dominated by the palace, which forms the northern wall of the old city. In this old city with its piles of
huge, stone cannon balls, people live in houses on cobble-stoned streets much the same as they did when
the city was invaded and captured by the Turks in the year 1514. The palace, with its alabaster windows,
was completely restored by the Italians in 1945.
On our first night in Rhodes I experienced my very first Son et Lumiere - Sound and Light - show
in the Old Fort, inside the walls of the medieval town. It was spectacular!
The most recent theory on the Colossus of Rhodes - the massive bronze statue that stood over 30
metres high - is that it stood in the palace grounds atop the hill, not at the harbour entrance as had been
supposed. It is now known that the statue was of Apollo and that Charles of Lindus, who laboured at its
construction from 292 to 280 BC, designed it. It was so large that few men could reach around a thumb
with both their arms. In the year 224 BC it was toppled by an earthquake and sold to an Arab as scrap.
Using 900 camels it was being removed but was subsequently lost in the desert, and no trace has ever been
found.
Nowadays statues of a doe and a deer guard the port. The reason being that Rhodes was infested by
snakes and not only are snakes afraid of deer, but deer kill them with their hooves and antlers. Rhodes is
now said to be free of snakes. It was on this island that ‘The Guns of Navarone’ was filmed.
I met a young man who was very proud of his motorcycle. He offered to show me around. It felt
so good, burning up the miles on the coastal road west and out of town. He took me, on foot, down a cliff-
face to a cave near water level, where I received a good education in regard to what the young Greek males
get up to on the island … not too different to any other country really, but much, much better at it. In town
at night was the exciting part of it all - not that the experience in the cave hadn't been exciting - but in the
Old City motorised traffic was forbidden. My motorcyclist friend would rev the machine up to almost full
throttle as he headed down towards the gateway - cut the motor, turn off the lights - and we would hurtle
soundlessly down through the narrow streets of the ancient city and out the other side. This went on almost
every evening we stayed on Rhodes. Bloody delinquents!
One evening Eileen and I went to the Trocadero, not knowing what to expect. It was the largest
hall I have ever seen in my life. I have no idea how many seats wide, but apart from the two outside aisles,
there were three sections of seats in between. It was an entertainment extravaganza of mammoth
proportions, with five vocalists - one per aisle - accompanied by some spectacular live entertainment on
stage.

Mykonos (Mikonos)
From Rhodes we sailed on a very crowded vessel along the Turkish coast where lookout towers were
strategically placed on every summit. A good percentage of the passengers were Greek military. That's as
close as I have even been to Turkey. ‘Italy was hungry, took a little turkey dipped it into grease’, my
mother used to say during the ar years when I was old enough to learn about other countries.
We called in at the islands of Kos, Kalimnos and Patmos en route to Mykonos which, in 1978, was
a peaceful, heavenly little haven. We disembarked at the small port as we wished to stay awhile. After an
hour or so of walking door-to-door through the town with all its whitewashed houses and blue domed
churches, then up and over the hill to where three famed white windmills leisurely turn their blades. We
found accommodation in a hotel just over the top of the hill where a donkey foraged for food. By order,
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every house on Mykonos must be painted white twice each year, so it fairly gleams in the brilliance of the
Aegean sun. Streets are so narrow that one doesn't even have to reach out to touch the buildings on either
side. This is home to the windmill that is used for grinding grain, and it was here that goat's hair and lambs
wool is spun, woven, and knitted into beautifully warm jackets. I bought a wonderful cream jacket with a
woven body and knitted collar and cuffs … not much use in the tropics but wonderful for travel in cooler
climes.
It was summer and there was a severe water shortage. Doing laundry was forbidden. I overcame
this problem by tossing soiled clothing on the floor of the shower recess and stamping on it whilst
showering … in that heat it did not take long for things to dry in the rooms.
One day Eileen took a donkey ride down to the ruins of the temple of Diana. I joked that at her
size it would have been kinder had she carried the poor beast.

Some very relaxing moments were spent down in the town area where much amusement could be found by
watching the antics of Peter the Pelican. I have no doubt whatsoever that there is more than one Peter, but
only one seems to take up residence at any one time. If there is only one, he's a very old bird by now!
Peter would watch as patrons of the al fresco restaurants ordered their meals and then, in his most
threatening manner, would rush right in with wings outstretched and grab any fish from the plate of the
unsuspecting diner. We noticed that he seemed most likely to target American matrons who would run
screaming from their table, when they thought they were under attack. After one quick gulp, Peter would
then wander back to his 'nest' in a coil of rope.
My only complaint about Mykonos was that so many of the beautiful little houses had been
converted into bars. Recent word from the island is that it has now been almost completely taken over by
young, boisterous tourists, and the lovely houses turned into discos, with blaring music and psychedelic
lighting at night. Pity!
After leaving Mykonos we called in at Siros and Tyros, then it was back to Piraeus, the seaport of
Athens.

P.S. Eileen her husband John - who collected the ring from Corfu - now live happily in Sydney. We
are still the best of friends and are in regular contact.
 68

We had just walked up the hill from our hotel, and this is what greeted us …
one of the three windmills near our hotel on Mykonos and a feeding donkey.
 69

THE KILLING OF JOHN IREDALE 1978

Before Eileen and I left on our overseas trip it was agreed that Robert would stay home and look after his
garden. I returned to discover that he had a married English woman living with him in my house. One hell
of an argument ensued. When I learned that she had left her husband and four children to live with Robert,
I ordered her out. She ranted like a mad woman, telling me that there was nothing, but nothing I could do
to make her move. Oh, lady … what do you take me for? After a lot of unpleasantness, I sold the house
and moved into single accommodation supplied by the Commission where I worked. And so ended eleven
and a half of the happiest, most wonderful years of my life that I had shared with Robert. Foolishly, I had
thought it would continue forever. I was left with an awful emptiness in my heart that I felt sure would
never be filled, and it never was.
It was so sad having to leave the house as it held so many wonderful memories. I had designed it -
including a home for my dear mother - and we three had lived happily together until Mum’s death. We
had entertained frequently. There had been times when the guest list for parties topped ninety. Garden
lights illuminated the steps down from the road to the covered and paved patio that was surrounded by
gardens on three sides. Of an evening the air was always heavily perfumed with quisqualis (combretaceae)
that hung from the overhead beams. The house was once featured in a magazine of the Home, Home and
Garden, or Home Beautiful style, with a photograph of Robert and me dining outdoors on the patio.
Having lost his accommodation, Robert went to live with his new lover … they slept in one room
while her husband and children occupied the rest of the house. One day she sent Robert to me, demanding
that I give him 50% of the assets from the sale. Up yours lady! The price came down to the amount Robert
had spent on buying the pewter lighting fixture for the dining/sitting room. They were welcome to that.
Shortly after that episode she said that if I didn't pay her a certain amount she would tell the
Commissioner of the indecent relationship in which Robert and I had been living. I told her: “You do that!
Anything you say will affect Robert equally as much as me!” I followed that up by going to the
Commissioner and explaining the situation; he wasn't the least bit concerned and advised me not to worry
as he was quite aware of our relationship and it didn’t bother him in the least.
Fate would have it that in future years Robert followed his new lover to Australia where they
married. That was followed by an almost repeat performance as she began inviting lovers back to the
house, while Robert slept in another room. I was overjoyed when I heard this snippet and, before long, they
had divorced and Robert married a second time, but the new wife died after only a couple of years.
In the meantime my life as a bachelor reached new heights. My new accommodation - all two tiny
rooms of it - had come as a nasty shock after all the space and the beautiful gardens of the house on the hill.
I had often heard and read of how, after a divorce, the individuals lose all moral sense and hit the street.
Without realizing it at the time, that’s exactly what I did. I was anybody’s for the asking!

This style of accommodation was new to me; it was Commission-owned and incredibly cramped. Although
far from being in any way exclusive, it was exclusively for employees of the Commission and definitely not
new. It was an ugly, square-faced, two-story building divided into four flats … the two on the left were
mirror images of the two on the right. I lived in the one at upper-left. Next door to me was John Iredale, a
long, lean English gentleman whose office was quite close to mine, and for whom I had bought the icon at
Meteora. A lovely man named Noel lived beneath me. He was very hard of hearing - without his hearing
aid he was quite deaf. A reclusive Continental chap - whose name we never got to know - occupied the
remaining flat. The upper level accommodation was accessed by a stairway at either end of the building ...
up a flight from the front to a landing, turn around and the second flight brought you back to the front door
of the upper level.
There came a Saturday night when my sleep was disturbed by the sound of raised voices coming
through the wall from the adjacent flat - the one occupied by John Iredale. I heard a loud slap. I lay there
 70

for a while - my heart pounding - but was a little concerned at the silence that followed. I walked
downstairs, along past the front of the building, and up to John's flat. I knocked at the door very gently, and
the curtain at the window beside the door was pulled back a few inches … John peered out. He asked what
I wanted and I said that I had heard strange noises and was concerned; he snapped: “You mind your own
fucking business!” I did just that … I returned to my bed, fell into it, and slept the night through without
further disturbance.
The next Saturday was practically a repeat of the previous week. I was awakened by the sound of
raised voices coming from John’s flat. I heard a loud slap, followed by an even louder thump … then
silence ... deathly silence. I lay there for quite some time thinking, wondering and worrying. As I had
previously been told to mind my own effing business, I returned to a disturbed sleep.
The following morning Noel - who suffered from heart problems - came to my door to say that he
was concerned as he always drove John to work of a morning and, although his door was open, he wasn't
waiting out front. Noel had called a couple of times and received no response. He asked if I would go in
and find out what was wrong. Like Noel, I knocked lightly and called “John!” No reply. The radio was
playing in the main room and some lights were on. On tiptoe, I walked to the kitchenette on the left, peered
inside and saw no one, all the time calling: “John… are you alright?” No answer. I certainly did not want
to walk in on anything embarrassing and so, very slowly and very nervously, I peered around the doorway
into the bedroom to see the most shocking sight of my life. The room was awash with blood - it was
everywhere - up the walls and over the floor. The bed was soaked in red. Propped up in a corner on the
bed was the lifeless body of John. His face had been so badly slashed that his teeth were showing through
the gaping hole in his cheek. One eye appeared to be missing. I was sickened - I was suddenly afraid - but
I had to see what was in the bathroom, and was terrified at what I might find. Through the open door I
could see that there was blood all over the hand-basin where the killer had obviously washed his hands. A
plastic shower curtain was drawn closed in the corner. What was behind that curtain? I was scared shitless
but needed to know if the killer was hiding there, in the same room as me? I needed to know, but I was too
afraid to find out. The shower scene from Psycho flashed before my eyes - I didn't run - I was too scared to
run….my legs would not have supported me had I tried. As quickly as I could, I made my way downstairs
to Noel, who asked: “Well?” My reply, I remember all-too-vividly: “He's dead! … he’s been murdered!”
Noel clutched at his chest … I feared he would have a heart attack. I had to help him back to his
place where he tried to pour himself a brandy but was shaking too badly to do so. I poured one for him and
then made two phone-calls, firstly to the Police, and secondly to the Commissioner.
Not knowing if the killer was still indoors or not, I kept a very nervous vigil outside in case he tried
to get away. I don't know what I would have done had he appeared at the doorway … possibly soil my
underwear, I would expect. Believe me when I say that no movie has ever captured the true horror and
terror of a real-life situation such as this. At this very moment of writing - some twenty-eight years later - I
am reliving almost the same horror as I did all those years ago. In bed at night I clench my teeth tightly,
trying to block the horror from my mind.

The next time I entered John’s flat I was accompanied by two police officers and I was still sickened by the
appalling mess. On a wall I noticed the icon that I had bought for John at the monastery in Meteora. All
walls were heavily adorned with Holy pictures … Jesus, Mary, you name them (I can’t) … they were all
there. John was such a good, God-fearing Catholic! I wondered at them watching when he needed help?
They had all witnessed this frightful killing. In the bedroom once more, a police officer informed me that
John's eye had indeed been removed. I wondered what kind of madman could do such a thing?
I was questioned over and over again many times and gave statements. Both Noel and I were
shown photographs that had been found in the flat - we were asked to identify anyone we had seen visiting
at any time. I did identify one young chap to whom I had been paying protection money ever since he had
told me that we were living in a dangerous area, and that he would keep an eye on me and make sure I was
safe. I was now told that he was a member of the police force. Noel and I were advised to each pack a bag
as we were being moved into the Boroko Hotel for protection. I had told the police that I had heard the
voice of the killer, and the words I could recall having heard. I had no idea exactly what I heard, either
“You want to put it in…I’ll put it in for you!” or “You want me to put it in…I’ll put it in for you.!”
Whichever it was, John died for it.
That evening I was talking to an employee of the hotel who I recognised as being one of John's
regular visitors. His voice sounded very similar to the raised voice I had heard on Saturday night. Was he
 71

the killer? I mentioned it to Noel and also to the police. We were advised to check out of the hotel and
return to our individual flats. A day or so later I went back to work and Noel - with his bad heart - took
time off and went to Australia.
During the following week the police told me that there was a possibility that the killer would come
back to get me. I wondered about that … as no-one apart from the few police I had talked to knew that I
had heard the voices. Why did the police think I was in danger when nobody had any reason to connect me
with the killer … or did the police know more than I? Was it possibly that a member of the force had done
it? My nerves were in a shocking state…I had to work all day, then, at night, sleep was impossible. To
make matters worse, the Sergeant-in-charge of the investigation installed himself in my flat overnight for
three or four nights, supposedly to protect me. I wondered if he could have been the killer? I couldn’t
sleep - I hid the larger knives. All he did was make noise, making and taking calls on his issue radio, right
outside my bedroom door. I was nearly out of my mind. Did they really think I was in such dire danger?
These questions have occupied my mind for so many years now and still there is no answer.
The residents of the block of flats now were: Me upper left - and very, very scared. Upper right:
Deceased. Lower left: In Australia. Lower right: Vanished. I was the only living person in the entire block.
That week was one of trying to work and live a normal life, while at the same time re-living the sequence of
events over and over in my mind. It was a week of questioning my recall of everyone and everything I had
seen in the neighbourhood in recent times. It was a week of shocking nervous tension. I was petrified
beyond belief.
On the Saturday morning following the killing, as I was hanging laundry on the line about ten
metres from the front door, I was caught short and had to make a dash for the toilet. There was no time to
close the front - and only - door. I was sitting there minding my own business, with my trousers down
around my ankles, when I heard a noise. I looked up to see an unknown dark-skinned person standing in
the doorway right in front of me. Sheer panic hit me! Grabbing my pants with one hand, I recall slamming
into him with such force that it sent him reeling back across the bed. I managed to grab the car keys from
the hook just inside the door - in my haste, leaving it open - and, with pants still half down, I leapt into the
car and took off at the rate of one demented. Where was Stephanie when I needed her? She had moved to
Rabaul! I drove several kilometres out of town to the home of friends, a married couple. I relived the entire
week's events over again as I poured my heart out - remembering that I had left the door open and the
basket of laundry under the line. My friends accompanied me home to inspect the flat and ensure that I was
safe.
Shortly after John’s murder, I had a call from a woman who said she was John's sister, and that she
would like me to have the icon that I had bought and given her brother … would I accept it? Happy
memories of the day when I had bought it in Meteora came flooding back - her offer pleased me at this time
as the item had great personal significance. I offered my sincere thanks and told her how much it would be
appreciated. I never heard from her again.

There came the unpleasant task of identifying the body…it fell on me to do the deed. This was terrible …
the Port Moresby morgue was nothing like the sterile places we see on film. There were no sterilised doors
or drawers to hide the corpses from view … the whole thing was one large refrigerated room, with frozen
bodies lying on the floor, or stacked - some even standing - frozen stiff against the walls. I had to step
gingerly over the dead to get to the table upon which John’s covered body lay. When the sheet was pulled
back for me to see the face, I recoiled in horror. I had to explain that I couldn’t possibly identify it until it
was cleaned up as the face was so badly mutilated, swollen, and blackened with congealed blood and
bruising. It was an It - it was no longer a person. I left the room while they did a quick clean up. When
next I entered I gazed upon a frightful sight; the cheek was still gaping open exposing the teeth - the left eye
socket was indeed empty, but I was able to say: “Yes, I'm nearly positive … I’m nearly sure that's John!”

A little bit of relief crept in amongst all this horror when we were making the necessary funeral
arrangements. The funeral director, Barbara - who had so unceremoniously removed my mother from the
house - was discussing the costs involved with the Commissioner, a Papua New Guinea national. As the
Commission had the responsibility of meeting all costs involved he was trying to keep the price to a
minimum by ordering a budget-priced coffin, while the funeral director was doing her best to sell the best
and most expensive she had available. She told the Commissioner that unless he paid for the most
expensive coffin, John's spirit would return and haunt him. He was buried in the best coffin money could
 72

buy!
There is no point in rambling on further with this tale. Needless to say the horror will never leave
me. No one was ever charged with the crime. Noel went to Sydney where he eventually died of a heart
attack. The Continental chap was found hiding in a village outside Port Moresby and gave a written, sealed
statement to the Chief Investigating Senior Sergeant about what he had seen and heard on the fatal night.
After that, he quietly slipped out of the country.
I moved into John's empty flat as I considered it to be the safest place in town … my reasoning
being that the killer would be so afraid of John's spirit, he would be too scared to return to the scene of the
crime.

There was a day during the period following the murder when my friend Basil, took me for a drive in the
country just to get me away from my memories for a while. We returned to my flat a little after dark but I
found I could not bring myself to get out of the car and go indoors. As the flats were raised above the
ground, Basil checked underneath for anyone under the building, then went indoors and checked every
nook and cranny where anyone could hide. Only then could I go indoors and lock myself in for the night.
About ten minutes later the phone rang - it was Basil - he returned home to find the entire back wall of his
kitchen had gone. Port Moresby was at the time was - and still is - ruled by uncontrollable gangs of youths
known by the simple name of raskals. As we all had to live behind barred windows, it seems that a gang
had connected one end of a towrope to the bars on his kitchen windows and the other to a vehicle … and
the wall was gone. Basil was by now almost as nervous as I.

Twelve months later an inquest was held into the death of John Iredale and I had to appear in court. At the
door I met the Senior Sergeant who had been in charge of the investigation into the murder. I asked if he
was able to tell me the contents of the written statement that the Continental chap had given before his
departure. His answer appalled me ...“I don't know. I haven't opened it yet!”

About this time I was approached by a plain-clothes member of the Special Branch of the Police - from
whom I had bought my first car - with a request that if funds and venue were provided, would I consider
opening and managing a Club where Port Moresby’s gay community could meet and socialise without
being fearful for their safety. Honestly, I was embarrassed beyond belief that anyone could possibly
mention me and gay in the same sentence … especially a member of the police. I was given a week-or-so
to give the matter serious consideration.
I did give the matter a lot of thought - my decision was a resounding “No!” explaining that I
couldn’t have my name connected with such a venue. But this was not the Atmain Luxor,reason
Egypt behind my
decision. The idea held some logic and had considerable merit … a venue from a homophobic attack was
an excellent proposition, but the main reason behind my decision was for the safety of members from the
police themselves. I could well imagine having full back-up support until the Club was operating
successfully … I could also imagine the place being raided by the police and all clientele charged, and quite
possibly deported.
 73

AROUND THE MEDITERRANEAN 1978

Athens
In 1978, I received an offer that was just
too good to be true. A postcard reached me
from an ex-Port Moresby friend, telling me
that he had a found a position for me,
teaching the children of the Shah of Iran.
He suggested I take a quick trip to Tehran to personally discuss details and tender my credentials. The
excitement was beginning to mount after my travel agent advised that he had a confirmed reservation for
me on a flight in May of 1978 to Tehran. Then as the time neared, the news hit world headlines that the
Shah had fled the country. Ayatollah Khomeini, the exiled Muslim leader, returned to take control and that
did not suit me at all. I was able to change my reservation for one to Athens for the same price.
I departed Port Moresby on May 27, 1978, arriving at the same old and somewhat scary Kai Tak
International Airport Hong Kong that same day. This airport had been built on land reclaimed from the
harbour. When I booked I chose to have an overnight break in Hong Kong to stretch the legs and relieve
the discomfort of the long-distance flight. The following day found me on the next leg of my surprise
journey to re-visit Athens.
I arrived in Athens at about 5 a.m. as a suitcase-travelling backpacker, before I knew backpacks had
been invented. I invented the term 'snailpacks' for this new phase in travel. I found a very cheap little
pension on Vas. Georgiou - just around the corner from where Eileen and I had previously stayed, and near
the huge Syntagma Square,
Due to such an early arrival I was unable to move into a room until after 10 a.m.. The manageress
of the pension suggested I take a walk and come back later … I was so pleased she added the 'come back
later'. In the meantime she would look after my luggage for me.
For a couple of years I had been corresponding with a friend John (yet another John who will not be
mentioned again), also ex Papua New Guinea: he was teaching in Athens. I found a map that was
somewhat difficult to read, as it was all written in Cyrillic. A small table, in the early morning sunlight of
Syntagma Square, begged me to sit and enjoy a long black coffee and a cigarette or two. Later in the day
this square gets so crowded it is almost impossible to find a seat but at that hour of morning it was exactly
what I needed … a place to just sit and sip and study the map.
I had John’s address in the Plaka area but had not found time to notify him of my impending visit.
It really didn't take too much intelligence to locate the building, but it was more interesting to get to his
room that was a semi-detached cube on the roof - like a shipping container … it had the appearance of
being the wheel-house of a lift well. Eventually I found my way and knocked at his door. Some people
shouldn't get out of bed at that hour … he wasn't exactly a pretty sight … all bleary-eyed from what I was
to later learn had been a big night or, as Guinevere would have said, a big knight. At the time he didn't
recognise me and told me to go away and come back later. Then the blinds over his eyes lifted and the
dawn crept in: “Good God ,Graeme, what are you doing here?” He apologised that he was unable to
invite me in as he had company … we agreed to meet for lunch in The Square at noon because it was the
closest place that I knew, that I thought he would be familiar with as well. By the time I arrived back at the
pension my room was ready. After a nap of a couple of hours, I wandered back to Syntagma to meet John.
We lunched and squeezed as much conversation out of each other as possible in a short time as he had to go
back to his teaching job. By this time it was late enough for a beer.
Not long after John left I was joined by a young, incredibly good-looking, Grecian god who
introduced himself as Theo - almost all Greeks are called Theo - Theodoros, actually. He came over and,
without an invitation sat, at my table. He spoke good English - we spent quite a bit of time in idle
conversation and enjoyed a few drinks, but after such a long night and walking around town for most of the
 74

morning , I really did need some rest, so we adjourned to my room.

On this, my second visit to Athens, I found that the Plaka had been modernised and ruined by what was
called progress. The personality had gone. Fortunately I have my memories of the vibrant, exciting Greco-
Bohemian atmosphere that had previously existed. I walked to the Plaka that evening - wandering through
the narrow, maze-like, winding streets - none wide enough for wheeled transport, and far too steep anyway.
I found a table in a quaint little Taverna on the lower slopes of the Acropolis. Every solitary building
seemed to be a Taverna - each serving food and drinks - most with their own magnificent musicians and
vocalists. I tried quite a few of them that evening - the Tavernas - not the musicians!
I spent a few days taking my time wandering amongst all the fascinating ancient ruins and, am
pleased to say, I never did encounter the bitch from the bar again. Most evenings were spent dining in the
Plaka with Theo. I had noticed, around the corner on Amalias, a travel centre with flights to Cairo
advertised and, on the spur of the moment, decided to go see a different variety of ancient ruin. Nowadays
I live in a Retirement Village where I am surrounded by them! I booked and paid for a one-way ticket to
Cairo for the following day. I never saw or heard from Theodoros again.

Egypt - Cairo
A visa was issued on landing, then an absolute wreck of a taxi took me from the airport to suburban Cairo.
Having no idea of accommodation charges in Egypt, I told the driver to drop me off at a 2-star
accommodation place (until I got my bearings sorted out). That way I could look for something more up-
market if I felt the need for a little class later. I'm sure my hotel would have rated a 0.5 star, if it would even
be rated as habitable at all. I definitely had not been dropped off in the city centre … that's for sure. This
was a sort-of market cum bus terminal area - not a square - more like a circle, where buses, cars and
donkeys all vied for space. Similar to Bali, the horn was the instrument of the day. And oh man! was it
dusty! Hot, dusty and smelly!
The first thing I noticed on entry was that the hotel foyer had a dark floor, possibly once polished,
with the thickest layer of dust imaginable. Mine were the first footprints that gave an indication of what lay
beneath the grime. With all the activity out front of the hotel this was understandable.
That day I learned my first and only word in Egyptian - hamsa. I stayed in room hamsa ... room 5.
From there on, everything was hamsa for me. When bargaining, I would offer hamsa in currency and see
which direction they wanted to go from there - it was always up, never down.
As I was settling into my spartan room a greasy, sweaty, objectionably obese 'porter' - with a little
red fez on his head, bowed, scraped and wrung his hands, and told me he liked English men. I told him I
wasn't English. Then he told me he liked American men. I told him I wasn't American either. Was I
German? … he liked German men too. No, I wasn't German. I was getting the impression that he just liked
men … any men, but this was one was definitely not getting his greasy little paws on me. I suggested he go
find a camel. He asked if I would like room service, “Yes, please, a beer would be fine,” - just to get rid of
the greasy bastard. He came back with two. “One for me … one for you!” But there was no change from
whatever I had given him.

As always when travelling in the Middle-East, it is inevitable that someone will want to be your guide. The
cutest young kid you ever did see latched onto me and wanted to show me around. I did not object as he
was just so cute, so friendly and non-threatening, and so obviously in need of some pocket money. This lad
had the gift of the gab like all under-class Arabs. He knew everyone and he was able to buy our food for
next to nothing. I was taken in and out of shops and markets, and along the bank of the Nile and nearby
streets, through an avenue of poplars on the way to the home of friends or relatives of his. He seemed to
have friends or relatives in practically every street and we had to visit them all. I am sure he was just trying
to show what he had found on the street. It was well after midnight when he left me at the door of my hotel
and thrilled to bits with the tip I gave him.
With nothing planned for the following day and no arrangements made with my little ‘Abdul’, I had
a day to myself. Across the street and past the roundabout I continued along the street that led to the Nile.
Abdul had taken me that way last night. I found the grand old Museum of Egyptian Archaeology where the
funerary mask of my old mate Tutankhamen was kept. A phrenologist had once told me that I was
descended from the Pharaohs. Believe that, if you will! So many of the statues and treasures from my
Wonders of the Past book were there - now I was actually seeing the original items! It came as quite a
 75

surprise to find that King Tut's magnificent gold funerary mask was so small … but so very, incredibly
beautiful. I felt awed and marvelled at how fortunate I was at being able to view the treasure that had
remained unseen for some 3,300 years, until discovered in 1922.
One of the Museum guides was a big buck … a big, big buck. He said he would like to show me
something that most visitors did not see and offered to give me a private viewing. He took me behind a
large glass case of treasures, then behind a curtain; Will I never learn? That was when he reached into his
caftan, withdrawing the most enormous penis I have seen since my Shetland pony died. I knew I had a
problem on my hands. That's not what I meant … what I meant was that I told him I had one of my own
and did not want his in my hands, or anywhere else for that matter. Amazingly for me, a foolproof solution
dawned on me - my easiest way out was to suggest that we meet on the steps of my hotel - across the street
- at 8 o’clock that evening. But the hotel I nominated was one that I had noticed on the way to the
Museum, not where I was staying. It was one of those frightfully exclusive 5-star type places. He would
obviously think that he was onto a good thing. This gives a whole new meaning to the old cigarette
advertisement that said: “I’d walk a mile for a camel!”
That evening as I sat outside a little café-sort-of place near my hotel, having a bite to eat and
enjoying a beer, I chuckled to myself, imagining Horse waiting on the steps at the appointed time.
When I returned to my hotel I went to the bar in which there were a few tables and straight-backed
wooden chairs with two men seated at different tables. One looked as if he could have been Abdul trying to
impersonate Lawrence of Arabia. He wore a white caftan covering him from head to floor, with a black
band around his forehead to hold everything in place. He beckoned me to join him and, when introducing
himself, rattled off a name that began with Sheik - and the rest passed right over my head. After some time
he produced an enormous ‘gold’ ring, with a sparkling red stone of proportionate size and said he would
like me to accept it. It had to be a brummy … had it been genuine he would most certainly not have been
seen dead in that crummy place. I tried it on for size and found that I did fit, but tempted and all as I was, I
thanked him politely and declined the offer. The next proposal took me completely by surprise … he
wanted me to return with him to his home in Yemen. Can you imagine me, on the back of a stallion behind
a Sheik, galloping wildly across the desert sands to spend the rest of my nights in a harem? In an instant I
thought … that sure would make your bum sore, and again declined.
I was about to take a flight to Luxor - a winter resort town - when something happened which I had
never encountered before. In the departure lounge - together with all baggage - all passengers were
thoroughly frisked by guards with pistols at the hip, before being escorted out onto the tarmac. Once again
everyone was lined up, about four metres (yards) from the plane, then had to place their luggage beside the
plane and step back to their original positions in line for another
frisking. Only then we were allowed to board.
No boarding passes issued and, as I am usually
inclined to stand back until last, I found myself sitting right
near the back of the plane with little window space.

Luxor - Karnak
Luxor is approximately five hundred kilometres south-south-
east of Cairo on the east bank of the Nile and has a population
of around 85,000. On the road that runs along the bank of the
palm-fringed Nile was a collection of walled, mud-brick homes,
set well back from the road and out of sight of most visitors. I
found accommodation in a very up-market hotel that had only
very recently opened. Architecturally designed, keeping with
the local theme, it looked like a modern version of Queen
Hatshepsut's palace on the West Bank. On entering through the
front doors of the hotel, one comes upon a long, wide, elevated
walkway that leads right through to the reception area at the
back. Two or three steps down on the right was the lounge;
down on the left, the dining room … all very spacious and
tastefully furnished. It was while in Luxor that I met with an
American couple, Bob and Betty Borden. We exchanged
addresses and corresponded for a few years. Lovely people! The author at Luxor, Egypt, 1978
 76

Some of the world's most inspiringly beautiful temples were built at Luxor, on the site of ancient Thebes
and neighbouring Karnak. The avenue of Sphinxes was very impressive, as was the outstanding temple
built by Amenhotep III to honour the god Ammon.
A most memorable experience was the Son Et Lumiere show. What a spectacular setting
overlooking the Sacred Lake in the actual ruins of Karnak - another genuine, ancient ruin! The show began
with a historical introduction in English, covering the birth of the great city of Thebes and erection of the
Karnak temple, one of the most famous temples in the world. It was a story of glorious achievements and
a magnificent and poetic description of the artistic treasures of Karnak. Verdi's opera ‘Aida’ was performed
there at a later date.
On leaving the temples one can walk on to the embankment facing the Nile. This is paved with
stone and has steps leading down to the water at the spot where Cleopatra's barge used to berth.
Across the Nile, on the western side, facing the east, stand the gigantic Colossi of Memnon. Once
they were on the riverbanks but now, due to a change of flow of the river, they are reasonably well inland.
Further to the west is The Valley of the Tombs of the Kings where Tutankhamen's tomb had been
discovered in 1922. I went deep down into the bowels of the earth, to the very chamber in which
Tutankhamen had been laid to rest. Ever since I was old enough to ponder why, I had wondered how the
artists had been able to paint the frescoes on walls so deep underground. No electricity in those days and
flares or flaming torches would have done little more than poison the air and smoke-stain the art. It was all
explained and demonstrated by guides … light was reflected down the long passages by a series of mirrors
that reflected the suns rays from one to the other until the light reached the gallery. I was able to take some
photographs, using the same method to illuminate the frescoes without using a flash. I also visited the
famous temple, much of which had been hewn from the cliff-face of the afore-mentioned Queen
Hatshepsut, the female Pharaoh.
During the evening loud disco music assailed my ears. I set out to investigate and found a small
secluded bar on the second floor of the hotel, where Grace Jones was screaming her heart out in a recorded
rendition of La Vie En Rose. It seemed so very out of character with the setting and almost sacrilegious, but
it was a wonderful version. After a couple of drinks in the bar and, as I was about to leave, the barman told
me that if I wished further service, I should phone ‘room service’ and ask for a bucket of ice. On returning
to my room, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to phone and find out what had been meant by that
rather cryptic message. I did phone, and the ice was delivered to my room by a young and very effeminate
real-life Egyptian queen. He was an extraordinarily good-looking youth, but not my type: far too
effeminate! This gave an entirely new meaning to room service … it's nothing short of fascinating, what
goes on behind the scenes in Egypt!
I had a most interesting experience on my last night in Luxor … I hired a horse-drawn carriage to
have a final look at the area. We were heading westwards on the esplanade on the eastern bank of the Nile
when the driver handed me the reins and told me to take control the horses. There I was standing, for all
the world like Boadicea, with my hands full and - with one deft motion he somehow managed to get my
pants down around my ankles - he raised his caftan and whompah! I whipped those poor horses into a
frenzy as we raced along the main street of Luxor.

Aswan
Another flight took me further south to Aswan where some ruins of the Ancient City of Syene remain. I
stayed at the legendary Old Cataract Hotel that had been opened in 1899 to cater to the whims of Royal
families, and other world leading figures - apart from myself. It was while staying in that hotel that Agatha
Christie was inspired to write Death on the Nile.
I visited quarries in the region from which granite had been taken for many of the Egyptian
monuments. I also visited the Aswan High Dam - financed by the then Soviet Union - begun in 1960 and
completed ten years later. On the day of my visit to the dam it was a scorching 50 degrees Celcius - 120
Fahrenheit - where tight security was in force and photography forbidden. During construction of the dam
there had been a worldwide appeal for funds to save the Monuments of Nubia, such as the monumental
rock-cut temple of the Abu Simbel complex that had been constructed about 1250 BC by the Pharaoh
Ramses II. It was comprised of four colossal statues of Ramses, each 20 metres - 66 ft. high. The
entrances were removed, piece-by-piece and re-sited higher up above the rising waters in 1968. While
living in Papua New Guinea I had given to the fund to raise money for the resettlement of Abu Simbel
ahead of the rising waters.
 77

It was interesting to visit an island mid-stream in the Nile at Aswan. While all around was arid
desert, the entire island - small as it was - was a botanical garden of tropical plants.
From the West Bank of the Nile I staggered my way up a very long, hot climb over sand to the top
of a great dune where the mausoleum of the Aga Khan - who had died earlier that year - had been built.
The town of Aswan itself is set high above the Nile on the east bank. The hotel in which I stayed, a 4-story
building, always closed the upper floor during the summer months due to the intense heat.
Mention of the fourth floor reminds me of the day in Aswan when I ran foul of yet another camel-
loving Arab - the hotel's lift operator. I was trying to go up to my room on the second floor when the
operator pressed the button for the fourth floor. I refused to get out when told to do so as I knew that floor
was unoccupied. I pressed the button for the second floor again. He became very insistent and pressed the
button for the fourth floor again. Something deep down inside warned me to stick by my guns and not
leave the lift. I pressed the ground floor button - he counteracted by again pressing four. Up and down, up
and down we went until at last, in a fit of anger, I began to shout - it was then, when the lift door opened,
that he pushed me out onto the floor of the fourth and produced what was intended to be the silencer. If I
thought the chap in the museum was hung like a pony, this one was a Clydesdale. This must surely have
been the very first act of terrorism in Aswan. Had I not managed to escape, my screams would have been
heard for miles downstream.

That evening was so much more peaceful. I descended a long flight of stone steps that led from the hotel,
down to the east bank of the Nile. It was so gloriously peaceful down there - scarcely a sound reached my
ears. I sat on a rock in absolute solitude with nothing to hear other than the gently lapping water. A
felucca came by, with raised sail silhouetted against a magnificent full moon, suspended overhead in a
deep-mauve sky. A cool, gentle breeze wafted upstream to the south. I don't know what you a call a
felucca owner, but one drew close to shore and gave indications that I was welcome to climb aboard. This
was one of those magical periods in life that could never ever be recreated or recaptured - just the two of us
adrift on the Nile - with the full moon slowly rising into the heavens above. If that was Death on the Nile,
I’d like an encore. I closed my eyes and let my imagination and inhibitions drift away with the breeze the
gentle rocking motion of the river.

It would have been only about a 500-metre walk from the hotel to the centre of Aswan town … a shabby
little settlement. I was sick to death of those horny Arabs and so, early the following morning, walked to
the station with the intention of catching the next train to Cairo. Not knowing how the public transport
system operated in Egypt, I had foolishly checked out of my hotel, expecting to just pay the fare and board
the train. Not so! At the railway station I had terrible difficulty in making myself understood, and
eventually left with a ‘chit’ that I was advised to present the next morning to prove that I had made an
enquiry - an enquiry, that’s all - no actual booking.
Up a narrow flight of steps off the main street, I came across an awfully sleazy little place where I
found a room for the night. This was about the lowest I had ever come as far as paid-for accommodation
was concerned … it was frightful! After finding a place to eat in the main street, I returned to the shabby
room as I did not feel at all safe in that dimly lit street. I locked the door behind me and settled down to try
and sleep. I eventually managed to doze off, wishing I were back, drifting on the Nile once more.

At first light I was up early and waiting at the station shortly afterwards. Even at that hour it was
oppressively hot. I had heard a train come in during the night and did not want to miss it. I produced my
chit at the ticket office, paid my money and managed to get a forward-facing window seat on the left, in
order to get a better view of the Nile en route. Seating was cafe style - three seats on either side of a table.
Estimating the distance from Aswan to Cairo at about 700 kilometres, with no dining car, it
promised to be a long, hard and hungry journey. Most of the way we travelled through an area of verdant
green cultivated land with crops and gardens, interspersed with patches of desert. At times of the annual
flooding of the Nile the waters rise over the banks, depositing a layer of rich alluvial soil. Without this
flooding, Egypt would surely die.
This trip turned out to be most unforgettable and similar to the train from Butterworth to Bangkok -
where a group formed at one table and an animated lot of nonsense filled most of the day - on the Aswan/
Cairo train a similar thing happened. We sketched, scribbled, gestured and made ridiculous faces, all in an
effort to communicate. Strange as it may seem, I think we did an excellent job considering the difficulties.
 78

I forgot to mention that I was the only Westerner in

the carriage. In spite of all the exasperation and
humour, it was a relief to reach Cairo that evening.

On the way to the airport next morning, the taxi

This is me in my Lawrence of Arabia impersonation
driver insisted that I visit the pyramids at El Giza, a
city outside forming a suburb of Cairo. I had seen
quite enough photographs of the pyramids in my life
and, as I was in a hurry to get to the airport, I felt no
real need to actually visit them. I became more
inspired as we neared and actually drove close by.
The pyramids Khafre, Khufu and Menkaure loom
larger than life - larger than the human brain can
comprehend. The poor old Sphinx, unfortunately,
was most definitely showing his-or-her age.

The final Egyptian insult to my dignity came when a smelly old Arab insisted that I climb onto the back his
camel. I did not want to get on the camel! I'm not all that fussy about camels unless, of course, I happened
to find a pretty one. He insisted - and the vice-like grip he had on my arm suggested that I should mount
the ugly beast. As soon as I was settled in the saddle, he slapped the beast firmly on the rump and uttered
something like ‘Shishkabob!’ I thought he was ordering lunch and off we went - camel and I - across the
desert sands. I was furious. I was totally exasperated. I was trembling with anger as I had a plane to catch.
Eventually he called the animal back and when I asked to be allowed to dismount he said, “You pay!” I
reluctantly offered some coins ... “Paper money!” he insisted. It was a demand this time - I paid.
Fascinating and all as the country is, I have not been back to see the restoration and honestly feel
that I will never again visit Egypt - in a group maybe - but never alone. There were just too many offerings
of what the Arabs thought was a good thing.
Now what to do and where to go? I had determined while on the train north to Cairo, to circle the
Mediterranean, which meant I had to go west. I learned that the border between Egypt and Libya was
closed - my only means of getting away to the west was to fly over Libya to Tunisia.

Tunisia
This was another of those times when I wished I had done a little research and used more sense. As usual, I
arrived in Tunis without a visa. Immigration Officers at the airport were not impressed with me and -
together with two black-as-all-hell Ethiopian brothers - I spent the next six hours shut away in a small,
closed room at the airport. At least the brothers and I could communicate in broken English. I admit that
the three of us were somewhat worried in regard to our future. We discussed all sorts of possible scenarios.
I was particularly concerned about my luggage that I had not seen since arrival. I imagined it sitting in the
arrivals area where anyone could grab it. At the end of the six hours an armed guard entered the room and
told us - in no uncertain terms - that we were not welcome in Tunisia, but would be permitted to stay
overnight, providing we left the country by train the following morning. I was not allowed to have my
passport or luggage, or cash a traveller’s cheque, until departure.
The three of us were taken to something that resembled a hotel, overlooking a square, not far from
the railway station. The view from the window was pleasant enough, out over the square with the station to
the right, but we had little money and were desperately hungry. The three of us pooled our cash. It was
decided that the brothers - because they could make themselves known in the local language - would go out
in a search of food, while I remained in the room guarding the few meagre possessions we had. Eventually
they returned with their prize … a can of bully beef, of the turn-the-key opening type. It was eaten using
nothing but our bare hands.
Our accommodation had neither electricity nor water. We took turns to walk to the nearby station
for toilet and washing purposes. We had one double bed - taken by the brothers - and I had to curl up in a
baby's cot for the night. There was no way that I was allowed to share the bed. During the evening I
learned that they were trying to get to their homeland of Ethiopia so as to join a group who were fighting a
war with Sudan. They had tried to get through to the south from Egypt but found that border closed as
well.
 79

In the morning, I was taken to the station with my luggage, put on a train and given my passport
just as the train began to move. I was off again … destination unknown!

Algeria
I still had no visa, but was told I would be issued with one on entry at the border. The train moved slowly,
onwards and upwards as we climbed into the northeastern extremities of the Atlas Mountains where
darkness fell. I found sleep impossible as the compartment, designed to hold six, had at least fourteen in it.
Possessions filled every nook and cranny on the seats, under the seats and in the luggage racks. Bodies
were crammed under, on and amongst the possessions and the air was stifling. At 3.30 a.m. we pulled into
a station and, not knowing or caring where I was, I gathered my bits and pieces and disembarked as the
compartment was too crowded for comfort. The departure of the train left me standing on a platform, in an
unknown city or town, in almost total darkness. The only writing in sight was in Arabic. I had no idea
where I was.
On making my way out of the station I crossed a street and disaster hit once again. I was tired
beyond belief … I was lost … I had no money … it was a pitch-black night and I was swamped with a
spasm of diarrhoea. The only solution I could think of was to drop my daks in the street, throw the soiled
undies over a wall into someone's private garden, clean myself as best I could with tissues and pretend
nothing had happened. Thank heavens for the darkness! But I felt that the night had a thousand eyes.
As my eyes began to grow accustomed to the blackness, and as dawn slowly crept in from the east,
I could make out that on my right was a seemingly bottomless black void. Silhouetted against the greying
sky, I discerned a wide V-shaped cleft in the horizon, spanning it was a narrow strip of black that
eventually took on the form of a long bridge. To the right of the bridge a feeble light twinkled amongst
some trees. It was exhausting work, carrying my luggage and dragging myself uphill to reach the bridge
which I crossed with nothing but blackness beneath me. When I reached it, the light turned out to be in the
Maternity Ward of a hospital. I must have been an awesome sight, staggering in from the night in such a
dishevelled, disgusting condition. Verbal communication between the staff and me was impossible.
Someone showed me to a bathroom where I was able to shower. As no towel was available, I dressed in
clean clothes over my wet body, lay on the bare concrete floor and slept until awakened by nurses and told
to move on. It was already daylight. Retracing my steps of a few hours before, I re-crossed the bridge
made my way down to where the problem began. It was then that I discovered an open doorway beneath
the station that led to communal baths. Too late … I was as clean as I needed to be, and I didn’t dare enter
the gate to retrieve my undies.
Back on the platform, I learned that I had visited Constantine - Qacentina. I lay on a wooden seat
and dozed until the next westbound train came along. By now I had lost sense of time … I was beyond
caring.
Next stop apparently, would be Algiers.

In the year 2005, I read: The old city of Algiers is one of the worst to be found in North Africa. If you want
to see a real slum, this is the place. This has been one of the most dangerous places for foreigners to visit,
during the upheavals of recent years. Entering this place is a suicidal act.

Maybe that was true at the time but I was blissfully unaware of the fact, and maybe I was just a little bit
lucky as I found a passable place to stay in the French sector of town. After registering at the desk I was
given the key to my room - once again on level hamsa - and given a soft drink bottle of water. It was
explained to me precisely, lest I misunderstood, that the water was for drinking, laundry and all ablutions.
One bottle per person per day was the limit.
It was a very hot, unpleasant day. I used nearly half my ration of water to rinse out - as best I could
- my lightweight blue cotton trousers and hung them over the windowsill to dry, then lay down to rest. The
little sleep I had managed in recent times had been insufficient to sustain sanity and was often disturbed.
I awoke late in the afternoon and immediately cast my gaze towards the window … my precious
trousers had disappeared. How, I wondered…how could anyone have taken them from the sill of a fifth
floor window in full view of the masses in the street below. I walked to the window - looked out - and
there they were, caught on a sill of the floor below.
Beside the door was a sign that I had noticed on arrival … I always check for such notices in a new
place. This one read: TO CALL ROOM SERVICE OPEN DOOR AND CALL ROOM SERVICE!
 80

That's what I did, and the next thing I knew was that one of the staff had arrived to find me clad in nothing
but a towel - a flimsy little thing - similar to a tea towel that I had to hold at the back and, on seeing the
open window, seemed to put two and two together. He looked out and down. “Aaah!” Problem solved ...
he went downstairs and soon returned my pants, gratefully accepting a small reward.
The most impressive building I saw in Algiers was the wonderful Post office, a truly grand creation
of gold and white. I briefly had a look at the local souk - age-old market place - and took a walk to the
coastal strip down below the town ... pleasant and relatively interesting, it was another world down there.
And, rested as I was, I moved on - on another train.

Due to travelling in the darkness during the previous long trip, I believe I had missed out on some
wonderful scenery along this section. This train from Algiers to wherever was a vast improvement and I
managed a six-seat compartment all to myself. That did not last long, however, as a gentleman of the most
military bearing joined me, smothered in medals, badges and braid. I was extremely wary and gave him
wide berth ... Suggesting by my manner…you that side, me this side! Somewhere west of Algeria, I was
awakened in the dead of night by the sounds of shouting and shuffling feet. I opened my eyes to find that
my bedecked cabin-mate had departed. Another uniformed gentleman, whose rifle suggested that I leave
the train, threw the door wide open. No way was I leaving my sanctuary that I had all to myself. I sat
there, trying to ignore his hostility but when I looked out the window into the darkness I saw a procession
of lights jiggling across a dark area away from the train. It reminded me of a scene from Fantasia! Other
folk, moving towards the doors, were carrying all their baggage. Collecting my bits and pieces I moved to
the open door and jumped down beside the tracks and following the procession of humanity. I headed off,
climbing through a wire fence before making my way across a ploughed field, wondering all the while what
fate held in store for me this time. And not a soul could I ask.
There was a road ahead with cars and trucks and buses and all forms of transport in a line, most
with their lights on. Was I being shipped to a concentration camp of some sort? Everyone was climbing
into whatever they could manage to find space in … I found a bus. The convoy moved further along the
road … I have no idea how far … and then I discovered the problem was not as drastic as I had imagined.
There had been a derailment that we by-passed by road, joining another train on the other side. I had,
unfortunately, lost my private compartment.
The next point of interest was the border between Algeria and Morocco. The train came to a halt
in the middle of nowhere again and everyone had to disembark and take all their possessions with them.
Carrying my bags once more, I walked along the track westwards until coming to a Check Point Charlie
type area, where identification documents had to be shown and stamped before proceeding through no
man's land, for another 100-or-so yards/metres to the next checkpoint, where a similar operation took place.
I then set foot in the mystical Morocco and the rest of the trip was by coach. After several hours, I arrived
in Casablanca.

Morocco - Casablanca
The small hotel I found near the bus depot had the most interesting form of decor I had ever come across.
The bar cum dining room was a covered area on the roof, from the ceiling of which were hundreds -
possibly thousands - of great thick skeins of wool in every conceivable gaudy colour hanging from heavy
wooden beams. It was colourful, to say the least. After a quick snack of lamb shish kebab, I settled down
for a good night's rest.
A new day dawned and, typically, I did another incredibly stupid thing. I couldn’t read anything in
the street, and staying quite close to the hotel, I was searching for something that could pass for a bank from
which I hoped to withdraw some cash. One of the thousands of hustlers that fill the streets approached and
asked if I wanted to buy some hashish. I said “No!” but when he asked if I would like to smoke some, I
relented and agreed, telling him that I would meet him later after I had withdrawn some money. I had never
tried hashish and as I do like to try everything once and - if I like it - well, you know the story by now. He
offered to come to the bank with me in case I required an interpreter. Transaction completed, he took me to
a nearby hotel and told me to take the lift to the top floor … he would go up by the stairs and meet me up
there. Something made me wonder how it was that he had a key to access an unoccupied room but the
thought vanished as quickly as it had come. After we went in he locked the door behind us. The two of us
sat on a double bed while he prepared the hashish. He then suggested we undress. Why I went along with
 81

this I will never know - at times I cursed my adventurous spirit. Fifteen or so minutes later I was as high as
hell and completely naked when he produced a nasty-looking weapon … a stiletto. He held it to my throat
and demanded that I hand over my money. This couldn’t possibly be happening to me! At first I thought it
was a joke … I think I chuckled, then I realised he knew how much money I had as he had accompanied me
to the bank. It flashed through my head - how on earth had a quiet country boy from rural Victoria ended
up in a situation such as this - stark naked, sitting on a bed in a vacant room on a deserted floor of a hotel in
Casablanca with a stiletto at his throat? You’ve come a long way, Rossie … don’t let it end this way! He
demanded $200.00. In my dazed stupor I started to bargain ... $100! $200 or he would kill me! He told me
that nobody had seen us enter the hotel together, and nobody would connect him to me. With the knife still
at my throat I realised I was in a no-win situation and agreed to give him $150.00, telling him it was nearly
all I had and I did need some cash for food. He took the money, told me to stay where I was for five
minutes, walked out through the door and, I'm pleased to say, out of my life forever. Fortunately he left my
clothes with me.
As I left the building I looked cautiously both left and right in case of an ambush.

In 1973, Universal Studios had released a film called Two People. In one part of the film the stars - Peter
Fonda and Lindsay Wagner - were travelling on the Marrakesh Express - also written as Marrakech. They
left the train and hot-footed it into the desert sands where they came upon a market with the most exotic
range of Berber carpets, caftans, sheepskins, brass goods and woven crafts imaginable. How I had longed
to be able to visit such an exotic place, never once dreaming that one day I actually would. It was quite
impossible for a quiet-living country boy like me to travel to such distant lands. Now, just five years later,
here I was on the same fabulously exotic journey.

Marrakesh
Nowhere on the rail journey south did I see anything that remotely resembled the place where Mr Fonda
and Ms Wagner had gone a-wandering and, by this stage, I was completely frazzled by being hassled. On
reaching the station at Marrakesh, my first, most important need, was to find a place to sleep.
A long, wide, date palm-lined thoroughfare ran all the way from the station to the walls of the city,
that was so far away I couldn’t see it at this stage. With each and every offer to assist with my luggage I
grew angrier. I had no idea I could lay my tongue on so many nasty four-letter words. I was screaming
obscenities, such as I never imagined I could, especially in public because they had me at my wit's end. I
was growing very tired of walking in that desert heat and, with each agonising step, another beggar would
try to grab the luggage - possibly with good intentions - and with every step I grew angrier and angrier.
Eventually, after a very long hot walk I passed through a wide, arched gateway and entered the
imperial city, which, at the dawn of its history, gave Morocco its name. I walked on through the immense
central square where the Berbers and Arabs mingled with the nomads and the mountain people - where
camels are as prevalent as whores in a brothel - and the air stinks of camel dung. So this is the exotic
Morocco that I had so longed to visit!
I found a small place at the eastern side of the square, with the souk on my left, a mosque on my
right and the exclusive Mamounia Hotel - where Cate Blanchett later celebrated her 36th birthday - hidden
from sight behind high walls, directly next door.
As usual, I was tired. I was hot and tired. I had covered a lot of country and had reached the most
distant point from home. It was time to think of turning tail and heading back again, but first I had to see
something of Marrakesh. I was desperate to keep out of the way of the pestering beggars and would-be
guides, and I had also developed a complex about coming in contact with knife-wielding thugs. I found a
small hotel and retired to the bar on the roof where I sat, sipped, and gathered my thoughts. Far too much
had been crammed into my brain in a matter of a few weeks. The towering Atlas Mountains soared towards
the sky in the east. A tranquil period of peace until … five times a day the amplified, recorded muezzin -
the call to prayer - screeched from the tower of the neighbouring minaret.
Naturally, as I stepped from the hotel the following morning an urchin took my hand and said, “I be
your guide today!” This was the last thing I needed, but I thought he was so small I could handle the
situation. He insisted on showing me things that I was not in the least interested in seeing; he didn’t seem
at all like those damned peasants in Egypt. He dragged me into the dim, dark, crammed and crowded maze
of the souk, insisting that merchants lay carpets out for me to see, even though I tried desperately to explain
 82

that I did not want one - that I could not afford one - and, even if I could afford one, I had no intention of
lugging a carpet square with me halfway around the world. He took me to a Moorish style palace where
princess somebody had once lived - I didn’t give a damn what her name was, I really was losing interest -
and filled me with a great amount of useless information. I paid him off with some coins that I thought
would cover his unsolicited time and the little bastard threatened to bring his brother to kill me if I did not
give him more. With a threat he left - presumably to find his brother - so I hurried to a nearby bus depot and
bought a ticket to Fez - Fes. I wanted out! I needed to get moving once more, as I intended returning
homewards along the northern coast of the Mediterranean.
I returned to my hotel, where I stayed indoors until time to catch the bus at 6 the following
morning, when I cautiously peeped outside … the urchin was nowhere in sight.
Had I realised it was such a long trip I would have flown, but never would I have experienced the
real Morocco and have the closeness of local travellers, one of whom, a teacher who lived in the Atlas
Mountains, badly wanted me to change plans and visit his home. I did appreciate the offer, but had to
explain that I was anxious to return to my own home and still had a long way to travel.

Fez
We reached Fez late in the afternoon. A fellow passenger, who I had not taken much notice of previously,
offered to help me find a place to sleep. He knew of a small place to which we walked, a short distance
from the bus stop, where I was able to get a room. He explained that he worked at one of the city's 5-star
hotels and would take me there after we had a few drinks. The few were just a few too many for me after
such a long trip and very little to eat. He deposited me in the basement bar of the hotel while he went to
work. The lighting was exceptionally dim and exotic - candles flickered inside ornate filagreed brass
lamps. I was seated on a padded lounge-type seat that ran in an arc around to an ornate archway.
Around to my right the occasional glow of a cigarette caught my attention in the darkness. The
glow grew gradually closer. I wondered if the alcohol was playing tricks on my mind - either that or I was
falling under the influence of the strange, heady, aromatic scent of the place. The glow reached my side
and a cigarette was offered. I accepted it and took a long draw, inhaling deeply. “Come with me to zee
Casbah,” I thought. Then I had another draw and another, and suddenly felt most definitely unwell. I
stood, with intentions of making a dash to and through the door on the far side of the room. The further I
walked, the further the distance appeared to become between the door and me. The closer I got, the more
the doorway seemed to diminish in size. I began to panic as I had never experienced anything like it before.
I thought that quite possibly I had been drugged - all I had to do was get out that door as quickly as possible
into the brightly lit area on the other side. I managed to get there, entering a marbled vestibule at the
bottom of a long flight of marble stairs, at the top of which I recognised the foyer that I had entered with
my travelling companion. That's when I vomited, all over those lovely, pristine, white marble stairs in the
foyer of a 5-star hotel.
I was ashamed - I was embarrassed - I was afraid and desperately wanted to get out of the place. I
made it out through the front door to the street where I hailed a taxi. It was then that I found I could not
talk … I tried to talk, but no words came. The driver showed great tolerance as I sat there for quite some
time until I realised that I had no idea of the name of my hotel, or where it was. I eventually found words to
explain that I had arrived from Marrakesh by bus and indicated that I wanted to go to the bus depot. He
drove me there and I paid whatever fare was asked and got out of the taxi. Gradually, through the fog of a
distant memory, I recognised landmarks and managed to retrace our steps of earlier in the day … the
experience had really scared me! Somehow I found my accommodation and slept the sleep of the dead that
night.
So much for the legendary city of Fez. I hated the place, and it was entirely my own, stupid fault. I
took a bus - an open-sided one - up through Moulay-Idriss to the port city of Tangier - Tanger - from where
I knew I could take a ferry across the Strait of Gibraltar to Malaga, in Spain. I was in no mood for sight
seeing so found a shady spot near the beach and settled down to wait until the ferry was due to depart.
All those miles, from one side of Africa to the other, through some of the world's most unhygienic
countries and - apart from Constantine - not one unpleasant bowel motion. For the interest of anyone who
happens to be passing through Tangier and is feeling hungry, I will recommend a great little French
restaurant that I discovered that day - La Grenouille Verte - fabulously French with excellent food!
It was while waiting for the ferry to Gibraltar that I realised I had neither seen nor spoken to
another Caucasian since my early days in Egypt. And I hadn’t been able to read anything either.
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Spain - Malaga
As we were crossing the Strait of Gibraltar a mild form of panic hit me. I had in my possession a miniscule
amount of hashish, and word had it on the ferry that Customs and Immigration were hellish about carrying
drugs into Spain. I hurried to the toilet where I flushed it away, feeling as I did, that cameras could be
filming my every action. A youth of unknown origin sidled up to me and asked if I could loan him $50.00,
as he had no money. If the Customs or Immigration officers learned he had no money, he would not be
permitted off the vessel, he told me. It was another of those instances where I had to make a snap decision
whether or not to give assistance - I couldn’t afford to help and had to reluctantly refuse. Sorry, son … I
felt so bad about that!
As expected, Customs were exceptionally thorough. No doubt there had been many nasties
crossing those waters during centuries past and I had no desire to be categorised as one. Morocco had
taught me a lesson. Never again would I become involved with illegal drugs!
Once outside the ferry terminal I was literally swept off the street and thrown onto the back of a
motorcycle, clutching my suitcase and the ever-present shoulder bag, while at the same time trying to get a
grip on the driver … don't take that the wrong way either! Honestly, some homicidal Latin maniac had
picked me up and was whizzing me off through the streets of Malaga. Night had well and truly fallen and
the streets were packed with traffic. We swerved our way along, dodging vehicles and pedestrians,
eventually coming to a screeching stop outside what he had chosen as my accommodation. No doubt he
was sufficiently experienced in these matters to reason that if I were well heeled financially, I would have
flown and not taken a slow boat to Malaga.
My room was small and cosy, and had every facility I required for one night, but I was hungry. As
we sped through the streets I had noticed that restaurants were open and the pavements were packed with
people. What I did not realise at the time was that in Spain the Spanish, with their zest for the good life, did
not start to surface much before 10 p.m.. The superb, almost sub-tropical climate of southern Spain is so
suited to al fresco dining. Before that evening was over I had come to the conclusion that the Spanish had
an exuberance for food, life, and music, matched only by that of the Greeks.
Looking out from my window was not at all exciting - well it wasn't at all exciting until Big Ben -
the giant clock that dominated the entire view - struck midnight. The room shuddered and my glass slipper
turned to a thong of the rubber footwear type, not a G-string.
I had been sending postcards to my friend Glenys - of Donald Friend fame - from places I visited
all along the way across northern Africa, advising her that I was on my way to pay her a visit. She had
married an Argentinean gent and settled in Barcelona a few years previously, and had given me her address
with the usual 'pop in sometime' invitation. An invitation is something that I do not take lightly.

Barcelona
With Glenys in mind I set my heart on making a move towards Barcelona. The first sector was a bus trip to
Granada. Ah, Granada, the very sound of the word was music to my ears. I found the tiniest coffee shop
ever - one that had an entire wall dominated by a gigantic photographic mural of one of the prettiest sights
imaginable … a superb backdrop for a ballet of Scheherazade. I enquired of the proprietor as to where the
place was. “Just over there,” he said, … pointing directly across the street that led off towards the right,
away from where I was sitting, “Alhambra!” I gulped the coffee down and headed off to find the most
magnificent Moorish castle I had ever seen. Of course, this was the first Moorish castle I had ever seen, so
it had to be the most magnificent.
The castle was built between the years 1,238 and 1,358 and had been the last stronghold of the
Muslim kings of Granada. It is a truly magnificent example of architecture, with the most beautiful courts
and gardens and sparkling fountains that danced and glistened in the sunlight. Tall, stately pencil cypresses
grew beside - and were reflected in - a wonderful lily pond. I spent quite some time wandering the grounds,
marvelling at such incredible extravagance. The snow-capped Pyrenees mountain range loomed in the
background.

From Granada I took a train to Alicante before heading north to Valencia for a two-night break. Time to
unwind - time to relax and smell the flowers. Valencia is a city of remarkably beautiful architecture and a
fountain that gushes water several metres into the air. I was impressed by one building, which I took to be
a grand palace and, on entering, discovered it to be the stamp exchange, where philatelists from all over
come to hold their weekly market. Across the street was the bullfight stadium - most impressive from
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outside, but because of my loathing of the cruel, barbaric, sadistic sport, I didn’t enter.

By rail to Barcelona, where I eventually found the apartment of my friend, Glenys. I knocked on the door
and was aware of en eye peering at me through a security peephole, followed by a stifled scream. I never
knew I had that effect on women. She opened the door where we kissed and hugged and I was introduced
to Carlos, her Argentinean husband. The scream had come about because none of my correspondence had
reached its destination and Glenys was completely unaware that I had left the shores of Papua New Guinea.
Home … it seemed to be worlds away from my present location. During the course of our wanderings I
told her of my meeting with Donald Friend and of his utter disdain, she cast it aside with equal disdain. I
had the feeling that she had never met him in the first place and had merely been name-dropping.
We lunched on the magnificent Ramblas, an extremely wide, tree-lined thoroughfare with flower
gardens, where everyone who thought they were somebody strutted their stuff. It was the place to be seen
and noticed. For reasons unknown, I bought a replica historic revolver and Glenys helped me find a music
store where I was able to buy the recording of Grace Jones giving her wonderful rendition of La Vie En
Rose that I had first heard in Luxor. I reserve my opinion on what I thought of the architecture of the
famous Antonio Gaudi y Cornet … enough to say, as I remarked at the time, that the spire of the cathedral
resembled what I imagined a burst condom would look like.
As we were walking past a travel centre I did a complete back flip when I noticed a large poster of
Andorra. I was only vaguely familiar with Andorra through postage stamps that I had bought when I was
about thirteen years old but had no idea where the place was. In my ignorance, I asked Glenys where it was
- she told me that it was only a few hours away by road. Without giving further thought, I walked in and
came out with a one-way ticket. We returned to their apartment, picked up my bags and returned to the bus
depot. So much for the Spanish city of Barcelona - at least I had visited and had seen something of the
place.

Andorra
The bus took me high into the Pyrenees … way up into snow country. It was all very picturesque, but I
was too darned cold to appreciate much of the beautiful surroundings. After all, I had not catered clothing
for anything other than a tropical climate.
I was to learn that evening that Andorra is a principality set high in the Pyrenees, between Spain
and France. It has mountainous peaks rising to almost 3,000 metres (9,500 ft). No wonder it was cold.
Their official language is Catalan, although both French and Spanish are readily spoken. I was amazed to
find that they had both French and Spanish Post Offices, French and Spanish shops, and French and
Spanish holidays. The population of the entire country, at the time, was around 35,000. I spent one night
only in the township of Andorra la Vella. And oh boy, was it cold? It was so pretty, and so very, very
cold!
The following day I travelled by bus through very bleak snow-covered mountains. At the Andorra/
France border I tried desperately to have my passport stamped but no matter how much I pleaded, I could
not get any service. One can only presume their ink was frozen. The bus gradually descended from the
mountains until we came to the low country, coming to a stop at the French coastal town of Perpignan,
where I had a good solid meal, then set off by train for Marseille - pronounced Mah-say.. This was a most
scenic region with high mountains on the left and the northern coast of the Mediterranean to the right. All
along the line, tiny villages appeared amongst the trees. After disembarking at the dismally depressing
Marseille railway station, I trod the light fantastic down a wide stairway to the lower level where the city
was situated. Down on the lower level was a botanical paradise where well-maintained gardens bloomed
everywhere. A glorious range of flowers of just about every species was available for purchase at barrows
and stalls that lined the pavements but I didn’t have a room to put any in.

On The Riviera
I found a quite affordable little room in which to stay in Cannes - pronounced Carn - between the railway
station and the famous beach. From what I could make out, the wealthy relaxed in hired deck chairs on the
beach, waited on hand and foot by tray-waving waiters dressed in penguin costumes, the well endowed
silicone-implant crowd baked topless in the sun on the beach, while the balance of the masses sat on hired
chairs along the promenade.
One night in Cannes was sufficient. I am not a fan of the beach - I am thin and I burn easily. I was
 85

so skinny at school that the sports master always used me as a goal post as he considered me to be useless
for any other position on the field. I'd love to meet that teacher nowadays and tell of some of the action I
have experienced on various fields since.
I moved to the adjoining Principality of Monaco - pronounced Monnah-co. Monaco consists of
three principal localities: the previously mentioned beach area with all the luxury hotels, and the business
district around the port … oh, my God, you should see the line-up of ocean-going craft at Monaco, each and
every one of them would cost more than any luxury home in Australia, and the third locality is Monte
Carlo, with the famed Grand Casino of the Hotel Paris. Of course I had to enter, but didn't even have a
flutter, as there were no machines in those days, only tables, and I felt I wasn’t suitably dressed. On one of
my strolls I found myself on a large parade ground where nine gentlemen, dressed entirely in white,
marched. I couldn't fathom what they were up to - two appeared to be carrying small, black briefcases, and
one carried a staff of sorts. Maybe the other six were too tired to carry anything. I discovered that I had
wandered onto the parade ground of Prince Rainier's Palace and this was the changing of the guards. As I
had seen the Princess Grace - when she was Grace Kelly - in films, I didn't bother waiting around
needlessly, so I took myself off to see the marine life in the aquarium and followed that up with a quick
visit to the Institute Oceanographic.
The entire area of the Principality of Monaco is 189 hectares (467 acres) … a little bit larger than
‘Avondale’, the property on which I had lived as a child.

Florence again
I over-nighted in Genoa and bought a ticket for the train to Rome. Only a short distance from Florence I
thought of the ring I had previously seen in the shop on the Ponte Vecchio. It was a spontaneous decision -
I wanted that ring! When the train came to a halt at the station I grabbed my luggage, alighted, put the
bags into a locker and headed off to the Ponte Vecchio.
Returning was a nostalgic episode. On the way, I gave the bronze boar in the marketplace another
friendly pat on the snout for old times sake, and to let him know that I had returned, then continued to the
bridge … a sort of pilgrimage ... and there - in exactly the same position - was the ring. I bought it! And
walked back to the station - took my luggage from the locker - and caught the next train to Rome.

Rome Revisited
I took a room in an exquisitely furnished pension, very near Central Station, across the street from the
historic Santa Maria Maggiore church. If my informant told me the story correctly, some bird named Maria
had chosen the site for the church and then traced the plan, scratching cornerstone marks into the snow with
her boot.
The building in which I had taken up residence once housed apartments of the wealthy. In modern
times, however, many tenants had alterations made in order to take in guests as a means of generating
sufficient income to cover the cost of rising rates. After checking in, one of the first things I did was locate
the bathroom just along the corridor from my room. It just so happened that the toilet was in the
bathroom ... and it had an actual bath. I have not adapted the American habit of referring to a toilet as a
bathroom … I don’t pee in a bathroom, I pee in a toilet! Arriving after the long trip it seemed a good time
to fill a tub of nice, hot water and have a good soak and relax my weary limbs. Back in the room I
undressed and wrapped a towel around me and, when I went the bathroom to turn the taps on, I discovered
there were no tap handles. I called for the landlady who told me that there was an extra charge for the use
of the handles. I paid willingly. I’ll do just about anything for a nice hot bath!
Feeling refreshed and rested, I wandered up past Santa Maria's to the station for a budget-priced,
railway refreshment rooms type meal - never the best food in the world - but I expected it to be a bistro
style where I could make my own selection. I was wrong - the eating section was a glassed-in room where
customers were expected to pay before entering. But how was I to know what I wanted to eat until I knew
what was available? The easiest choice was to order spaghetti … a sure bet that spaghetti would be on the
menu in Italy … it was. The next question was what sort of spaghetti I wanted? Again I took a chance and
ordered Bolognese … that worked as well. He took my banknote, which I think would have been to the
value something like several thousand lire ... gave me a ticket and waved me through. On presenting the
ticket at the counter, I received my meal and then learned that I would have to go through the entire
procedure again if I wanted a drink. I decided I wasn’t all that thirsty.
I found Rome to be an extremely easy place to find my way around. Not only did I have a street
 86

map, but also the streets were signed mostly in words very easy to translate. Very different to those on the
north coast of Africa, where I could understand nothing other than 'hamsa', and even that was written in
mystical squiggles. It was an easy stroll downhill to, around and into the heart of the Colosseum, where I
was amazed to find that the structure was built right in the heart of the city, with a steady stream of traffic
using it as a roundabout, circling constantly day and night. In my head I could hear the cheers of the
crowds as Christians were thrown to the lions. I now believe that story to be completely untrue. In
photographs, the Colosseum appears to be immense … it really isn't all that huge at all, but I guarantee that
you will feel yourself shrink in stature on entering. It is an awesome sensation. Can you imagine walking
in there and having to fight to the death? It did happen in the days of Nero and Caligula. There are some
times when I do not yearn for the good old days.

Rome is a city to be explored and enjoyed – not merely visited and seen. It is a city of interesting little
streets and delightful surprises not just a pile of old rocks, ruins and monuments. Time should be allowed
to wander at your own pace, off the beaten track. When you come upon an archway, walk through, find out
what’s on the other side, you'll find a world of beauty and sights such as the Arch of Constantine that was
erected in 313 AD. I accidentally came upon the Roman Forum, the gates of the ancient City of Rome and
the strangely round Castle Sant' Angelo. And simply overpowering in its grandeur is the gleaming white
monument to Victor Emmanuel II.
I noticed a vast difference between eating in Greece and eating in Italy. In Greece you order, get
your meal and eat, and quite often have a problem finding someone to take the money when it comes time
to pay. In Italy, unless dining in the higher-class establishments, you must pay sight unseen and won't get
a thing until paid in full and, when you do pay, they can't get you out of the establishment quickly enough.
Sitting, reading and enjoying a coffee at a table in a block-long colonnade area not far from the
central railway station I had a most interesting encounter. An elderly lady - and I did consider her to be a
lady - stood by my table and asked if I could buy her a drink. Twice bitten … not me! Been through all
that before. I told her I would buy her a coffee, but nothing alcoholic, if she would sit and drink it on the
spot. She accepted the coffee offer and sat, saying all that she really needed was company and someone to
talk to. She told of how she had fraternised with the Germans during the occupation and, as a result, had
her head shaved and had been ostracised by her own people. I heard tales of difficult living conditions
during occupation and acts of degradation, not only at the hands of the occupying army, but quite often
from her fellow Italianos. She had few true friends and had been forced to make a living on the streets ever
since the war ended. It was then that she asked if I would like to go with her … the poor, desperate old
dear. When I declined the invitation she offered the services of a gentleman friend, if I was interested. I
bought her a second coffee and a newspaper and went on my way, somewhat saddened by her tragic story.
I guess there were more interesting events that should be recalled from my stay in that wonderful
city, but I will cut the story right here rather than have to apologise for a fading memory. Arrivederci,
Roma.

Back to Port Moresby

It seemed to be an interminably long taxi ride from Rome City to the airport. I was now anxious to get
home, back to my own bed and surroundings and - most of all - to a change of clothing.
The first stage of the flight was Rome to Athens, then the long haul across to Abu Dhabi - Abu
Zaby - in the United Arab Emirates, thence to Hong Kong and Port Moresby, arriving on July 9, 1978.
 87

THE UNITED STATES AND CANADA 1979

I am sure it is the desire of most Australians to

one day visit Disneyland and, as I had never
been there, there was only one thing to do about
the matter … Go, Aussie, Go!
During the flight I found I had time to
sit back and think. No doubt I closed my eyes ...
I thought of how travel had been made so much
easier in recent years. Terrorists have since changed all that and it is now more difficult than ever.
Who amongst us remember the old Immigration cards that had to be completed on leaving
Australia and again on re-entering? Not those as we know them today, but the really personal, inquisitive
ones. I used to be absolutely hostile about having to enter something in the space following Religion - who
cares? What did it matter what religion a person was? That question has long been deleted from the form;
I could possibly understand it nowadays, but who amongst us would be fool enough to write 'Islamic Arm
of Al Qaeda', for example. I always got away with entering N/A, without question.
Then there was the very personal one to fill in the space after Sex; I will admit that the first time I
came across that one I entered: Yes please! I had contemplated writing: Once only, in the back seat of a
Mercedes, but didn't think that would be appreciated, especially in the USA.
I thought of an old friend, who I will call Ailsa - only because that was her name - where it had the
section: Name by Previous marriage. Now Ailsa was a much-married young lady … I remember that she
wrote: See attached list.
I must have drifted off into a fitful sleep at that stage, as before I knew what was happening, a
delightful flight attendant announced that we were coming in to land at the Honolulu International Airport.

Hawaii
Honolulu, the capital city of Hawaii, is on the south east of the island of Oahu. I had pre-booked a room in
a very pleasant hotel right on the famous beach at Waikiki. I visited the famed banyan tree, of which I had
heard much as a child when listening to the weekly radio show with the catchy introduction of 'This is
Hawaii Calls, coming to you from beneath the big banyan tree, right here on the beach at Waikiki'. In
those days I had no idea where Waikiki was but I thought it had something to do with Dorothy Lamour.
Waikiki is world-renowned: the entire island is famed for its beauty; it is the economic centre of the
island group and the trans-Pacific route stop. On December 7, 1941, the Japanese had launched an air
attack on the United States military installations at Pearl Harbour - four battleships were lost and 3,300
service personnel were killed. It was this attack that led the United States into World War II. Pearl
Harbour today is a naval shipyard and submarine base and a moving monument to the fallen.
I began my stay on Honolulu with an interesting one-day flight around all seven of the islands that
are open to visitors. The eighth is privately owned and reserved for full-blood islanders, of whom few
remain. The pleasure flight took me over and around the islands of Molokai - a particularly unspoiled
island where there were no traffic lights, elevators, neon signs or fast food outlets. Lanai, the smallest of
the inhabited islands, was once the home of a thriving pineapple plantation but has reinvented itself as a
resort. We landed at Maui and took a drive into the main centre of Wailuku for lunch, after which we
continued on to the largest island of the group … Hawaii itself.
Many tell of their visit to Hawaii when, in fact, they have never even set foot on the island of
Hawaii - most mistakenly consider Honolulu to be Hawaii. Mauna Loa, the world's largest volcano, that
covers about half the island, dominates Hawaii. We drove though the most awful vast wasteland of jagged,
black lava patches, right up to the actual rim of the crater of Kilauea volcano.
The island of Hawaii offers the most spectacular contrasts with its distinct climate zones. The
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tropical rainforests in the Hilo region of the East Coast - the arid desert of the west - and the snow-capped
summit of Mauna Kea in the central north. The scenery from the air is incredible, with towering mountains
dropping hundreds of metres directly into the blue Pacific; spectacular valleys and waterfalls can be seen all
along the coast. Our aircraft was completely dwarfed by the landscape.

Los Angeles
Next day I flew on to L.A. From the airport I took a taxi the forty-or-so miles to the Disneyland Hotel. This
certainly was an eye-opener; it's another of those periods that have been fogged by the years, but I still
retain vivid images of the colourful dancing, musical fountains, the lake in the hotel grounds and the garish
green walls in the hotel's corridors. It was my first time to see a monorail … the experience of being able to
board at the hotel and take a ride from the hotel itself all around and over the huge car-park to the actual
Disneyland, was fascinating. I don't wish to exaggerate but I estimated that the car park to be about the
same size as - or much larger than - the 40-acre paddock on our old farm. There were thousands of cars!
Like a kid in a candy store, I had to experience everything. I went on every solitary attraction and lived my
childhood dreams all over again … three days of living in the world of Mickey, Minnie and Donald - it
came as quite a surprise to learn that Donald had been born just two years after me - he's kept his age so
well!. Then there was Daisy, Goofy and all my other childhood friends. I am somewhat concerned about
Donald, Daisy and the three nephews. Are the nephews the children of Donald, or Daisy’s from a previous
marriage? Are Donald and Daisy married or living in a defacto relationship? It’s debatable.
When I felt I'd seen enough of the Disneyland area I took a taxi all the way back through Los
Angeles - apparently we went through it, but I certainly did not see what I would call a city or down town
area - to the Holiday Inn at Hollywood. No, I hadn't become an overnight millionaire ... nobody told me it
was so far and that the taxi fare would cost as much as a domestic flight; had I been told I would definitely
have taken public transport. Out in the Hollywood area I continued with the touristy thing and took in the
Warner Brothers studio experience. Far from being overawed by that, I considered it to be nothing short of
a regular rip-off … I still do, even though I have taken friends to visit it on two further occasions.
Thrilling for a film buff like me was taking a walk along Hollywood Boulevard…reading all the
stars on the sidewalk and actually seeing Graumans Chinese Theatre. I walked to the intersection of
Hollywood and Vine and strolled down Sunset Boulevard.

Chicago
One day in Hollywood I noticed in the window of a travel agent, ridiculously low airfares to anywhere and
everywhere in the United States, amongst which was what I considered a bargain basement flight to
Chicago. For quite a few years I had been corresponding with a woman who lived about 450km south of
Chicago ... I simply had to pay her a visit while I was in the area. Have you worked out yet that I am a
hopelessly irrational blonde? I flew to Chicago - took a train down to Evansville - then a taxi to her home,
with my suitcase in hand. Fortunately, I left my luggage at the door.
Thrilled and all as I was at meeting a 'friend' from so far away after so many years of
corresponding, I was saddened to discover her confined to a wheelchair. Being more interested in
conversation, I declined the offer of tea and settled for water. Without any provocation whatever she then
launched into the most vitriolic tirade of hatred against all blacks. I had not previously told her of my
guardianship of the Papua New Guinean lad who lived with me, but I did so right then and there. The
shock must have been too much for her as she asked if I would reach for her bible. She began to pray … it
was a few minutes too late for prayers as far as I was concerned … she had done her dash with me. I
reminded her that I had flown all the way from Australia to visit and had considered staying the night if
invited. As tactfully as I could possibly be, I told her that I would not be staying, and I was leaving because
I could not stay any longer in the home of such a bigoted old bitch. I walked to the door and, as I was
leaving, she recommended I stay at Palmer House Hotel. I picked up my suitcase, and stormed off down
the street, never to return or correspond again.
I was in for an interesting surprise. I arrived at The Palmer House where the concierge, in full
formal attire - striped trousers, dinner jacket and top hat greeted me at the door. I felt particularly
underdressed in my denims and T-shirt, but “Yes”, they had a vacancy. I knew very well that I could not
possibly afford dinner there, so wandered along the street where the trains run overhead and came upon a
tiny bar that had an Afro-American barman and a few customers of his own ilk. My accent was an
immediate hit - they were having difficulty understanding me - and I was having a similar problem with
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their accent and phraseology, like: “How’ya’all doin?” when I was alone. When it came to my name they
just couldn't accept the fact that G.R.A.E.M.E. actually spelt Graeme. That spelling was completely
unheard of in the United States. To prove my point, I brought out some business cards that I happened to
be carrying and passed them around ... never dreaming that they would consider that to be an open
invitation.
Later that evening as I was watching Midnight Express on TV in my room, there was a knock at the
door … I opened it and there, with my card in hand, stood the barman from the bar where I had been
drinking. Later, there was a second knock and later again a third. All three had my calling card … they had
shown the cards at the front door of the hotel, saying I had invited them for drinks and each said that I had
given them my room number. It turned out to be quite a party … lots to drink, too much actually, and the
most amusing conversation since the Aswan-Cairo train. I never did see the end of Midnight Express.
I awakened the following morning with a frightful headache. Outdoors it was bitterly cold with a
very strong easterly wind blowing in from Lake Michigan. I had never experienced such cold since leaving
Ballarat in 1961. I walked to where I could actually see the lake, but the awful cold drove me back. That
same day I bought a ticket for a flight to Toronto.

Toronto
I had two very good friends living in Toronto and, seeing I was so close, I decided to call on them. The
address I had took me to a large development of towering condominiums. Conditions were Arctic, and
there seemed nowhere to escape the icy blast as all entrances were accessible by swipe card only. The wind
seemed to have followed me up from Chicago and screamed in towards me from the 19,230-square
kilometre Lake Ontario. There was not a car in sight; I discovered why when one hardy soul drove into the
complex and disappeared down a previously unnoticed ramp to the underground parking area. I eventually
managed to locate a caretaker who let me into the building where my friends, John and Jan, lived. Access
was denied to their apartment as they did not expect me and, quite naturally, no arrangements had been
made to let a stranger in. A neighbour invited me in for coffee and a chat while I waited. Canadians are
like that … they are very friendly people.
John and Jan arrived home - their luxurious apartment was on the tenth floor, giving a wonderful
view of the area, especially at night. I was given my own room. During the evening I was treated to dinner
in one of their favourite restaurants. John and I had previously worked together in Ballarat. This was my
first time to meet his partner Jan. There was much to catch up on after not having seen each other for
eighteen years.
The following day I was taken to downtown Toronto to see where John worked. The Canadians
have done a wonderful job of controlling their environment - the great outdoors is something to be
experienced only in fine weather. To leave the apartment we took the lift down to whichever below-ground
level the car was parked in - all tenants had their very own designated parking space. A remote control
opened a wide, horizontally-sloping sliding door that glided away to allow access to the outside world.
Parking in town was also under cover. I found the pavements in the down town area to be entirely enclosed
in glass and heated. Entrances to all stores led off from these enclosed walkways. Not once since rising in
the morning had I been exposed to the chill of the outdoors.

John asked: “Would you like to see Niagara Falls?” Would I? Ridiculous question! We drove out of
Toronto, around to the west of the lake where all homes in the rural areas have those steep-gabled roofs to
allow the snow to slip off instead of crushing the homes under the weight. We crossed the Niagara River
downstream from the falls, driving through the old world charm of Niagara On The Lake. It was
springtime and the massed tulips were in bloom. Although it was April the falls crashed over onto huge
piles of ice - stark reminders of the recent winter. Fortunately I had taken the hand-made mohair jacket
with me; the one that I had bought when with Eileen, in Greece. The main body of the jacket was cuddly
cream woven mohair, while cuffs and collar were knitted wool. It had been crafted for a climate such as
this.
Niagara was sporting a recently-opened revolving restaurant atop a very high tower; this was new
to me but I have since visited similar in many large cities of the world. We dined there, enjoying a 360-
degree view of the area.
That evening we drove north from Toronto, up into dense pine forests, to a log-cabin style home of
one of their friends for dinner. He had a roaring log fire burning in the hearth. Our host had a mania for
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collecting roosters: carved wood, ivory, bone, silver, glass, terra cotta, mosaic … you name it; literally
hundreds of them - the walls were adorned and they sat on - and hung from the heavy wooden beams
overhead. Possibly over there they are called cocks, but I prefer to call them roosters.
Back in the downtown area the following morning I popped into an eatery for a mug of hot
chocolate … they had TV going. On the weather map of the continent of Northern America I noticed that
way down to the south in New Orleans, was the highest temperature in the whole country. I bought a one-
way ticket - said my goodbyes to John and Jan - checked out from the apartment and made my way to the
airport. They had been charming hosts, but the cold was too much to bear unless I stayed indoors and the
time had come to move on.

New Orleans
If you don't already know, the locals pronounce it N'orluns. It was so wonderfully warm when I left the air
terminal and asked a taxi-driver to take me to town. He told me to forget it and keep moving as the entire
place was booked out. There was much going on and there were so many people in town at the time … a
conference, an exhibition and I know not what else. Being almost in New Orleans and also being very
determined, I reiterated that I was going into town. He argued … so did I. I won! (As usual).
I was fascinated by the architecture in what I later learned was the French Quarter - La Vieux
Carre. By the time I learned this I had already managed to get myself ensconced in a wonderful room in a
small hotel, just one block from the excitingly crazy Bourbon Street.
There was a small jewellery store on Bourbon Street that caught my eye, mainly because of its
name: ‘Orleans Counterfeit Diamonds’ - a sure-fire attention-getter if ever I've seen one. Down the street a
little I heard sounds of a fabulous Jazz group coming from The Paddock Lounge … I went in to have a
drink and enjoy the music. Sitting all alone on a stool at the bar was a most incredible apparition - clad in
a long black robe, exceptionally wide-brimmed black hat, with beads and charms of all types hanging all
over him. I sat, leaving one stool between him and me - or me and him as they say nowadays. Next thing, I
thought I was being attacked when a large red setter dog leapt up and sat on the stool between us. This is
no joke ... the black-robed person remarked that Red, the dog, had never done that with a stranger before
and he took it as an omen that the dog liked me. He introduced himself as Chicken Man, a voodoo
witchdoctor and Red was his sole - or should that be soul - companion? I offered my hand and said, “I'm
Graeme, from Australia!” And so began a most interesting relationship.
I bought this interesting character a couple of drinks … he later said he would like to show me
around N'orluns. He knew - and was known - by absolutely everyone other than the throngs of tourists. He
was one of those local identities that every big city has at least one of. He introduced me to beggars, street
musicians, bar attendants, ‘ladies’ of the night, and peddlers of illicit drugs. Amazing as it may seem, I said
a firm “No” to everyone other than the hot-dog man. I bought two - one for Chicken Man and one for me -
with onions and French mustard and tomato sauce that we ate on the hoof.
Some time way after midnight, Chicken Man met up with two of his cronies, one of whom had a
car. I nearly said 'owned' a car, but I felt that was most unlikely. Chicken Man wanted to show me where
his temple was located … we drove there … he and Red went inside while we three remained in the car.
When he returned he asked if I would like to see his home on the bayou. On the way I was asked to give
some money towards putting some gas in the tank, which I did with pleasure. We wound our way through
some very seedy areas, getting darker and creepier as we went. I was beginning to feel very uneasy about
the situation and was just wondering how I was going to get out of a nasty mess if it arose, when we arrived
at his shack. It raced through my head that I had gone a bit too far this time. I wondered if I was going to
be robbed and killed. The place we entered was everything I imagined the house of a Voodoo witchdoctor
to be - charms of all descriptions adorned the walls and hung from the rafters. Burned out candles, with
their solidified wax drippings, skulls of small animals and masses of feathers and gris gris. After some
time and a few incantations, I was still feeling very uncomfortable about the situation; I suggested that I
was overly tired and would like to return to the hotel for some sleep. Imagine the relief I felt when there
were no arguments, and also later when the two friends dropped Chicken Man, Red and me off at my hotel.
We illegally shared the one room for the night. I wasn’t going to sleep the night with a Voodoo
witchdoctor without knowing his real name: it was Prince Keyama.
Next day I was wondering what I could possibly do for an encore. I walked the French Quarter
from one end to the other. Everywhere was music, day and night. I walked a few blocks to experience
Basin Street and was so disappointed to find it had been developed into a particularly boring four-lane
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highway. I walked to the very far west of the French Quarter to Canal Street. Strangely I could not bring
myself to cross over that street, as on the other side were all high-rise sterile-looking modern office blocks
that looked nothing like I had imagined New Orleans to be. For some reason, I was afraid to go there. On
Canal I discovered an oyster bar … nothing but oysters. In fact, I think it might have been called “The
Oyster Bar”. Two attendants worked like hell behind a counter, shucking oysters, while a row of diners sat
on stools at the bar, eating nothing but oysters, what else? I ordered two dozen. “Ain't nobody can eat no
two dozen!” he told me. “Here, man, start with twelve!” They were the biggest, plumpest, juiciest oysters
I had ever seen. He was right … I could not possibly have eaten twenty-four.
Not long after returning to my room, I received a phone call: “It's me, Chicken Man! I want you to
come and meet my friend, Omar Sharif. We bin makin' a movie together. Meet me outside such-and-such a
hotel at 10!” I reckoned that Chicken Man had lost his marbles and so ignored the invitation. He was at
the door at first light next morning. “Whardja get to Man? We waited hours!” I heard the story of how
they had indeed been shooting a film in the area. Omar had to be on location early this very morning and
couldn't spare any more time waiting. My loss, I guess.
During the many hours I spent with Chicken Man he told tales of the legendary Marie Laveau,
voodoo queen of New Orleans in the 19th century. Hers is a most interesting story. I bought a book based
on her life whilst I was in that city but seem to have lost it over the years. A very good read if you like that
kind of thing, which I do.
Reminiscent of Cotton Blossom in the musical Showboat was the Natchez, with it's twin smoke-
stacks; it looked like something that was definitely worth trying as I felt like a nice, peaceful bit of cruising
on the Mississippi. It took little imagination to envisage Joe E. brown standing at the helm. The river at this
point is extremely wide and crammed with all types of craft from liners, cruise boats, barges and cargo
carriers. And I am sure I saw Huckleberry Finn sitting amongst the willows upstream, fishing from a small
jetty on the riverbank…or maybe it was just my vivid imagination. We sailed past the shacks of shrimp
fishermen and an old Creole cemetery, and enjoyed a delightful seafood lunch before returning to town.
I was getting a bit frazzled with the pace of New Orleans so, after saying farewells to Red and
Chicken Man, I left by taxi for the drive to the airport, with intentions of flying to Los Angeles.

Mexico City
This visit came about quite by accident as a lot of my travels have done. I had a ticket from New Orleans to
Los Angeles, with a change of flight at Fort Worth, Texas. It was one of those occasions when I had to
collect my luggage from one flight and check in again for the next. I'm one of those people who can sit for
hours watching those display panels that click over to show Departures and Arrivals, with all those magical,
unheard-of, inaccessible destinations…far better than any TV. While doing so on this occasion at Fort
Worth/Dallas airport I noticed that they had flights to Mexico City … now that did sound interesting. I
decided to go. As I was buying a return ticket I was asked to show my visa for Mexico ... I explained that I
didn’t have one. I was given the ticket and told to apply for a visa on arrival. This was not as easy as
anticipated ... the chap on Immigration at Mexico City was an absolute bastard! One of those No speaka da
English type. A fellow passenger - a Mexican doctor - came to my assistance and helped me through what
was developing into a very unpleasant situation.
The sprawling metropolis of Mexico City will go down in my memoirs as the most polluted city I
have ever visited … even worse than Los Angeles on a bad-hair day. I thought this to be true until I
revisited Hong Kong in 2006 and it was even worse. I was unaware that this problem presented itself
annually, during spring and summer in Mexico. The air was a putrid blue with exhaust omissions. I was in
a hotel on the 10-lane Reforma, the main street in the very heart of the city, with double-glazed windows
and airconditioning - somehow the stench still managed to permeate the air, even in the room.
I ate in, that evening, in the hotel's dining room. There was a 'resident' pianist who asked me to
select a number … he played Maria Elena at my request. He played Maria Elena every time I set foot in
the dining room. He came to my table after playing Maria Elena on my last evening in the hotel and then
asked for payment - we aren’t accustomed to tipping in Australia. Thanks for the memory, pal!
Mexico City is one of the world's largest and most populated cities. To escape the crowds and
pollution, I took a one-day bus tour to the nearby pyramids of the Moon and Sun. I learned how to extract
pure drinking water from a succulent of the agave family, visited the Catedral Metropolitana and
Constitution Square with the beautiful Palacio National in the background.
In the earthquake of September 1, 1985 at least 9,500 people were killed; 30,000 injured and
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100,000 left homeless. I read that 412 buildings collapsed and 3,124 severely damaged. Most of those, I
guess, would be the all-too-prevalent shanty type, but they were still home to someone.
It was bound to happen … I met a young guide in his early 20's. I gleaned little in the way of
information due to the language barrier, but he was amazingly helpful when it came to ordering food and
even assisted when I wanted to buy a record of genuine Mexican music … his choice! He was a very
pleasant young man and so helpful in so many ways. We later spent a few hours in my room to escape the
pollution and have a talk. I thought my sex life had ended as a result of all the nasty experiences with the
Arabs in northern Africa, but this lad taught me that all was not lost. I have since read that such activities
are illegal in Mexico … little wonder he was so keen.

San Francisco
From Los Angeles airport I phoned Lennie, an Afro-American friend who I had known in Port Moresby ...
just to say “Hello!” Amidst all the interruptions as we both tried to talk simultaneously, he managed to say
“How about comin' up … we’re havin' a party tonight!” Eh? … he lived in San Francisco and I was in
LA!! But at that age a party was impossible to refuse and I'm just a guy who can't say no. I caught the next
flight north.
I found the apartment on one of those frightfully hilly streets that ‘Frisco is famous for. He had a
partner and they in turn shared with another friend. Two bedrooms … three occupants! I made four. I
could have one room at night all to myself while the occupant was working night shift, and had to vacate it
before he came home in the mornings. It worked quite well and was rent-free.
On a coffee table in their lounge was a shoebox, permanently full of cannabis. Anyone wanting a
smoke merely took the necessities and rolled a joint. I can honestly say that that was my first time! And I
can't say that very often. As it turned out, it also caused me to have the most bizarre experience. We went
to the movies to see the Woody Allen film, Manhattan. When we arrived at the theatre the show had begun
and the lights were out when we entered the auditorium. An usher found me a single seat right down near
the front. Never before, not even as a child, had I sat so close to the screen … it was massive - the music
louder than loud - and I was as high as a kite … every sensation was exaggerated!. I wondered what on
earth had happened to my dull little world, where nothing exciting ever happened.
On a more peaceful note I was taken to see the Planetarium … quite a remarkable building, with a
dancing fountain in a large pond out front.
Late one afternoon I called in at a small off-street bar in the business district. Whilst nibbling
peanuts and sipping on a beer I noticed a good-looking chap of the Afro-American variety at the bar,
writing on a notepad. I thought: this guy's deaf and mute. He was - and we entered into a lengthy written
‘conversation’. He was well educated, not only could he write perfect English, but he was fully competent
in carrying on a written conversation in French as well. He had travelled extensively throughout Europe
and the U.K. and - strangely for an American - had a good knowledge of the world outside, including
Australia. I told him about my young deaf-mute friend Raymond in Papua New Guinea. There seemed to
be no end to the conversation … he took me to a select restaurant for dinner. Afterwards we visited a piano
bar where he introduced me to his friend, the pianist. It was quite dark when we finished … the evening
was due to come to an end. I was not at all happy with the idea of facing the streets of San Francisco alone
at night, so he invited me back to stay at his place on Market Street. He was a lovely person and held quite
a good government position. Just another pleasant little encounter!
 93

CHRISTMAS IN NEW ZEALAND 1979

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen! Please fasten

your seatbelts for our landing in Wellington. The
temperature on the ground at the airport is 16
degrees…”

Not being at all familiar with the recently introduced

metric system of Celsius temperatures, I thought the
reading given was in Fahrenheit. I had spent the past
eighteen years living in the tropics … sixteen degrees
Fahrenheit was far too cold for me! After landing, I
called the flight attendant and told her that I could not
possibly disembark when it was so cold outdoors.
Sixteen degrees? That was 14 deg below freezing as far
as I was concerned! I asked if I could remain on board
for the return flight to Australia. I take it that I was not
her first passenger to experience this confusion … very
patiently, she explained the difference to me. I had no
choice but to brave the hostile Wellington climate. It was
16 degrees Celcius … still very cold, but tolerable.

I had come to New Zealand at the invitation of a lady friend, Lynly, with whom I had worked at the
Gateway Hotel in Port Moresby in 1969.
Anyone who has ever heard of New Zealand will be aware that the commonly accepted name for
the capital is Windy Wellington. It blows most of the time - right off the South Pole. I remember well that
Lynly and I were walking in the National Capital one day when she drew attention to the billboard outside a
cinema - The Muppet Movie … she had seen the film and felt I would enjoy it as well. After perusing the
stills outside the theatre I said a resounding: “No way!” No way in the world would I, a grown man, be
seen going to a children's film about animated puppets. Some years later they were to become some of my
very favourite characters. Who couldn't love Kermit and the adorable Miss Piggy? In 2005, the Muppets
celebrated their 50th birthday!
Lynly had driven up from the family home in Queenstown to meet me in Wellington and stayed at
the home of her sister Judy, while waiting for me to arrive from Papua New Guinea. Judy and her husband
lived in suburban Wellington, right on the bleak and blustery south coast of the North Island. This was a
few days short of Christmas 1979 and on the day of my arrival Judy's infant daughter, Claire, took her first
step. Jim, Lynly’s father, had recently passed away, leaving Gwen (Judy and Lynly’s mother) and Lynly
living in a rather large house by themselves. But at the moment we are in Wellington.
We spent Christmas together in Wellington then sailed on the inter-island ferry across Cook Strait -
experiencing some magnificent scenery as we sailed up through the Marlborough Sounds to Picton, at the
head of the Queen Charlotte Sounds - home to a number of New Zealand's dolphins, seals and wildlife.
This was where Lynly had left her car on the way up to meet me. The Marlborough Sounds is renowned
for its 1500 kilometres of rugged coastline. My only regret was that we did not allow time to relax at one
of the beautiful beaches, or take a stroll on one of the many bush walks.

Let me explain something about this young lady … from when she left school until she went to work in
Papua New Guinea she had been employed in nothing but the hospitality industry and had worked in many
of the hotels and motels on both north and south islands on New Zealand. She knew practically everything
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and everyone in the travel industry and wanted to show me her country.
We headed south to Blenheim, then turned inland and westwards to Nelson, on Tasman Bay. We
then drove down through the Southern Alps - the longest and highest mountain range in New Zealand.
They extend 550km (340 miles) in a northeast to southwest direction down the greatest length of the South
Island. We followed a road that led us down through the mountains to Westport on the West Coast. If any
place name gives an indication as to its origin, the nearby Cape Foulwind says a lot.
South of Greymouth we came to Ross, but this has nothing whatsoever to do with anything other
than the fact that we passed through it. All the time we were cautiously scanning the road ahead for
landslides. The powers that be up top must have been watching over us, as all the way down this coastal
road were floods and landslides … either just cleared before we reached the area, or a slip occurred just
after we had passed through. All of New Zealand's highest mountains are located in this region - the
Mount Cook National Park. We spent time at the Franz Josef and Fox glaciers in the Mount Cook/Mount
Tasman area. At Franz Josef there is a delightful little church, behind the altar of which is a large plate-
glass window, framing a view of the glacier beyond. The spectacle was nearly enough to make one start
singing Nearer My God to Thee … so very beautiful! At Mount Brewster the road turned southwards,
taking us high over Haast Pass and down to Wanaka at the southern end of the lake of the same name. All
the way down this stretch of road it was terribly narrow and winding. I just had to put my faith in Lynly's
driving to get us through … she knew the road - I didn't. In this region, sheep grazed peacefully in lush
pastures on the mountain slopes. Until now I hadn’t seen animal life since leaving the Blenheim area.
We drove past the turnoff to Arrowtown that Lynly had told me so much about, as we were both
ready for a home-cooked meal and a homely bed. Queenstown lay directly ahead.
It was only to be expected that Gwen's house would be a ‘home’ in every sense of the word. What
else could you expect from a good, solid country family of Scottish ancestry? The house had once been a
hospital - situated high on the hillside overlooking the city of Queenstown - with the beautiful Lake
Wakatipu in the background. Queenstown is a resort town in the southwest of the South Island. It was
named because it was ‘fit for Queen Victoria’.
About a five minute walk downhill and you're in the heart if town. I found that tourists are well
catered for when it comes to shopping, but try to buy the basic needs of life and you'd be advised to look
elsewhere. It does not adequately cater for its own townsfolk. Excellent hotels, restaurants and bars
abound … I was taken back quite a few years when I came upon Ballarat Street.
One evening we went out to dinner ... it was New Years Eve. My old mate and I both seemed to
be suffering the approach of age … after two beers each, we chose to go home to our respective beds
instead of seeing the new year in, in the old familiar style. We were ageing disgracefully!
On awakening on January 2 - which is mid-summer in the southern hemisphere - I looked out my
bedroom window to see the mountain range known as The Remarkables, the tops of which were blanketed
in snow. The Remarkables are a 540-acre ski field with five lifts, just south of the town. One day Lynly
and I drove up there, so I could - for the first time in my life - see deer grazing in the wild.
Queenstown is situated at the northern end of Lake Wakatipu, which is the third largest lake in
New Zealand. One day we went on a leisurely cruise on the TSS ‘Earnslaw’ southwards down the lake,
calling in at a small farm for lunch. On another day we took the chair lift up to Coronet Peak, one of the
major ski-fields in the Otago area. Both Lynly and her father used to operate that chair lift in days gone
by. Fortunately this was all before the bungy craze came into being. I have always set out to try anything
and everything once … anything to start with, and everything if I enjoyed it. In alphabetical order I would
place the bungy craze at the Z on my wish list. Did you know that bungy-jumping originated in New
Zealand? It began on the Shotover Gorge between Queenstown and Alexandra.
We finally got to visit Arrowtown, which is an historic gold mining town, located on the Arrow
River - a very interesting, heritage-listed little settlement, well worth a visit.
To give the girls a break, I flew over the snowcapped Alps to Milford Sound one day, alone. The
Sound runs 15 kilometres inland from the Tasman Sea and is surrounded by sheer rock faces that rise
1,200 metres or more on either side. I sat on a small beach there, absolutely stunned by the natural beauty
that surrounded me. The Sound can also be accessed by road - about five hours drive from Queenstown.
The foolhardy can hike there. On the return trip I saw a myriad of waterfalls cascading down the cliff
faces, some dropping a thousand metres into the valleys below.
When the time had come for me to make a move, Lynly drove me to the nearby airport to catch a
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small twin-engine aircraft to Christchurch. For some reason unbeknown to me we went via Mount Cook
and I could not have been luckier. The pilot said that we would be remaining there for five hours and then
we would continue to the City of Churches. Not many visitors actually see Mount Cook due to haze and/or
cloud cover. This day was exceptional ... scarcely a cloud in sight. I climbed a rise - a short walking
distance from the airstrip to a point where someone had placed a bench for me to sit on. My God … they're
thoughtful people these Kiwis! I sat there - lost in my thoughts - with the most magnificent view of the
snow capped mountain possible, until hunger got the better of me. I had passed a hotel and restaurant on
my way up. After lunch, I managed a quick helicopter flight up Mount Cook, where passengers were able
to disembark and walk on the snow of the actual glacier. The flight to Christchurch was a mere 150km.
 96

The first known photograph of Raymond and me, taken in the late 1970’s
 97

EARLY YEARS WITH RAYMOND 1979-1984

Sometime in 1979 a young deaf-mute Papua New Guinea lad had befriended me. I soon realised he could
neither read nor write. As he appeared to have no sign language of his own and - since I had been a teacher
of English as a Second Language - this seemed to be the golden opportunity to test my skills and possibly
do something good for humanity. Perhaps I was following the ambition of my maternal Great-Grandfather
Samuel Dovaston, whose philosophy on life was to leave the world a better place than he found it. I like to
think that I take after Great-Grandfather and have always tried to bring a little happiness into the lives of
others when and wherever possible. Here was my golden opportunity! The one-and-only hand-sign the lad
seemed to know was ‘eat’… he was always hungry … it did not take too much nouse to realise what he was
indicating.
Our process of teaching and learning a language of any sort began with me reverting to the old
flash cards of the type we had learned to use in teachers’ college … labelling every conceivable item in the
house with its written name. He apparently realised he was onto a good thing here and every day when I
came home from work he would be found sitting on my front steps, waiting for another lesson in a new
language. A new language? His only language! He had never had the luxury of attending a school of any
kind. He seemed to be unable to hear, speak, read, or write anything. We started learning with the absolute
basics.
From the Victorian School for Deaf Children I bought a book: ‘Dictionary of Australasian Signs
for Communication with the Deaf’. (In 1998, an enlarged, improved and expanded version was published
under the title of 'The VSDC Dictionary of Auslan’). Auslan being an abbreviation of Australian Language.
Raymond took to those books like the proverbial duck to water. As he learned to recognise a written word
from one of my labelled items he would find it in the dictionary - we would then practice the appropriate
hand-sign. The most obvious thing I needed to know was his name. After a few attempts of writing
Graeme and pointing to myself, and then pointing to him, I gave him a pencil. It soon dawned as to what I
wanted ... what a thrill when he eventually wrote Raymond.
For several weeks I had difficulty keeping up with supplies of scribbling paper. I needed to know
where his parents lived - and if he had any - as I had been concerned about who might have been worrying
about where he was spending his time. We began trying other signs from the book … beginning with
Mother and Father with illustrations of stick figures drawn on paper. I would take him out in the car and,
pointing to the drawings, shrug my shoulders as an indication I wanted to know where? The outcome was
that I eventually found both mother and father and learned something of their problems. They had thirteen
children - some adopted - and Raymond, the fifth, was the only one who they regarded as being mentally
retarded. They were having financial difficulties supporting him.
I had to get him out of his belief that he was mentally handicapped. In his village he was
considered to be the village idiot with everyone making fun of him. Whenever something happened that he
did not understand, he would draw circles at the side of his head to indicate his brain was going 'round - he
was telling me that he was long-long.

It would be wise at this point to explain just how we communicated with our new language. You may
wonder at my use of “Raymond said this”...“I said that” when he was unable to talk. Over a period of
time we had been able to learn many of the most important nouns and verbs required for basic
communication. Verbs we simplified to one tense only - present and present continuous became one - for
example, in our signing for run and running we use the sign for run. For ‘ran’, we use run before. ‘Will
run’ became run later. We deleted a, an, the, to etc, as in most instances they really are unnecessary. He
quickly learned the names and flags of more countries than the average Australian and far more than most
Americans. We have no need to discuss politics or religion and that cuts out a lot of signs to learn. For
ease of communication, personal names are usually abbreviated to an initial letter, except when we came
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across more than one person of similar initial, in which case he picks the name up from the context in
which it is being used. Of course, when necessary, we spell the entire name by finger-spelling. I have
never been able to work out how to explain the word if. All in all we have a rather good means of
communication … enough for our needs. He can laugh - he can cry (no signs necessary for those emotions)
- and his smile is recognised and appreciated by all who meet him.
Most of Raymond's siblings hold reasonably good jobs and are perfectly aware of the world outside
Port Moresby. Realising that - as there is no welfare in PNG - he had no possible means of earning money,
I felt it my responsibility to give him the best education I possibly could. He could not read or hear about
other countries, so I decided that the best thing to do was give him the opportunity to see and experience
something of the world for himself. This began with my favourite past time … travel. He obtained his first
passport with a visa to enter Australia. I wrote to my cousin Beryl:

June 1981: For the past three years I have been looking after a deaf/mute lad from Gabagaba - one
of thirteen children whose parents didn't want him and could not afford to keep him. So typical of
me, I took him in, cleaned him up and fattened him considerably, and now find that I am unable to
adopt him as the Australian Government will not recognise the adoption of a foreigner over the age
of eighteen. Bad luck that I didn't do something about it earlier as he only turned 19 last month.
His name is Raymond Manasa and he looks upon me as being ‘Dad’ even though he is unable to
say a word he makes the double-F sign for ‘Father’. I took him to Australia where we had tests
done at various doctors and specialists in Melbourne, and even spent a few hours with Dr Graeme
Clarke, the inventor of the Bionic Ear, or cochlear implant. Dr Clarke assured me that even if he
performed the operation on Raymond it would have nil effect as he is profoundly deaf. He was
considered to be highly intelligent and certainly not the ‘long-long’ or mentally retarded person he
had been brought up to believe.

It was on the 13th of last month that I celebrated my 20 years up here. For so long I have been
dreaming of the day when I could escape from this country and am now wondering if this is my last
year. My contract expires on December 31 and I am just waiting to see if I am required for
another year or not. Either way suits me. I would love to retire but with two mouths to feed, I just
can’t afford to do so as yet. I turn 49 in December so should still have a few good years left in me.
The big problem is what to do with Raymond now that I find I can’t adopt him … and I can’t send
him to a vet to be put down.

At the Deaf Institute in Melbourne I was assured that if I adopted him he could be enrolled in a
school for the deaf. Here they tell me that I am not able to adopt him, but if I enroll him in a
suitable school I can take him to Australia. A classic case of Catch 22! I have been through every
channel I am aware of and have even spoken personally with Bob Hawke (Prime Minister of
Australia) on the matter.

I had given the matter of Raymond some very serious thought for a few years and eventually contacted a
solicitor. The outcome was that I took out Legal Guardianship - adoption was not possible because he
happened to be eighteen years old and I was single. If only I had decided earlier matters would have been
completely different. I could understand the concern but I did get the signatures of solicitor, both parents
and Raymond on paper. Although he had been living with me for some time it was now official … on June
17, 1982, I became a legal guardian. That was twenty-four years ago and I still hold myself responsible as
being a ‘father’.

Tragedy in the Family

Nine years had passed by since the death of my dear mother and I was still working in Public Relations.
My first floor office was comfortable; one wall being entirely window with a view out across the grounds
of the Murray Army Barracks. I had a desk with two computers and a swivel chair so that I could earn my
keep by operating two different computers alternately. It was my custom to arrive at work at about 7.30
each morning, make myself a coffee, and sit at my desk with the newspaper until 8. For some years I had
been an avid reader of either murder mysteries or true crime. The day of the week was of no concern, but
the date was to become fixed in my mind forever. It was March 3, 1982 … I was about to read of a
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shocking murder - a true murder - but unfortunately, there was no mystery about it. Way down in the
bottom left corner of page 3 was a single column item about a tragedy that had taken place in Queensland,
Australia the previous evening. There's nothing more interesting than reading of a good murder - and this
one was a beauty - with seven deceased in the one house in Tweed Heads. Tweed Heads … that's where
my nephew, his wife and family lived! I read on until the last paragraph that gave the details of six of the
deceased: Craig Ross, his wife Anne and their four children aged 8 years, 6 years, 5 years and 18 months.
This was my nephew they had written about, my nephew, whose wedding I had attended just nine years
earlier!
The order of things that day is now somewhat hazy but I know that I phoned my sister-in-law
Beverley, (Craig's mother) but there was no answer. I phoned the Tweed Heads police and, after giving
details of who I was, I told of reading of the death of my nephew and his family in the morning's paper. It
didn't really surprise me to learn that Beverley was at the station at that time … she was put on the line. We
were both in tears and it was difficult to communicate, but Beve told me that she had been trying to reach
me the previous evening without success. (I had only recently changed accommodation and had a new, as-
yet unlisted phone number).
The story as I learned later was that Anne (Craig's wife) had been having an affair. She left her
lover and had returned to her husband with the four children. I do not know if she intended moving back
permanently or if she was just there on a trial run. Anne and Craig were sitting at the kitchen table when
the lover burst in through the back door. I was told that he then shot Craig dead while he was sitting at the
table. Anne ran to the front door screaming, and was shot in the back as she tried to open the door. The
rejected lover then went to the bedroom where the four children were sleeping; they were shot dead where
they lay in their beds. Anne was apparently still screaming as she struggled to open the door … another
shot to the back finished her off completely. The killer then turned the gun on himself and ended the
episode in a bloodbath.
Selfishly, I could not bring myself to go down to Australia for the funerals. It is distressing enough
to lose one member of the family and I felt I could not possibly cope with six in the one day. How
Beverley coped, I do not know … she had lost not only her eldest son, but her daughter-in-law and four
grandchildren as well.

Mid-1982: Last February we moved out of Port Moresby and into a lovely 3-bedroom
Commission-owned house 29 kilometres out of Port Moresby in the Laloki Gorge. It is a beautiful
area, so scenic and just that little bit cooler than Port Moresby … a blanket is required most nights.
From a side window the remains of Errol Flynn's old copper mine can be seen just a kilometre or
so away. Life out here is so peaceful … 12 houses, only two of which are occupied. No noisy
neighbours, no yapping dogs, little passing traffic, and now that we have a video we can sit and
watch movies most evenings. Of the 52 of us who came to do teacher training in Rabaul in 1961,
only two are left in the country. My good mate, Eddy, left late last year to settle in Mansfield,
Victoria, the third-last died on Monday last. And the other is a religious fanatic, so I see nothing of
him.

Raymond has progressed to the stage where he is now able to read 22 words and his
comprehension of sign language is at such a stage that I have no way of knowing how much he
knows. It is such a pleasure to see someone who - only a few years ago - was unaware that there
were languages in the world , is now able to communicate his thoughts to me.

Apart from work and teaching Raymond, I am still actively involved in art and of an evening I have
been designing cassette covers for the National Broadcasting Commission and another private
recording company. I am also working towards an exhibition of tapestries that I have designed.

Our First Australian Holiday

When Raymond came into my life as a ‘son’ I realised that changes had to be made if I was to be the
‘father’ I felt I should be. I now had responsibilities and my nocturnal activities had to be curbed. So
began a new chapter in my life … I became a respectable Dad! About bloody time, you might say!
One of our very best friends was - and still is - named Basil. (Don’t you just hate it when someone
asks what was your name … I answer Graeme and, actually, it still is!) Basil and I put our heads together
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and decided on an Australian holiday as I hadn't really had one

since 1960. In 1982 the three of us, Basil, Raymond and I,
flew from Port Moresby to Cairns - with Raymond too terrified
to sit near the window in case he fell out - in the far north of
Queensland, where we hired a car and set out on a true blue
Aussie adventure.

We drove north - winding our way up the Cook Highway, with

its magnificent scenery where reef and rainforest meet - calling
in at Port Douglas, before it was ruined by development, and
further north as far as it was possible to drive without a 4WD
and having to take the punt across the Daintree River. I
honestly thought we were driving to the very ends of the earth
that day as the road became narrower and narrower by the
minute and was smothered in cow dung. Retracing our tracks,
we turned inland just after passing through Mossman and
Raymond spent his first night in Australia at the Jackaroo
Motel in Mareeba. (G’day mate!) Thus started the further
learning process. After dinner we three decided to take a
moonlight stroll. There was a small triangle of grass -
masquerading as a park - across the street from our motel. It
was a magnificent, balmy evening, with a brilliant full moon.
Then came Raymond’s first big question: Where are the
Police? He was worried sick, as never before had he been in
an urban area where one could walk freely at night without
police protection.

We spent a day driving through the Atherton Tablelands, down to The Boulders where Aboriginal legend
has it that there have been several instances of young men drowning. That night we stayed at the coastal
township of Cardwell and the next at Townsville, where I had my first encounter with vertigo. Basil was
driving the car up the almost spiral road around Castle Hill when suddenly he slammed his foot on the brake
and called: “I can't go any further!” He pulled the handbrake on while I climbed over into the driving seat.
Basil - with eyes clenched tightly closed - got out and edged his way around the car and climbed into the
passenger seat. “Vertigo!” he said. “I get dizzy with heights!” With me at the wheel we continued up to
the lookout at the top but poor Basil couldn't go anywhere near the guardrail to appreciate the view. We had
another encounter with vertigo on a later holiday, in a much more interesting location.
Our next overnight stay was at Shute Harbour, very near Rockhampton, where we were told there
were more millionaires per square mile than anywhere else in Australia.
As we neared the Sunshine Coast, Basil said he would like to stay the night in Caloundra.
Raymond and I wanted to visit friends a few miles inland so we dropped Basil at a motel in Caloundra and
took the car up into the hills, to the tiny settlement of Hampton, where our friends Jean and Keith - ex-Port
Moresby - had a service station cum takeaway business. We over-nighted there and the following morning
returned to the coast to collect Basil.
We drove south to Coolangatta on the Gold Coast where we found a three-bed room in order to
keep costs to a minimum. Raymond and I went to visit Beverley - mother of the late Craig - who had once
been married to my brother, and we met husband number two. Just as I pressed the door buzzer Raymond
was hit with my usual tummy problems and was almost crying with embarrassment by time the door was
opened. No time for introductions as he was rushed to the toilet posthaste. That evening he failed at any
attempt to draw him into conversation … he just sat there, with head bowed in shame and stayed that way
until well after we had returned to our motel room.
We continued on to Sydney with Basil and I taking turns at driving ... two hours on, two hours off.
It had taken thirteen leisurely days from Cairns to Sydney and not once did we stay on the road later than 2
p.m.. It had been pre-arranged that we would part ways in Sydney, Basil went one way and we continued
down to Melbourne, taking a First Class sleeping compartment on the train. This was the first of many train
trips that Raymond would eventually have. The rest of this trip has now been confused with later travel, so
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we'll skip it and head back to Brisbane. I had earlier planned that we would travel by train from Brisbane to
Cairns and - knowing that money would be scarce at the time - I had paid for our tickets in advance but with
no meals included. On the morning of departure we went shopping and bought sufficient food to feed ‘all
the starving children in China’ … well definitely more than enough to see two of us through twenty-two
hours of travel. Or so I thought ...
We found our compartment with facing window seats. No sooner had we made ourselves
comfortable than Raymond asked if he could have something to eat. Before the train left Roma Street
station for our long journey north our entire food supply for the trip had been eaten, and the rubbish
deposited in a bin on the platform. It was a lean and hungry trip, although I had kept a little cash in reserve
for dinner that evening.
We spent one night at Hides Hotel in the city centre of Cairns. It was another love at first sight
affair for me - I loved Cairns! Come to think of it, it was love at second sight ... a friend, Bob Jelbart, and I
had sailed from Melbourne to Cairns in 1953.

Adventures in the U.S.A.

I will never know if it was Raymond who suggested a trip to the United States or me. We will skip the
horror of entering the States through Honolulu. By ‘horror’ I refer to the long queues and the nerve-
wracking scrutiny. The mind goes back to the warning given in the ‘plane prior to landing that, no matter
how long you may have waited in line, the slightest error on the Entry Card and you will be sent back to the
end of the line again. And this, when you are nearing exhaustion from spending so many weary hours,
tired, cramped and uncomfortable in an airconditioned, airborne capsule, together with being responsible for
a handicapped person who could do nothing for himself, is nothing short of nerve-racking.
We had a couple of nights staying at a hotel on Kalakaua Avenue at Waikiki beach where I had
previously stayed. We spent most of our evenings pottering around in the fascinating International Markets
- almost directly across the street from our hotel - and the wonderful, exciting shops and restaurants. We
particularly enjoyed a truly exotic Chinese meal in a restaurant in the street at the back of the marketplace.
There was one occasion when I wished I had brushed Raymond up on etiquette in advance; I left
him sitting alone in the lounge of the luxurious Queen Kapiolani Hotel while I had a haircut. When I
returned I found him completely relaxed, laying back in the chair with his feet up on the coffee table. It was
entirely my own fault ... we did it at home.
Eric, a friend of Raymond's, was living with his family on Oahu - both he and Raymond had been
members of the same swimming team in Port Moresby. Shortly after our arrival I phoned to let him know
that we were in Waikiki. Eric's father came to collect us and take us to their home for a couple of nights.
There is a road that runs from near Waikiki on the south coast, out through pineapple plantations, up and
over the lushly forested central mountains to the north coast. That was where the family lived.

Los Angeles
We flew to Los Angeles where we retraced my previous steps, differing only in the fact that this time we
took a bus to Anaheim instead of a taxi as - with two of us travelling - I had to economise.
I allowed the luxury of the Disneyland Hotel once again as I wanted Raymond to have the very best
when I could possibly afford it. At Disneyland he was most impressed with the ‘Jungle Cruise’ where
animated wild African animals grazed peacefully, or threatened the passing tourists from the riverbank. He
went on all the rides - other than those with speed or heights. I think he must have caught this from Basil.
Is vertigo contagious?
Every evening at Disneyland they have a marvellous fireworks display. That used to be a spectacle
to die for, but nowadays they have fireworks even at football matches and the novelty has worn off. I am
thoroughly sick to death of fireworks! After all the pyrotechnics were over, we went to our room and I
phoned the Bordens - friends with whom I had been keeping in contact ever since meeting them in Luxor,
Egypt. They still lived at Anaheim. I believe that Bob, the husband, was distantly related to the famous
axe-murderer, Lizzie Borden. The following day, after a morning tea at the hotel, the Bordens drove us to
Knott's Berry Farm not far from Disneyland, and to the local Wax Museum ... not a patch on Madam
Tussard's in London, but I did not know that at the time.
As much and all as I am not impressed by the place, I took Raymond to Universal Studios. It was
worth the return visit just to see the expression on his face when he came face-to-face with the shark from
‘Jaws’, the avalanche tunnel, the opened 'plane - which was used when filming aircraft interiors in movies
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of airplane disaster - and above all, the hilarious stunt men in the Wild West area. This was his first time to
see ‘real’ cowboys in action.

San Francisco
We flew to San Francisco and found accommodation at the Ramada Mark Twain on Union Square. I had
been maintaining contact with my Afro-American friend Lennie who I first met in Port Moresby. He was
now living in a different apartment from when I had previously stayed with him, within walking distance of
city centre that was within walking distance in those days, but would be out of the question for me now.
Lennie met us at the door and welcomed us inside. Raymond absolutely hated Lennie at first sight ... a little
touch of jealousy, I presume. It is quite possible that he considered Lennie to be a threat to his future
security. I chose not to ask any questions that could cause further problems.
During our talks Lennie mentioned that there was a Mardi Gras in town the next day. He suggested
that if we found a position on the Taylor Street side of the square we would have a perfect viewing spot.
Together with thousands of others we sat on the kerb of the sidewalk with a perfect view of the entire
goings on. Neither of us had ever seen a genuine Mardi Gras before. The parade and costuming was
sensational .
One day we took the cable car up and over the hill to the Fisherman's Wharf area. Raymond was
fascinated by the buskers ... particularly a juggler, and one chap who rode a one-wheel cycle. We caught a
ferry near Pier 39 and crossed very close to Alkatraz and on to Sausalito where we had a wonderful seafood
lunch. No fish fingers in that establishment. We spent most of the afternoon walking back across the
Golden Gate Bridge and around the waterfront again to the city area. It was a long, long fascinating walk.
All able-bodied travellers should walk across the Bridge, if for no reason other than to experience how high
it is. In photographs there's nothing with which to compare it.

Viva Las Vegas

Next stop on the unplanned schedule took us to Las Vegas where we stayed at Circus Circus - so named
because high above one area of the Casino acrobats and trapeze artists performed nightly. As we were
checking in we met acquaintances from Port Moresby who were checking out. Our room was beautiful but
I failed to read the notice in the room regarding the age limit in the casino. Without waiting to unpack we
took the monorail from our room, right into the heart of the Casino where there were thousands of
machines. I set myself up in a $1.00 area, while Raymond was content with the 10c machines. I was taken
by surprise when a big burly bugger came along, leading Raymond by the arm. He wanted to see
Raymond's ID. I explained that where we came from no one carried an ID card. It was then that I was told
that the minimum age for entry to a casino in the States was 21. Raymond had just turned 20 on the 5th of
May. We left the security officer, saying that we would go to our room to collect his passport and return.
We did return, but not to the machines in Circus Circus until much later in the evening when I felt that
‘Burly’ would most likely be off duty. We walked the main drag - referred to as The Strip - which, with all
the spectacular lights, is the most extravagant display of fascinating and incredible vulgarity imaginable.
We put a few coins in at The Flamingo and discovered that the Master Magicians Siegfried and Roy were
performing in town. I was able to get a table for two - right down near the front, on the right. Money
couldn't have bought a better position.
I haven't mentioned that Raymond is exceptionally modest ... obsessively so. Part of the early stage
of the evening's show was the Folies-Bergere girls ... a line-up of 30 to 40 of the most beautiful young
maidens to be found in the States. That in itself was enough to make the lad sit up and take notice, but on
their second appearance they were topless. I feel that is such an inappropriate thing to say because they
were far from topless ... they were all definitely double-breasted. Have you ever seen a dark-skinned
person blush? He turned a deep, purplish brown and, although he kept his head lowered for the rest of the
performance, I bet his eyes were raised as far as the pain threshold would allow.
With great fanfare Siegfried and Roy took the stage. Approximately three metres from our table
was a large cage with strong metal bars, raised about shoulder height above the floor. I determined that no
matter what sort of stunts they got up to, I would be able to work out at that distance what was going on if it
involved that cage. The duo fed a magnificent, glossy black panther into a cannon on stage, lit a fuse and
whompah! …right there beside us, in the cage, was a glossy black panther. ‘How did they do it?’
Raymond asked in his sign language. I felt I had let him down, as I had no idea. He seemed to think that I
must have known but wasn’t telling. It took him months to get over my lack of knowledge. In his eyes, I
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was the all-seeing, all-knowing God. Dad was God and Dad knew everything! After the show we helped
the financial situation of The Flamingo, The Golden Nugget and The Horseshoe a little before making our
way through the brassy downtown area and returning to our room. There was so much to think about that
neither of us could get to sleep. After dressing again, we took the monorail back to the main body of
Circus Circus and found their dining area. It was possible to have a full meal for somewhere about $5.00 -
24 hours a day.
On the following morning we took a stroll and found a little place that specialised in pancakes. As
I had never eaten pancakes outside my mother's kitchen, I decided to give it a go. The stack I was given
was more than any normal human being could be expected to eat - drooling with sickly sweet maple syrup -
fine for Americans but far too much for me. Everyone to his or her own taste! Raymond managed to put
away a stack with bacon and eggs, quite comfortably. I was to learn that all this over-catering was the norm
in the States. Have you ever noticed the obesity? Nowadays Australia is rapidly catching up! Everything is
over the top. Of interest was a small do-it-yourself wedding chapel ... almost a drive-through activity…
little wonder so many marriages crash. We walked back along the Strip to visit Caesars Palace that at the
time was considered to be the greatest and grandest of all the resort hotels in Las Vegas. The path leading
to the main entrance was an awesome avenue of statuary and fountains. At the time I thought that the hotel
deserved to be called the Eighth Wonder of the World but I believe it has been overtaken in opulence since
then. The large MGM Hotel was destroyed by fire shortly after our visit.
I don't recall exactly what we had been doing on our last night in Vegas but it ended up as one of
the most exciting evenings ever. Before we went to dinner I had left a few $1.00 coins on the side-table in
the room. After dining we returned to the machines ... Raymond to his 10c machines, while I was back at
the $1.00 ones. Towards bedtime, Raymond came to me with both pants pockets pulled out - giving a look
at me, I’m an elephant demonstration - to show that he had no money left. Okay, so we would call it quits
and return to our room. I had just begun to undress when I noticed five $1.00 coins on the side-table. It was
too much to resist ... back to the machines we went. I put $1.00 in and pulled the handle … Jackpot!
Different to machines in Australia, this one just cascaded coins out quicker than we could gather them. I
was almost crying with excitement. We were both trying frantically to gather them all up ... others came to
help and, no doubt, help themselves as well. In the midst of all this, I reached to my right and put $1.00 in
that machine ... pulled the handle and hit another Jackpot. We were almost beside ourselves. I have no
idea what it all totalled up to, although I did have the entire winnings converted to the green stuff
immediately afterwards. We then went back to the room to lock ourselves away from temptation until
departure the next morning.
All the way from the check-in counter to the departure area of the airport were pokies lining the
walkway. We donated a coin at almost every machine along the way. After all the shows, meals and hotel
expenses, we left Las Vegas with far more money than we had arrived with. But still, we learned a lesson,
as we saw plenty who had not been quite so fortunate.

Grand Canyon
A very short flight took us from Las Vegas to Grand Canyon. I have often wondered since if there was any
type of settlement there. All I recall seeing was the hotel where we stayed and a small heliport on the other
side of the road. Anyway the hotel was superb - all beautiful log-cabin style, surrounded by pines. There
was the main body of the hotel with surrounding cabins and a detached sauna. Immediately after settling in
we walked over to the heliport where a helicopter waited on the tarmac, I enquired about flight options and
availability. No waiting ... just charge it to American Express and climb aboard ... just we two and the
pilot.
We rose vertically, made a couple of dizzy spins, rose above the surrounding scrub and headed off
in a dead straight line towards the canyon. It was so flat - for about one mile - over dreary desert scrubland
and then - quite suddenly - the world dropped away from beneath us and Raymond’s knuckles went white
as he gripped on to anything solid. We were out past the rim, looking down into the immense depths of the
void. It was all so very exhilarating … we began a long wide spiral down, down nearly to the Colorado
River where we could see an Indian camp, or something of that nature.

I read in a brochure: The first view of this mighty gouge in the skin of the earth will hit with the force and
surprise of a heavyweight's sucker punch. Its scale and topography is that overwhelming. That wording, as
the saying goes, could only be acceptable in America!
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American Indians who live in the Canyon do a roaring trade making and selling turquoise jewellery.
Many males of the wide-brimmed hat brigade can be seen wearing this type jewellery, together with wide
handmade belts. It seems to be a sort of been-there-done-that status symbol in the States. The helicopter
flight had been a first for Raymond but I had been fortunate in doing many such flights as part of my work
back in Papua New Guinea.
Late afternoon the chill crept in, insinuating itself right down through our meagre clothing. Never
in my wildest dreams did I imagine that anywhere in Arizona could be so cold. After a hearty dinner in
the hotel's restaurant, we returned to our room and slipped into something simple, as I wanted to take a
sauna and hopefully warm up. That was fine while it lasted ... walking back to our room in the freezing
night air wasn't all that amusing.
The following morning we were driven around the south rim of the Canyon to a lookout with a
view of over 180 degrees. Nearby was a track with tourists on donkeys descending the one-donkey-wide
track to the valley floor below. Neither of us was interested in that experience ... my bum is very bony ...
it would have been abject cruelty to both the donkey and me.

Raymond Visits Niagara Falls

There really is a lot to be said for planning ahead ... but I had never heard it said, so I had not planned
ahead. I wanted to take Raymond to see the falls - Niagara Falls that is. There were no flights to Niagara
from Grand Canyon, any fool would know that but seeing I am no fool, I didn’t know until I tried to make
a reservation. I was given one option, and one only ... there was one company that operated single-engine
flights to Palm Springs, from where we would be able to catch another flight to Niagara. We flew to Palm
Springs, or nearly to Palm Springs. Life was moving along very pleasantly as we skimmed cactus-high
southwards and it was then that the pilot advised that he would be leaving us at a small airstrip outside the
town boundaries ... a storm was approaching! A shocking dust storm! He was not prepared to go any
further. We landed on a narrow, dirt-surfaced strip where the only thing resembling a building was a
small, galvanised iron, open-sided shelter where we were unceremoniously dumped - lock, stock and
baggage. The plane took off again leaving us standing there, utterly bewildered and not knowing where
we were. The storm appeared to be raging in upon us from the north, the sky was blanketed behind a vast
cloud of brown sand. I must admit I was a trifle worried. I imagined the two of us being sandblasted to
smithereens.
Luckily, just as it seemed that the dreadful churning mass would hit us, a lone driver in a pick-up
came racing along. The driver asked if we needed help and offered to give us a lift to town. I had time to
check our bearings as we drove through palm-lined streets and heard that many of the rich and famous
lived in the area. Our saviour left us outside a motel that gave the impression of having been erected as a
prop in an old western film. It had a weathered, dark brown exterior and - as it turned out - a roof that
leaked very badly when the storm struck. It began as a dust storm and then progressed to become a
normal, very wet one. Buckets and an assortment of containers were positioned to catch the water that
flowed through the roof, but we still managed a hearty dinner.
What, you may ask, has this to do with Niagara Falls ... the only resemblance was the leaking
roof. Management of the establishment kindly arranged reservations on a flight for us on the following
day that would take us direct to Niagara.

We found accommodation on the American side within easy walking distance of the falls and awakened
the next morning to find the lawns outdoors a blanket of white ... not sand, snow! Raymond had never
seen snow before and asked if he could go outdoors. I told him ‘Yes!’ but to stay within view of our
window. He came in sight and made signs that asked if he could touch the snow. I nodded ‘yes’. He
stooped, scooping both hands full, stood erect and instantly threw his hands wide apart, letting the freezing
mass fall. His expression said “Bah!” And with one finger, made a circle beside his head to indicate that
he thought I was the mental one, not him. He had learned that although it might look pretty in postcards
and movies, it was most certainly not made for tropical creatures such as we.
On that, our first day, we walked from our accommodation to a large park at Prospect Point, a
promontory sticking out into the river just above the Falls. It was green, it was so colorful with all the
varieties of flowers that the lad had never before seen. When we returned to this park in the evening, it
had the appearance of being the setting for a ghost story. Ample lighting gave a mystical aura - the milky
white fog swirled gently through the stark, blackened trees, creating an eerie landscape that faded from
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sight in the distance and density of the fog. One could imagine zombies rising from their graves, wandering
through the murky mist.
One rather long stroll that first day took us to - and over - a bridge that links Canada with the
United States. At this crossing, passports had to be produced and stamped. On the other side of the river
were the Canadian ‘Horseshoe Falls’, the better known and most commonly photographed of all. You may
have even seen Marilyn Monroe in the film Niagara, back in 1953.
Ensconced in bright yellow plastic over-garments and matching gumboots, we sailed on the ‘Maid
of the Mist’, as near as safety allows to the mighty torrent of the falls, with great chunks of ice from Lake
Erie crashing down. The air was one swirling mass of freezing dampness. We went down behind the falls
to a spot where there were lookout stations, with icy water dripping from the roof of the tunnel. It is a
rather peculiar feeling seeing such an immense waterfall from the underside.
The falls attract in the vicinity of 12,000,000 people each year. It is possible to stand at little more
than arms length from the rushing torrent as, with a tremendous roar, it throws itself over into the depths of
hell. The volume of water that passes over the falls depends on how much is diverted to the hydroelectric
generation plants immediately upstream. Average flow is a mind-boggling 150,000 gallons per second, or
682,500 litres per second. Twenty percent of the world's fresh water lies in the Great Lakes and most of it
passes over the Falls before flowing on to Lake Ontario.

New York
Forty-second Street became our home for a few nights. We stayed at a tall, narrow, redbrick building just
around the corner from the United Nations Headquarters. Words just cannot express the excitement when
Raymond turned the corner and saw the sweeping array of flags of all the member nations ... even one of
Papua New Guinea that he was so very proud to see fluttering in the breeze so far from home. We took an
interesting guided tour of the building then walked up 5th Avenue to Central Park but, for some reason I
still can't understand, when we came to an arched bridge over a path he became terrified and we had to
leave. Come to think of it, I seem to recall a film where a murder had been committed near that very same
bridge - maybe he too had seen it and had taken it to be factual.
Not realising the distance ahead, we set off south on foot ... through the rather bohemian Greenwich
Village ... until we came to the two massive towers of the mighty World Trade Centre! We had never heard
of the place before and were amazed at the immensity of the cavernous central plaza. We found our way to
the lifts ... up, up, up to the rooftop 417 and 415 metres above ground level (1,368 and 1,362 feet). While
Raymond suffers from vertigo, I have a fascination with height. It was impossible to get near the edge - for
obvious reasons - but I was doing my best to peer down at the ant-like humanity so very far below. It went
through my mind that in an emergency it would be pointless to jump, because it would be impossible to
land in a small round net and - if you did happen to hit it - you'd go right through. How strange that I was
thinking of the horror of a fire at such a height - possibly due to seeing The Towering Inferno - when
Raymond came to me, indicating that he could smell smoke. Oh my God! … panic hit me! I grabbed him
and made a beeline for the lifts - to hell with the view - but on the way to the lifts he discovered a souvenir
shop. Nothing is more important to Raymond than a souvenir shop ... nothing other than food, not even life
itself. I allowed time for him to make a couple of purchases and then hurried him into a departing lift.
My anxiety was compounded due to delays in having to change lifts at the 78th and again at the
44th floor. When we did eventually reached ground level and were out on the pavement my knees turned to
jelly. I could scarcely find the strength to walk - I couldn’t explain why as I did not wish to frighten him.
Nine years later I re-lived the horror all over in my lounge room on Queensland’s Gold Coast, when the TV
showed the horror of September 11. Five thousand innocent souls were not so lucky! My initial feelings
on seeing those images were what brilliant special effects had been created for a film. It wasn’t until the
news ended that I realised what had happened.
After I had gathered my composure we walked to the spot from where ferries depart for the Statue
of Liberty. We were fortunate that day as the queue was not unduly long. Many steps up, followed by a
lift, then more steps up and we ended up in the head of the statue where there are viewing windows in the
crown. This was later closed to the public due to deterioration but I believe it has since been repaired.
From that position it seemed we were up in the heavens. From the roof of the World Trade Centre the
statue had seemed to be little more than a tiny greenish paperweight.
At Madison Square Garden - which is round, not square - we caught up with an absolutely
spectacular world-class 3-ring circus. I apologise for putting all these minor details in the story, but I would
 106

like to take you on this journey through the eyes of a person who is not only deaf and mute, but can neither
read nor write. Each and every experience to date had been entirely new to him and a far cry from his small
fishing village that had, at the time of this trip, no running water, electricity or phones connected.

One day we took a train from a city subway, across the Brooklyn Bridge to - is it - Queens? The graffiti in
the New York subways is enough to make anyone feel ill at ease, but on reaching the other side of the river
we disembarked and found ourselves in an awful, slummy sort of area, not unlike the old south Melbourne
docklands area. This was another spot where Raymond's vibes went haywire and, without further delay, we
had to find our way to another platform for a return train. Maybe we have both seen too many movies. We
had a snack in a little diner that evening, not far from 42nd Street, where I overheard two local women
discussing the dangers of walking in the city at night.
I reasoned that all good things must come to an end. The homeward journey took us from New
York to Los Angeles, to Honolulu and Sydney. And there, after a flight back to Port Moresby, the story
ended.

May 2, 1983: I have sat, devoting every solitary minute that I am not at work or sleeping …
designing and stitching tapestries (needlepoint). I have completed something like 15 since I saw
you last year – each and every one of these an original. One of these is nearly 36 inches x 48
inches and has over 204,000 stitches. This week will see the completion of a poster of Sarah
Bernhardt in the role of Gismonda ... it will be my largest yet with more than 207,000 stitches.

The Advertising Manager of the local airline, Air Niugini, approached me last week. They put out
an excellent in-flight magazine called ‘Paradise’ that has won world acclaim as being the best of
its kind ... it goes world-wide, too. They want to do an article on the tapestries and me. This is to
be followed by an exhibition at the National Gallery in October ... a one-man show. As Raymond
and I are departing for Europe on July 1, I am now extremely busy as the write-up, advance
publicity, all photography and framing have to be organised before we go. My Chinese Dragon
has been valued at $7,000 so it has all turned out to be a rather profitable little hobby. I wonder if
I could make a living in Australia by stitching?

Like everyone else we have had our share of ill health this year ... it all began with Raymond
getting glandular fever, followed by hardening of the arteries. Then I went down with glandular
fever but consider myself lucky not to have contracted the hepatitis that is sweeping through the
building. Raymond will be 21 next Thursday.
 107

ACROSS EUROPE BOTH WAYS 1983

My Port Moresby based travel agent

arranged all bookings, visas etc. for our
three-week pre-paid European tour with
Trafalgar Tours that was to depart from
London.
Raymond and I landed at
Heathrow on July 7, 1983. Heathrow
was about as bad as Honolulu with much confusion about which queue to stand in. We stood in line for 1
hour 35 minutes before even reaching the Immigration desk. There were a few problems when an
Immigration chap decided that anyone from Guinea could not enter the U.K. The fact that Raymond's
passport clearly stated Papua New Guinea meant nothing. After a little talking on my part he seemed to
realise that we were not terrorists - and certainly not drug-runners - and I was eventually able to get him to
realise that Papua New Guinea was part of the British Commonwealth.

London – Calais - London

We took the underground train direct from Heathrow to Victoria Station - which is also a hotel - and there
found a room at some ridiculously exorbitant rate. I was later to learn that all hotels in London are
outrageously priced. I agreed to something like £80 pounds or AUD$160.00 per night for room only. That
was considered extreme in 1983 when a room in Australia would cost about half that price. As you may
have reasoned from the date above, this was midsummer and in 1983 it was an absolute scorcher, with
temperatures of 40 degrees Celsius being recorded. The British press reported that this summer was the
hottest and longest for something like 300 years. (In 2006 temperatures again reached the high 30s in the
UK and it was claimed to be the hottest temperatures ever recorded.) England, it seemed, had never heard
of air-conditioning … the room was stifling! I opened the outside window and closed it again after being
almost bowled over by exhaust fumes and noise from the very busy street below. I opened the inside
window that looked directly down onto the platforms of Victoria station - the noise from the trains and
hundreds of swarming passengers was deafening. So we had to remain sealed in.
On a corner, directly outside the hotel, we found a fruit-vendor selling glorious, rosy peaches.
Raymond had never seen a peach and so that was what we had for lunch. We ate in the street, drooling and
dribbling juice all over the place, and had to use the public facilities in the Underground in order to clean
up. The streets in that area are filled with many old ‘mansions’ - a term I use lightly. Raymond inquired as
to why there were so many toilets so close together in the area. At first I couldn’t fathom his reasoning. His
reading was improving, but he had never seen a TO LET sign before. So many of those beautiful old
buildings had rooms or apartments for rent and he was unaware of what a difference an ‘I’ makes.
On the appropriate morning we arrived at the Trafalgar Tours office - not far from our hotel - and
joined the coach. We drove through the southern suburbs of London - through the lovely countryside to
Dover - where all passengers had to wait in a departure lounge and outbound area for formalities to be
processed. Coach, passengers and all, we crossed the English Channel to Calais in France. More Customs
officers, but this time they were the very arrogant French species. One officer boarded the bus and went
though all passengers, collecting passports to be taken away for processing. Shortly afterwards an officer
returned to the bus, pointed towards the back and shouted, “You, come!” When no one moved and all
heads turned, I realised he was pointing directly at Raymond. “You come!” he shouted again. I tried to
explain that Raymond was totally deaf, but he told me something in French that when translated meant,
“You keep quiet, I'm talking to the black one!”
Acting on my behalf, an interpreter helped me with my arguments. When translated to English, the
 108

altercationt went along the lines of him telling us that Raymond did not have a visa for France. I, in turn,
explained that as a subject of the British Commonwealth he did not need a visa to enter France, as our
travel agent had advised us that neither Australians nor Papua New Guineans required one. The outcome
was that my passport was also confiscated and I was also removed from the coach as well. It was a most
uncomfortable situation as we were delaying the bus and thirty-odd passengers who had to get to Belgium
that afternoon. Our luggage was removed from the storage compartment - with more time wasted - and,
together with us, was thrown into the back of a police van where we were locked in after I had been given
time to purchase a one-way ticket to Dover for myself. Raymond travelled free. The tour bus moved on
with two passengers short while we sat in the back of the frightfully hot police vehicle on the Calais ferry
wharf, awaiting deportation from France.

Immediately prior to the ferry's departure for the return trip to Dover, we were taken from the van and led
on board the ferry. After sailing, the purser returned our passports.
On our first night back in London when we were both feeling particularly bitter, we happened to be
watching the news on television ... there was considerable footage of an entirely black sporting team, from
some African country, that had crossed the channel to Calais and - together with their driver - had been sent
back to the U.K. So it wasn't personal with Raymond and me ... it was just another most blatant racial
exercise by the French … nothing personal.

Back in London we went daily to the French Embassy in an effort to obtain a visa for Raymond. We spent
the mornings of one whole working week sitting on a hard wooden bench at the embassy - waiting. At
about noon each day we would be told to leave and come back the following morning. They agreed that I
did not require a visa but they - at Heathrow - said that citizens of Guinea were not permitted to enter
France. This was becoming an expensive exercise ... not only had we lost three weeks accommodation,
meals and travel, but we were also left with the additional expense of accommodation in London.
Afternoons were spent sight-seeing. We took in the London Dungeon - a gruesome historical
waxworks type thing not far from Tower Bridge and, while in that area, visited the Tower of London with
all those lovely replica jewels. We went to Madam Tussard's waxworks - the real one this time - and to a
theatre to see Caligula but it was so hot indoors we had to walk out at interval.

One afternoon when we were at Piccadilly Circus, we had just managed to cross the street to the actual
monument in the centre when Raymond spied a group of the most frightening creatures ever seen. Girls!
English girls - Gothics, I think they were called - with faces painted stark white, very dark lipstick, black
eyeliner and mascara and hair that stood up in great scarlet spikes. They were hideous - all dressed in
similar style - each with their own variations on a theme but it boiled down to being basic black from head
to foot and the heaviest of heavy silver jewellery and much facial and body piercing. Raymond pointed and
let out a most awful yell. I couldn't get him out of there quickly enough. I felt that each and every one of
them would have been more dangerous that any man.
An event happened one day that brought tears to my eyes. We were walking through a pedestrian
underpass to the Victoria and Albert Museum where a sad-looking elderly man, dressed in little more than
rags, was playing an awfully mournful tune on his violin. Raymond took me by the arm and asked why he
had a tin on the floor at his feet. I explained that he was blind and was playing for money. With that,
Raymond reached into his pocket and dropped some coins into the tin. The blind man said, “Thank you!”
Without even considering my reply I said, “It's no use thanking him, he's deaf and can't hear you!” I felt so
bad afterwards when I had time to consider my unfortunate choice of words.
Later that same day, in another area of town, there was another elderly man squatting on the
sidewalk, with a sign that read ‘Deaf and Blind’. I translated that for Raymond, then I reached into my
pocket and started crying - the poor beggar didn't get anything from me other than my most profound
sympathy.
On the following Sunday - with single transit visas for the Benelux countries - Belgium,
Netherlands, Luxembourg - authorised for Raymond, we crossed the channel to Ostende, Belgium where
we caught up with the following week's version of the same tour. It seemed most likely that we would be
able to enter France from the south on the return side of the round trip.
A different driver and different passengers…
 109

The European Tour - Belgium

First night on the itinerary was spent in Brussels - Flemish: Brussel. French: Bruxelle. That was the day I
developed what I will call French Fatigue, that struck as soon as I sat in the coach - a form of sleeping
sickness that struck each morning - brought on quite possibly by the frustration of Raymond's non-existent
French visa that had me so exhausted with worry that it caused me to fall asleep as soon as the engine
started. Weariness overtook me and swept from my memory all images of the countryside that we had
passed through.
Brussels is situated right in the middle of Belgium on the River Senne. It has a variety of
industries, foremost amongst them being the manufacture of machinery, chemicals and the famous Belgian
lace. This introduction to the life of being a tourist was a drive-through piece of work. I recall seeing the
Royal Palace - Palaise Royale - and the very fine lawns and gardens of the Castle of Laeken - Maison du
Roi, the home of the Royal Family. I do know that we slept that night in one of the outer suburbs, way out
of touch of anywhere interesting within walking distance.
At this stage of the tour - almost the very beginning - I learned what had been meant by the title of
a movie I had seen back in 1969 with the ridiculous title of If it's Tuesday, this must be Belgium. That title,
I was to learn, wasn't all that crazy as it seemed after all - doing an organised tour gets you like that -
everything is so rushed and regimented that one day seems just the same as another, and so you must
continually consult your itinerary in order to confirm what day it is and also where you are, or if you know
where you are, you have to check to find out what day it is.
Onwards we hurtled towards The Netherlands.

Netherlands
In Amsterdam the name of Anna Frank took on a new meaning as we drove by what we were told was the
house in which she and her family had hidden in for something like five years during the German
occupation of the country.
It was interesting to inspect a Dutch cheese factory and visit another region where wood-carvers
manufactured clogs - old-style Dutch wooden shoes. I was amazed at the way the Dutch had been able to
reclaim so much land from the ocean. There were lots and lots of fishing boats with their nets drying in the
sun - a very common sight overseas - much more colorful in Holland, however, but nowhere near as
interesting as on the island of Corfu.
We also drove by the very expansive Zuider Zee. For the unaware I'll pass on a little bit of
unnecessary information that I learned about that place ... The Zuider Zee was originally a shallow inlet of
the North Sea that extended about 100 km inland. In 1932 the majority of the Zuider Zee was closed off
from the North Sea by a very wide dam. The salt-water inlet had become a fresh water lake.
The Zuider Zee has experienced many problems and disasters in its history, but for further
information, consult your friendly Dutchman. And, of course there were windmills ... we saw lots and lots
of wonderful windmills! Where art thou, Don Quixote?

Cologne (Koln)
The only thing that comes to mind about Cologne after twenty-three years is the beautiful old Cathedral.
Begun in 1248, the construction of the Gothic masterpiece was done in several stages and was not
completed until 1880 … 632 years to build one cathedral! Most of the city centre had been destroyed
during the air raids of World War II but the cathedral remained. A few famous names from Cologne that I
had read of during my days in Teachers’ College … Albertus Magnus, Thomas Aquinas and John Duns
Scotus ... all were rather famous in the German education department in their day.
Cologne is situated on the Rhine River, from which - when cruising on the river - many beautiful
old fairy-tale castles can be seen high on the surrounding mountains. On the port side of the vessel, when
sailing upstream, is the extremely tall rock known as Lorelei' - noted for its echo and its association with
the legend of a water nymph whose singing lured sailors to their destruction. The rock of Lorelei was
apparently the inspiration for the haunting George Gershwin song The Lorelei, an excellent rendition of
which is sung - in her own inimitable style - by Ella Fitzgerald.
Cologne has many extremely interesting old Roman sites dating back some 2,000 years. What a
pity that a monstrosity such as the golden arches of McDonalds has been allowed slap-bang across the
street from the Cathedral. It was disappointing to see such an act of vandalism in such an historic city.
 110

Grand Duchy of Luxembourg

We drove through Luxembourg - a small province of 2,586-sq. km. at the southeastern end of Belgium -
that has a population of about 365,000. At the time of our visit the Head of State was the Grand Duke Jean,
born in 1921.
Luxembourg was founded in 963 and became a grand duchy in 1815 when it became an
independent state under the Netherlands. It lost more than half its territory to Belgium in 1839 - became
independent in 1867 - was overrun by the Germans in both World Wars and eventually ended up being
neutral. That's a very checkered history!

Heidelberg
We passed through Heidelberg at the speed of light. I was, however, able to catch a glimpse of the
University that inspired Sigmund Romberg to write The Student Prince nestled amongst a densely forested
area on the banks of the Nektar River. This university was founded in 1386. A very beautiful old castle
dominates the Heidelberg skyline - looming over the old town. That was all I had time - and could stay
long enough - to learn about Heidelberg on a three-week tour of Europe.

Munich (Munchen)
Munich, the capital of Bavaria is situated on the River Isar. It has recently become Germany's second most
popular destination after Berlin and is possibly best known for the infamous Oktoberfest - beer festival –
that is held annually. It has a wonderful 15th-century cathedral and lots of baroque and rococo buildings,
including the Nymphenburg Palace that was built between the years of 1664 and 1728. The city was
heavily bombed during the Second World War. It has since regained much of its former glory and has a
population of approximately 1,300,000. We will return to Munich later in this chapter.
One evening we went to dinner at an outdoors beer-garden restaurant where there was lots of beer,
naturally, and ridiculous folk dancing with much thigh slapping, chicken-clucking, and music. I felt that I
have travelled far too much to be subjected to this sort of thing, but Raymond thoroughly enjoyed it and
that was the main reason for the trip.

Vienna (Wien)
It was in Vienna that Raymond and I teamed up with another of the passengers - Nevionne - a youngish
Australian woman who had married a Canadian, and was currently living in the province of British
Columbia, Canada. Nevionne's two sons were attending school in Australia. She was delightful and we
shared many common interests including arts, crafts and flora. The latter is what got the three of us
together. We had a few hours to spare one day in this capital of Austria and one of us suggested visiting the
flower and craft markets in the area. This was the greatest, most magnificent horticultural display I have
ever seen. Quite possibly I gained much of the pleasure by having company to share it with, instead of
being alone - alone, that is, with Raymond as usual. Poor Raymond just went along with the flow but he
does have an appreciation for flowers. I am so lucky that he appreciates everything I like, be it flowers, art,
sunsets, nature or food. With him being profoundly deaf, we do not share a common interest in music,
however! Which leads me to the fact that Vienna is situated at the very foot of the Vienna Woods, made
famous throughout the world by Johann Strauss, the renowned violinist, conductor and composer, and the
1936 film The Great Waltz. My mother often sat at the piano of an evening at our farm when I was a child,
playing from her album of Strauss Waltzes. I have been particularly fond of his pieces ever since.

Principality of Liechtenstein
The Principality of Liechtenstein - the baby of Europe - is between Switzerland and Austria with an area of
a mere 160 square kilometres (62 sq. miles) and a population of 25,000 plus (depending on how many
tourists are passing through). I guess you've worked it out already that it is about 16 kilometres long and 10
kilometres wide. Liechtenstein must surely have been the inspiration behind the Mouse that Roared.
The mountains of the Principality rise from the Rhine Valley to heights of over 2,500 metres (8,000
ft.) A principal source of revenue comes from the sale of postage stamps. Included in the industries are
textiles, ceramics, tools, instruments and food processing. Surely, at this rate, there can't be any real
problem with unemployment.
So much for Liechtenstein.
 111

Lucerne
The lovely city of Lucerne was once described by
Alexandre Dumas as ‘a pearl in the world's most
beautiful oyster’. Lucerne is undeniably a magical
city. Early one morning we had a bit of free time so
Raymond and I made the most of it by wandering off
on our own. We traversed two exquisite wooden
bridges - the Mill Bridge and the Chapel Bridge -
linking the city with the Water Tower or, as they say
over there, Wasserturm, on Lake Lucerne. After our
walk we rejoined the tour group to take an afternoon
lake cruise on a paddle steamer. Once the steamer
moved away from shore there were spectacular views The beautiful old wooden Mill and Chapel bridges of Lucerne
in every direction. The surface of the lake mirrored
the mountains that crowded in on each side. Beautiful Tyrolean style houses dotted the shoreline, nestled in
amongst the darkest of dark green fir trees that forested the area. We went ashore at a small village - maybe
it was a township - and took a cogwheel railway up the steep mountainside. Every metre we climbed
afforded even more spectacular views across the lake. You don't know Raymond, but he is absolutely
bonkers about dogs. I will never forget the look on his face when we alighted at the top of the railway and
there - right at the door of a restaurant - sat a tremendously large St Bernard with a small barrel tied around
its neck. I bet that dog is the most cuddled canine in the world! We were very high on either Mt Pilatus or
Mt Rigi ... I don't know which. If we were on the former we had come up the world's steepest cogwheel
railway and if we were on Rigi we had ridden the world's oldest. Who cares when it's all said and done ...
either afforded magnificent views and this one had a restaurant. I imagine all mountains in the area would
have dining facilities of some kind.

After leaving Lucerne we took the main highway south, towards Venice. This was the best road system in
the world, or so I claimed when we had been on the road for an hour or so. It is difficult to explain the
tremendous amount of engineering skill that has gone into the construction of the St Gotthard Tunnel - from
Goschenen to Airolo. When it opened in 1980 it was the world's longest tunnel, at 16.4 km (10.2 miles)
long. The northern entrance is at Goschenen and the southern at Airolo - both, as far as I can ascertain, in
Switzerland. Up to 1,800 vehicles an hour can move through the tunnel in either direction at between 60
and 80 km per hour, or in the vicinity of 50 miles per hour.

The Gotthard Pass is one of the most-used north-south connections in

Europe. The tunnel is artificially ventilated with fresh air being
blown in while overhead exhaust fans take stale air and exhaust
fumes out. Computers control the entire system. At several spots on
the way there are ‘viewing windows’... that's fine for passengers but
I would certainly not want my driver to be taking too many peeks
out. After exiting at the southern end of the tunnel in the north of
Italy there is an amazing road system that has the road seemingly
over-passing and under-passing itself. The road had more twists and
turns than an Agatha Christie murder mystery … it soared high over
valleys, then dipped and disappeared into mountainsides, emerging
on the other side to do it all over again. Then, just a little further
south after entering Italy, the road suddenly becomes a
disappointment as it more-or-less flattens out and is rather
uninteresting by comparison to what we had passed through.

A little ol’ street in Venezia
Venice
On my previous visit to the very lovely Venezia I had entered by rail.
This time, however, the coach delivered us to our very dreary
accommodation in a suitably uninteresting suburb way out in the
sticks. Trafalgar tours had lived up to their slogan of Budget
 112

Travel ... everywhere we had stayed had been very, very budget and so far out of town that we would
always have to find our own way to the CBD by local transport if we wanted to go out at night.
All I wanted to do this time around was let Raymond experience Venice for himself. We took a
train to town where we bought a bag of corn and he was able to feed the pigeons in St Mark's Square. Like
me, he was becoming very churched-out by this stage. Initially he was interested in seeing the masterpieces
that are housed in Accademia, but having had no formal education and being unable to read or write he had
no idea of the history involved in the works.
Just for the hell of it, I took him on a ride in a gondola. We spent time watching - and he was
fascinated by - a glass-blower on the island of Burano, after which we were content to sit in the Square with
a strong black coffee and feed the pigeons, before taking a water taxi up the Grand Canal to the Railway
Station for the return to the our accommodation.

Florence
We bussed from Venice to Padova, Bologna, through the
high Apennines and down to Florence. This city was
becoming a habit with me. I dearly love the place! It is a
strange feeling to be far away from home and still know
your way around. In just a few hours I managed to show
Raymond almost as much as I had seen on my two
previous visits. I made sure that we both had a chance to
pat the bronze boar on the snout ... I gave it another rub
for good luck and for the sake of tradition.
The imposing white monument to Victor Emmanuel II, Rome
Rome
We drove down through Tuscany to Rome where I still hoped to obtain a visa for the lad to enter France.
At the French Embassy or Consular Office - I never did know which it was - we re-submitted an application
for a visa and were advised to return later in the day.
There was considerable concern amongst the tour group over another visa matter. When making
our reservations back in Port Moresby, the travel agent had taken our passports and obtained visas for both
of us for Spain and, as I said, advised us that neither of us needed one for France. Somewhere back along
the route someplace I had mentioned this to others and there was a great debate about it. Most passengers
on the tour already had visas for Spain, while the remainder was adamant that they did not need one. On
making subsequent enquiries they learned that a visa was definitely required by all foreign visitors to enter
the country. They were told that in their present case a visa could only be obtained at the French border and
that it took two days to process.
Raymond and I returned to the Embassy that afternoon and were told that entry to France had again
been denied. This was about to become one of the worst experiences I have ever known. Not only did
Raymond and I have a problem, but so too did the others who had no visa for Spain.
The coach-full of passengers made its way back to Florence with lots of discussion - the outcome of
which was that those who required a visa for Spain had to travel by a very fast taxi, all the way to the
French border in order to have visas processed before the bus reached the area. For Raymond and me it
was a no-win situation. Raymond had been issued a single-entry visa for all the Benelux countries for a
southwards trip only and now here we were in Florence, Italy
with no visa for him to enter any of the European countries
through which we had to re-cross and our finances were
becoming rather grim. We certainly did not have sufficient
funds to purchase airline tickets to London for the two of us
to fly ourselves out of the mess.

The Unexpected Travels

We were left standing by the roadside in Florence after
the coach departed.
Our coach driver stopped near a railway station in the
northern suburbs of Florence and bade us farewell. Can you
imagine the feeling, being deposited on the roadside, so far
from home, and being responsible for a disabled person who
could not comprehend what was going on. We said goodbye
 113

to Nevionne and all our fellow passengers on the coach - the few who did not have visa problems - who
waved us a sad farewell. We stood there - dumbstruck and bewildered - all alone with our bags as we
watched the Tourisme et Voyages coach disappear into the distance.

I had to get the two of us back to Brussels somehow. I bought two single, first-class tickets on the
overnight express to Munich. We worked out a code that, if Raymond was awake when I heard anyone
approaching, he was to feign sleep. Fortunately he is a notoriously sound sleeper. As we approached the
Dolomites darkness descended on the world outside. As luck would have it, when the conductor came
through at the Austrian border, Raymond was in a deep sleep. I showed my passport and indicated that I
did not wish to disturb my handicapped travelling companion and explained that his passport was in his bag
somewhere. Imagine the relief I felt when the officer wished me a ‘good night’ and walked away down the
corridor. A similar thing happened at the Austrian-German border, but at that one the conductor didn't want
to see either passport.

We arrived in Munich mid-morning. Now what to do? I was having terrible trouble with an aggressive
non-English speaking Frau at Munich railway station who was not in the least bit interested in my needs. I
indicated Brussels on the map - I pleaded with her to be tolerant and try to understand what I wanted. With
two fingers raised I said Brussels. I said Bruxelle but that made no difference either. She shook her head
and, with a flick of the hand, she turned her back and dismissed me. What was wrong with the dumb
woman? I can only blame her for what happened next. I felt the old familiar rumblings of diarrhoea about
to strike once more and ran to the toilet. I found myself back in an Asian hole-in-the-floor style once again.
This was the last thing I ever expected to find in Germany. I dropped the daks and squatted - of all things
to happen, all the loose change I had in my side pocket fell out, clean down the hole.

I was almost giving up all hope of getting out of Munich when we noticed a magnificent travel poster - with
an equally large full colour photograph - of the Disney-like castle at Neuschwanstein. Less than twelve
months previously Raymond had completed a jigsaw puzzle of that very same flight-of-fancy castle. You
should have seen the look on his face when I indicated the poster. In his own way he asked: “Near?” I
nodded “Yes”. Would you like to see it? He let out a muffled “Buh” at the prospect.
I went to a different window this time and, flashing my Visa card, asked for two return tickets to
Oberammergau. There was no problem in getting tickets from this woman and, oddly enough, a train was
leaving in about 15 minutes. Let's hope my bowel movements would hold out this time. I was more
relaxed by now and, am pleased to say, they did.

Oberammergau
Now where and what is Oberammergau? With a population of 5,000 I would call it a village but it is
recognised as being a town - a very tiny and very beautiful little town in the Bavarian Alps - in the
southwest of Germany. Anybody who is anybody is aware of the Oberammergau Passion Plays that are
performed every 10 years with a cast of up to 2,000 villagers taking part. The play is an expression of
thanks to God for releasing their village from The Black Death plague that swept through the village in
1632, wiping out one fifth of the inhabitants. I have never heard of anyone offering thanks to God for
killing all the others.
My first impression on alighting from the train at the tiny railway station was the magnificently
clean, fresh, exhilarating air ... not cold ... but fresh and sweet and scented with fresh pine: it had a definite
Norsca aroma.
. At the end of the platform was an open door - a door that opened into a proportionately small
hotel. A particularly attractive young blonde lady approached us and asked: “Kahn ich ihnen helfen?” (Can
I help you?) I managed to get out: “Heben sie ieinen freien ...?” (Do you have a twin ...?) And she
interrupted my attempt with “Oh, you're Australian!”
She was Australian herself and had married a young German about two years previously. She was
so excited at being able to speak Australian-English after living two years in Bavaria. She answered my
unfinished question by saying that she did indeed have a twin-room - so I booked it for two nights. It was
so delightfully cosy and so very Germanic in style and decor. Through the window I could see a planter
filled with brilliant red geraniums on the sill. When we left for a walk around the locality where I was to
find that there were geraniums in window boxes at practically every window in town, and most of the
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houses had their exterior walls painted with gorgeous scenic murals.
The railway station and hotel were about 500 metres from the town centre - more than 500 steps
when reasonably small steps were being taken. We walked along a clean, green stretch of mown grass
beside the smallest, shallowest stream, with crystal clear water rippling slowly by. All around were pine-
clad mountains ... I envisaged them being snow-covered, then realised that if the hills were covered in
snow, so would the grass on which we were standing. I gave an involuntary shudder when I thought of the
cold - it was such a beautiful picture-perfect postcard setting as it was. The hills all around seemed to be
alive with the sound of music.

Neuschwanstein
We dined in our hotel that evening ... a magnificent home-cooked meal! Whilst chatting with the
Australian-born hostess I asked about the possibilities of visiting Neuschwanstein. Buses ran to a regular
timetable all day every day until about sunset, she told me. She also told us where to stand and that a coach
driver would stop automatically. Time has dimmed my memory of the distance to the castle, but it really
doesn’t matter here and now. There are lots more important things to think of in life other than a small bus-
fare, a few hours and the distance we travelled. As we approached we could see the castle, perched atop a
hill, the base of which was hidden from view by a dark green forest that reached for the sky behind and to
the left of the castle. Impatient swine that I am, I asked the driver to drop us off at a sheltered spot where
we stopped at the bottom of the hill. Following a gravel path through the trees, we came to some steps
hewn roughly out of the rocky hillside. Had I realised at the time that there were 170 steps up I may have
baulked at the idea, but that was only the start - it was a long, long way to the top.
Eventually we came upon a clearing - with bitumen tarmac - and a large car park where many cars
and the bus on which we had travelled was parked. Had we stayed on the bus we would have been
delivered to this very spot, but we would have missed out on some wonderful scenery on the way up. We
had entered the courtyard of King Ludwig's magnificent and most famous castle, built in the neo-late
Romanesque style. With its turrets and mock-medievalism, its interior styles ranging from Byzantine
through Romanesque makes it a real fairy-tale fantasy come true. The castle was built between 1869 and
1886 for the Bavarian King Ludwig II, high above the Alpsee Lake, with the Alps towering above it.
After we had seen enough of the interior I decided I wanted to wander around and take an aerial
shot of the castle from way up the mountain. We crossed Mary's Bridge, that spans the very deep and steep
gorge up which we had earlier climbed, and then we climbed
and climbed and climbed. I can’t urge the young enough to
get out and moving while they are able to do so. I could not
possibly do that climb again but there's so much in life that I
would now be unable to repeat. I am very lucky that I have
had the opportunity to get around as much as I have - all those
wonderful memories are there and having those memories,
loneliness is never a problem.
In my earlier days I had decided I had to try and do
everything possible that I wanted to do. I determined that I did
not want to be on my deathbed with regrets of adventures
unlived, sights unseen and loves unconquered.
Neuschwanstein was one of those dreams … one more notch
in my death-bed post!
We were still climbing and Raymond kept asking
what the various notices nailed to tree trunks at the side of the
rocky path indicated. At first I just shrugged him off as it did
not seem all that important, but I eventually decided to tell him
the truth, that they were to indicate where people had fallen to
their death ... quite a few of them. I told him to close his eyes
and have a short rest while I took my photos. Then, after I had
explained about the signs, he collapsed to his knees and did
not get up again until we had reached the bottom. We had the
painstaking process of returning downhill, with Raymond on
hands and knees, going backwards all the way to the bottom. It The very beautiful Neuschwanstein castle of Bavaria.
 115

was the rotten old vertigo that I had more-or-less forgotten about.
Back at the hotel that evening it was explained to me that Ludwig - with all his extravagances in
building the castle - had practically run the kingdom into bankruptcy. His subjects claimed that he was mad
and determined to rid themselves of him. It is said that under cover of darkness, he was taken to the lake
and drowned. True or false, I do not know, but it makes for a good story.
Our Australian-Germany licensee was able to make reservations and purchase tickets for the two of
us on the Munich to Brussels train on my Visa card. We experienced no further problems at the Belgian
border. The final stages of our south to north Continental crossing was almost at an end without mishap.
One night was spent in Brussels where, instead of buying lace as would be expected, I bought a set of
wooden handled steak knives. Raymond was intrigued by a street in which all the windows of one whole
city block was occupied by a single female - each in a provocative pose and an advanced state of undress.
He wanted to linger longer but I knew I could not possibly afford to pay what they would have been
charging for their services.

We then took the train to the trans-channel ferry terminal at Oostende. From there it was simple sailing
back to Dover, on the southern coast of England. We then caught up with our original airline bookings for
the flight towards home.
The only drama worth reporting on this stage of the return trip was our stop in Bahrain where,
before re-boarding the aircraft, all passengers were taken one at a time behind a screen for a thorough body
search. Have I mentioned that Raymond was - and still is - extremely modest? He stormed out from behind
the screen, absolutely fuming because the security officer had run his hands just a little too far up his inner
thigh for his liking. It is a wonder that he hadn't taken a swipe at the offending officer. Just another little
instance of being unaware of what was going on in the early days of the age of terror.

Singapore
To relieve the stress of long-distance travel we had a few nights stopover in Singapore, en route to Papua
New Guinea. This stopover had been pre-paid when I made our initial reservations and was a welcome
break from having to continually fork out money when our finances were at such a low ebb. Having
company with me, I experimented with the local buses, which are not as easy as I would have imagined as -
although all buses gave their destination on the front - we had no idea where any of those destinations were.
Still, we managed to make our own way to one of Asia's largest and most impressive bird parks - the
amazing Jurong Bird Park. This incredible landscaped environment is home to over 8,000 birds from 600
species, all displayed in huge enclosures. (1983 statistics). When we returned in 2006 the statistics were the
same but the place had been vastly changed and improved. There are Barbie-doll-pink flamingoes by the
hundreds in their open area, with a large lake, and nearby colorful hornbills and toucans abound. I have
visited many of the world's bird parks - this one rates at the very top of my list … even better than Hong
Kong.
After leaving the Bird Park we found our way by local bus - quite by accident - to the terminal from
where cable cars ran across to the island of Sentosa. I have to admit that I had never heard of Sentosa until
the bus approached the terminal and I noticed the cable car spanning the great stretch of water. I have often
been asked why I did certain things or visited certain places ... I can only respond that I do it because it is
there and I haven't been. That's the way I operate. I wondered about Raymond's vertigo, but he took my
advice - which is not an original idea of mine by any means - of ‘don't look down’. We arrived at the island
without any ill effects and enjoyed a few all-too-short hours of exploration.
Sentosa had once been a fishing village that had been turned into Military base by the British. It
has since been transformed into an idyllic island resort and, in 1972, opened to the public. I believe there is
a lot to see on Sentosa but as we had spent far too much time at the Bird Park, and our time was limited.
Maybe next time?. We left Sentosa and flew back to Papua New Guinea the next day.

The tiny flat in Korobosea Drive finally became claustrophobic - the walls were closing in on me and I
needed space. I applied for, and was given, a beautiful three-bedroom house in what would become the
village at the Rouna 4 hydroelectric power station, about 19km north of Port Moresby, 2km further north of
where Mum and I had lived during our days of poverty. Initially Raymond and I were the only residents in
the village. At night the silence was overwhelming, all that could be heard was the screeching of cicadas.
Our house was practically on the cliff-top of the eastern rim of the gorge, with the Laloki River way
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down below. After rain it was fascinating to lay in bed, looking through a large window at the foot of the
bed, where anything up to five waterfalls cascaded down the cliff-face of the opposite side of the gorge.
The massive rocks in this area are of a very dark honeycomb basalt composition. At weekends many
friends came to stay and splash around in the cool waters of the river.

Living out there was an idyllic … we were able to grow our own pawpaw (papaya), bananas and kaukau
(sweet potato) and, strangely enough, there was a cotton bush in our garden. However it was all too good
to be true. One evening one of the native Commission staff came running to tell that a big fight had
broken out at the nearby Rouna Hotel a couple of kilometres further up the road. A drunken mob of
natives was on a rampage, and was threatening to get rid of all the whites in the area. I was the only
whitey in that immediate vicinity! Other native staff and friends came running to our aid. Hastily
Raymond and I gathered and passed out everything we could find that could be used as weaponry - all the
larger knives, an axe, machete, gardening implements – anything solid enough to inflict injury. We spent
a night of very nervous anxiety, waiting for the attack that fortunately never came. I never saw any of my
tools or weapons again either.

Neighbours moved in, three houses further along in the village ... a middle-aged married couple. The
husband was a Commission employee and the wife was, I think, Czechoslovakian. She was grossly fat and
scarcely spoke any English. On many occasions after her husband had gone to bed she would come to our
house to spend time, and when trying to make conversation she chain-smoked all the while - never once
did she use the ashtray for anything other than to drop the finished butt in - all ash was allowed to fall all
over her clothes, the furniture or the floor.
One morning I left for work at the usual hour of about 7, taking Raymond along with me as he
was to spend the day at the swimming pool. No sooner had I sat in my office with the newspaper than the
phone rang ... it was the Czechoslovakian wife ... her husband had died. 'Please come, I know no-one!'
Back home again I found her crying hysterically. I could understand her trauma as not only had
she lost her husband, but she was entirely alone in Australia. She could scarcely communicate with
anyone, and was no doubt aware that she would have to vacate the house within two weeks. Such was
company policy.
She wanted me to go to the house with her and see the smile on the face of her dead husband ...
“He die with smile on face,” she told me, “I am so happy I let him make love to me when I go home last
night!”

Oddly enough, on a visit to Sydney not before this unfortunate incident, I had seen an R-rated film in a
city cinema called The Case of the Smiling Stiffs. It was a tale about a female vampire who found better
things to go down on than the jugular … leaving the deceased with a smile on the face and a massive
erection.
So that's why he was smiling!
 117

SCOTLAND THROUGH SCOTTISH EYES 1986

One evening we had friends come out to our rural

home at Rouna for the evening, amongst whom were
Jim and Millie. Jim was the father of my very good
friend and work-mate Marilyn, who had been born in
Scotland and still had relatives living in Edinburgh.
Millie was known affectionately to all as Auntie
Millie, while Raymond always refers to her as GMM
- Grandmother. The course of conversation we got
around to forthcoming holidays and I mentioned that
I intended taking Raymond into the Red Centre of
Australia and, in particular, to see Alice Springs and
Ayers Rock (Uluru).
Millie and Jim were telling us of their already
confirmed trip to Scotland to catch up with relations
who had stayed behind in the ‘old country’ . I think it
was Millie who asked: “Why don't you come with us
and we'll show you the true Scotland?” My arm had
been twisted with the greatest of ease! Before the
evening was over I had made up my mind - Raymond and I would be going to see Scotland through
Scottish eyes instead of the red centre ... we could do the Outback at any time. They were leaving in the
very near future, which did not allow much time to get organised as I had to make all arrangements for two.
It was agreed that we would keep in contact and, after I had advised them of the date, they would meet us
on our arrival at Edinburgh. One thing was for certain ... we would be going!

Edinburgh
On arrival at the Edinburgh railway station the two of us were scanning - as best we could - the many
hundreds of faces on the crowded platform. Raymond picked them out first. Although lacking hearing or
speech he was remarkably observant. Jim drove us to a Bed and Breakfast place on Corstophine Road that
had been recommended by their relations - a short bus-ride from the city centre. After settling in to our
accommodation we were taken on a conducted tour - firstly to the Botanical Gardens. Millie took great
pleasure showing us where, as a baby, she had been wheeled in a pram .
We walked the street - the first one up running parallel with Princess Street - where my aunt
Isobella Simpson Knowles had been born. Sadly she is no longer with us and I was unable to share the
experience with her on our return. Aunty Ella had married Jack Cassell - my mother’s only brother -
shortly after World War I … and still retained her Scottish brogue until her death in the early 1980’s.
We walked up the Royal Mile to Edinburgh Castle. One does not have to be of Scottish descent to
appreciate the grandeur of that magnificent old building - as they say nowadays - it was awesome! The
castle is known throughout the world as Edinburgh’s top tourist attraction. The rock on which it was built
has been inhabited since 800BC. Leading down from the castle is the Royal Mile - dating from the 16th
Century - to the Palace of Holyrood House ... another Royal Palace.
Holyrood has a history all of its own - a story of a love triangle, treachery, rape and murder. It
dates from 1498 when it was built by James IV, and has been closely linked with royalty ever since.
Holyrood Palace is also intimately associated with Mary Queen of Scots.

On the night of February 9, 1567, a trail of gunpowder had been lit in the cellar of a house owned by Lord
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Darnley - Mary’s second husband - in the backstreets of Edinburgh. The house was reduced to rubble. The
first people to arrive at the scene discovered the naked corpses of Darnley and his valet in the garden -
neither had died in the explosion, and both corpses bore the marks of strangulation. It appeared evident that
both had been murdered.
At the heart of the mystery lies the treacherous politics of the Scottish Court and love letters written
by Mary to her secret paramour, James Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell. Mary was widowed for the second
time at age 24.
I had always felt sorry for QE II with all the problems she had been experiencing with her
offspring, but it seems that the ancestors had not been exactly unaccustomed to an occasional bit of rock 'n'
roll on a hot mattress either. I still recall the words of Her Majesty after her loyal subjects had finished
singing God Save the Queen, when she turned to Phillip and said: 'Phillip, the song has ended but the
malady lingers on.'
The Palace of Holyrood House is now the official residence of Queen Elizabeth II when she is in
Scotland. She is usually in residence for a few weeks in May and July - just to get away from the
housework at Buck Palace during the heat of summer.
Our B & B was an immaculately kept dolls-house - a husband and wife operation - with beautiful
cottage gardens back and front. Jim and Millie had chosen well. Our room on the first floor was
exquisitely decorated - as was the entire house. We had twin beds into which we sank until we almost
drowned ourselves in luxury. The room looked out on an easterly aspect and had a wide window that
afforded a view of sunrise and the attractive, colorful, flower-filled back garden. I was amazed that I could
sit up in bed, reading until after 10 each evening, with no artificial lighting. A wonderful cooked breakfast
was served downstairs in the mornings.

Loch Lomond Region

As earlier stated, Jim and Millie wanted to show us their Scotland: with Jim at the wheel we set off on our
journey. Near the south end of Loch Lomond we passed through the village of Alexandria from where -
way up north - the majestic Ben Lomond could be seen in the distance on the other side of the Loch. We
pulled over to the side of the road at a pleasant little grassy spot for a picnic lunch on the Bonny Bonny
Banks of Loch Lomond. Jim had done all the driving; Millie had prepared a delicious picnic for four,
Raymond and I had just come along for the ride. How I wished my dear old grandfather could have been
with us that day. His mother came from Aberdeen - his father from Oban - and he lived for all things
Scottish. Grandfather was born, raised and died in Victoria, Australia and - as far as I can ascertain -
ventured out of the state for only a brief period in Tasmania shortly after their first daughter was born in
1890. It was he who had instilled in me the desire to travel. Every year during my childhood grandfather
received a beautiful scenic calendar, sent by relatives he had never met, who lived in Scotland. In the early
days all photographs were sepia, but in later years colour was introduced. I was fascinated by the sweeping
hillsides cloaked in the purple heather that I had heard so much about Grandfather filled my head with tales
of Bonnie Prince Charlie and the poetry of Robbie Burns.

A little further north we passed through - and turned left at - the village of Tarbet. One of the most
fascinating sights I had ever seen came about just a little further along this road. We had passed through a
region of heavily grassed slopes, where sheep and longhaired Scottish cattle grazed. The road from
Arrochar climbs up the long and winding road that is known as Rest and Be Thankful. No prizes will be
given for anyone suggesting how it came to be named so, imagine, if you will, in days of yore, making your
way either on foot or in a horse-drawn carriage up this very long, extremely steep climb to where, at the
top, the traveller is greeted by a small, refreshingly cool waterfall. What do you think they did when they
reached the top? … rest and be thankful, I would imagine.
I'll be perfectly honest - I did not see the waterfall as my attention was taken by a lone piper,
standing to the left of the road, wearing a brilliant scarlet and green kilt with nothing but gorgeous green
hills and valleys ranging back miles upon miles into the distance as a backdrop; the notes of the pipes
wafting away to end up in infinity - usually the best place for the notes of bagpipes to end up! Despite my
heritage, I am not a lover of bagpipes indoors. I had once had to leave the theatre during a live performance
of Brigadoon in Sydney and again, when working one New Years Eve in my role as drink-waiter in Port
Moresby and, right on the stroke of twelve, a piper entered the dining room with a sack full of pussycats,
screeching in his tartan bag. Without a word to management, I dropped my composure and my napkin and
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did a Houdini act … I raced from the room and disappeared! But here - in the great outdoors of Rest and
Be Thankful Pass - it was the most glorious, soulful, sheer magical sound imaginable.
The scenery from that altitude was wonderful - down to the west, where we would next be heading,
I noticed a small lake - too small to be called a loch in my estimation - maybe it was a pond. Distant
mountains were mirrored in the glassy surface of the still water. This was the first time Raymond had ever
seen black-faced sheep. He could not make sense of how - in a country populated mainly by whites - the
sheep could possibly have black faces. Initially, I explained in sign language that was where black wool
came from. That satisfied him and put his mind to rest. I did explain the truth in greater detail later when
we got settled in our accommodation that night. It was getting towards late afternoon when we came to the
small antique village of Inveraray.
We came upon a three-story house that, although it had the appearance of being just plain grey
concrete, was architecturally attractive with a personality of its own that matched its rural surroundings. A
sign at the gate stated Bed and Breakfast. I do not recall the price quoted, but it was very reasonable, as all
accommodation in Scotland was in those days, especially when compared to Greater London. The house
was a treasure trove of antiques that the rather elderly lady of the house took great pleasure in showing us
all her little treasures. I was pleased to offer my services with the door of one of her glass-fronted
showcases, in which a figurine had toppled, and was resting against the glass door. Had she opened the
door it would have fallen and broken. With the aid of a ruler that she found for me, I inserted it in the
opening as she gently held the door a wee bit open and I was able to tilt the ornament back to a standing
position. She was so thankful as she would have been unable to do so on her own.
We were discussing the cold of winter and I enquired about living conditions. This delightful old
soul told of how they could be snowbound for days at a time, and how she always kept the upper floor
closed off in winter to conserve the warmth in the two lower floors.
Early next morning, Raymond and I went for a rural ramble up a path that led from our
accommodation, up along the coast of the northern end of Loch Fyne. We dipped our fingers in the water
and, as crystal clear and inviting as it was, we both agreed that swimming was out of the question.
Inveraray has its very own castle, with the most unlikely name of Inveraray Castle - can’t for the
life of me imagine how they decided on that for a name! It was once the seat of the Duke of Argyll, chief
of the clan Campbell, and the original castle had been rebuilt in the mid-eighteenth century.

Pitlochry
We did a considerable amount of aimless driving along the northern shore of Loch Rannoch - Jim told me
that along that part of the shore was a favourite holiday spot for one of the English Queens - (not Elton
John) Victoria, I think - who visited annually to bathe, whether she needed to or not. Then into the
Scottish Highlands to Pitlochry. It came as quite a surprise to come across this delightful Victorian-era
town, with a population of a mere two-and-a-half thousand people, nestling in the Perthshire Highlands
amidst some of the most beautiful scenery in the country. Pitlochry owes much of its fame to the fact that it
has been a very popular holiday resort for more than one hundred years. It is famous also for the Pitlochry
Festival Theatre and, being situated on the river Tummel, is home to the huge Tummel-Garry hyrdoelectric
scheme.
Jim took us to the dam’s visitor centre and salmon ladder, which requires a little explanation. Due
to the fact that much water is diverted through the hydro scheme, it was found necessary to make other
arrangements for the salmon on their annual upstream pilgrimage. A large-diameter pipe was constructed,
running from the top of the intake area, down to beyond the outlet at the bottom of the scheme. (Or the
other way ‘round … from the bottom to the top!) Through this the fish can swim upstream or downstream
as their little hearts desire. There are large transparent viewing windows in the pipe enabling visitors to
watch as they battle their way up against the tremendous torrent, and there are occasional rest areas where
they can have a fishy version of smoko.
For the interest of the avid angler, some of Scotland's finest salmon and trout angling is enjoyed in
this region; in particular on the River Tay.

After returning home, I wrote to my cousin Beryl:

We flew from Heathrow on August 18 after driving from Scotland down through Wales to the
delightful seaport of Brixham on the south coast where William of Orange landed so long ago on
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his way to become William III.

From Heathrow to Dubai and Singapore where we checked on the seventeen tapestries that I had
left for framing on my way north and, to my disappointment, found that the beautiful gold frames
all encroached over the actual pieces ... some had even had their corners cut. Lesson: never have
framing done in Singapore; it might be cheaper, but the work is most unskilled. I left them there to
be sent at a later date, at the framer's expense.

We now near the end of August ... time to start getting organised towards the grand exhibition of
my works at the National Gallery of Papua New Guinea.

November 3, 1983: What a magnificent presentation our national airline gave in their ‘Paradise’
magazine. I am taking a week off from work to get everything set up satisfactorily for the
exhibition. All invitations are out and, I'm pleased to learn, are causing considerable ill-feeling
from those who are not invited. (The list had to stop somewhere). But it is gratifying to find that
the public want to be invited. All catalogue sales are going to the Rehabilitation Centre for the
Spinally Injured, of which I am Assistant Secretary.

I have been advised that we will have to vacate the house at Rouna 4 in either January or February
as the new hydroelectric scheme is going ahead and the houses were initially built for the
construction crew to live in. This is unfortunate, as we have thoroughly enjoyed our three years of
living in the countryside. Returning to city life does not appeal and I feel will be the end of me in
this country. My present contract is due to expire at the end of 1984 ... one year to go!

January 25, 1984: What have I told you of the exhibition? Hard to tell what it was like when it was
a ‘not for sale’ affair, but the crowd was good and very positive in their reaction. The Governor-
General, Sir Kingsford Dibela, opened the exhibition. I really don't remember much of the evening.
Since then, however, I had a phone call from Government House to say that the Governor-General
wanted to buy one piece and he wanted it hanging in his office before Prince Charles comes to
open the new Parliament House. It was so amusing when three sleek, black limousines pulled into
our little parking bay, I have no idea how many bodyguards and, before I could stop them, they all
poured in through the back door - in through the laundry and kitchen into the lounge. He, the
G.G., came to our humble little flat, with full entourage ... you have no idea how crowded it was
with 27 tapestries from the exhibition, all framed and all rather large. He bought three that I had
to deliver to Government House the following day.

The strange thing about the sale referred to in the above letter was that it took me eighteen months of
sending accounts, phoning and making a general nuisance of myself to get the money from the Governor-
General. The cheque arrived in the mail two days after I slighted him at a social function at the Travelodge
Hotel, when he had said to me, “I believe we owe you some money!” “You certainly do!” I retorted, and
stormed off.

This is still 1984 and I carry on from a letter written to Beryl:

Problems of living in suburbia have me with my mind made up to definitely go at the end of this
year. The General Manager says “No”, but I say “Yes”. I find sleep almost impossible living in
town with the constant howling and yapping of dogs, the constant noise of fights, prowlers and
potential killers. The noise of Korobosea where we now live is ridiculous ... we spent several hours
under siege one night recently as a drunk domestic servant hacked away at the doors with an axe,
trying to gain access to the flat. It was terrifying! Directly across the street we have a live
electronic string band that practices until all hours of the night. Behind us there is a church choir
(that normally starts their disgusting out-of-tune nasal chanting, with guitar accompaniment at
about 10.30 nightly) and no, they do not sing Silent Night.

Right next door there is a family of small children who toot the car horn day and night and on the
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other side is an Indian family who seem to clean out their kitchen cupboards every evening. All
night, every night, there are the dogs. Port Moresby is notorious for its stray dog population. And
to add insult to injury, we are downstairs in a far-from-soundproofed block of two flats ... the folk
upstairs are quite nice but they can’t manage to even have a nookie without letting the entire area
know. When they do, the wife becomes very vocal and I have to reach for the earplugs.

Still nothing satisfactory about getting Raymond into Australia, so at last I have to break the news
to him that I may have to leave him behind. Every time I broach the subject he tells me he will die
of starvation with no one to look after him … it is all so pitiful and sad.

May 23, 1984: My time up here has passed the 23-year mark.

Anne came to my office one day recently and showed me an advertisement from a Cairns newspaper, which
read: ‘Holiday Apartments for sale at Clifton Beach, Queensland’. Never had I given thought to buying
property in Australia and, when I told Anne so, she asked “Why?” Simple answer: “I can't afford it.” The
company, McKellar, offered to pay the return fare for anyone who wished to inspect their range of
properties available for sale in the Cairns area. In the short time we had available, we talked the
possibilities over and discussed the entire pro and cons. Eventually Anne had me talked into flying down to
Cairns to check the situation out. I flew down and bought one!
Anne, together with a friend, Margaret, flew to Australia on a short holiday and, as they intended
spending a night in Cairns on the way home, I arranged to fly down and meet them at the airport, then we
three spent the night in the very crowded little 1-bedroom place that I had bought at Clifton Beach. I
realised after that night that a single-bedroom place - although adequate for a holiday unit - was not what I
wanted to live in, it was far too small.

For so long I have been saying that nothing, but nothing would entice me to stay beyond the end of
this year. That was until February when I flew to Cairns and bought a one-bedroom holiday unit
at Clifton Beach. Now I find that I am so heavily committed at the bank I just have to keep working
- if I am offered another extension of contract - but that is in the hands of the Public Service
Commission and not the Electricity Commission. I have been asked to stay, but that does not
necessarily mean I will have my contract extended. I really can't see how I would be able to pay off
the bank loan if I was no longer working. Another three years of these inhumane conditions will
have me at my wit's end.

I flew to Cairns again and met with the McKellar sales rep who I had dealt with previously. I explained
that the Clifton Beach unit was too small to live in. He took me on a long drive around the new estate
developments in the southern suburbs of Cairns and then the 25km out to Trinity Beach to inspect Trinity
Sands - a 3-story block of holiday units. A fully furnished 2-bedroom holiday apartment, under
construction, was selling for $55,000. The year was 1985 and, although cheap, it was still a lot of money in
my situation. On my return to Cairns, Anne and I went through all the paper work that I eventually signed,
committing myself to the new purchase. All monies from my tapestry sales were now put towards the new
apartment.

Port Moresby has gone from bad to worse with crime now at alarming proportions. The situation
here is in no way drug-related, just masses of unemployed who have nothing, and who want
everything, and find crime easier than work that is impossible to find. Ever since the missionaries
came to the country the people have been told that if they prayed hard enough they would get what
they wanted ... ‘ask and it will be given ye!’ Well, that didn't work; so now it is a case of grab it
while ye can. Sort of ‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may’.

There is no shame in going to prison in this country, in fact it is a status symbol and the life inside
is easier than the life outside. Security of prisons is so inadequate that anyone wanting to break
out can do so with little or no effort. Only yesterday the newspapers were calling for the police to
allow the public to do volunteer service in patrolling the streets. Today the police are blaming the
upsurge in crime on the poor security at prisons and the large number of escapees roaming the
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area. One month ago stabbings were a nightly occurrence. Two weeks ago this violence turned to
daylight hours. Poor innocent people are being bailed up in the street in broad daylight and relieved of
anything valuable they have on them. To resist means the knife, and it seems to be a simple matter of
relieving anyone of their car keys and making off with the car, leaving bystanders bewildered . In the
old days they merely broke into a house when no one was at home and stole food and clothing. Now
they enter when folk are home, hold them at knife-point, tie them up and make off with everything
including videos and expensive electrical equipment before driving off with the family car at their
leisure.

A close friend of mine lost everything at Easter, and two staff members who tried to help had their arms
broken by the attackers, rendering them completely helpless. Just last weekend mobs raided two packed
restaurants and made off with all the women's handbags. Just like the old Wild West!

But living here isn't all that bad when you get used to it, providing, of course, that one takes precautions.
Admittedly it does affect sleep as with every noise I am fully alert and wondering if this is my turn, so I
spend much of the night laying there trying to work out contingency plans for an emergency. But the
night passes and driving to work is perfectly safe ... the same for going home in daylight hours. Nobody
in his or her right mind would get out of the car at night to unlock the gate without first checking the
street to make sure it is safe. I have quite often driven right around the block to make sure there are no
pedestrians before getting out of the car to unlock the gate. So many have been attacked, robbed and
even stabbed as they were doing so, and the car inevitably goes too. Raymond and I practically never go
out at night. There are no interruptions to my tapestry hours, so I get quite a lot of work done. All sales
go directly towards paying the units off.

Standards certainly are slipping ... my boss, who is not at all bright, was delighted to learn today that
'perchase' is actually 'purchase'. That gave him something to think of for the rest of the day. One
expatriate recently was called upon to do some covers for Commission publications (to save us time) and
they went to print with 'proffessional' and 'pheasibility' on the covers for the Public Service Commission.

June 14, 1985: At 8 this morning Port Moresby was placed under a state of emergency. This won't affect
me in any way other than I may be able to get some sleep if the curfew stops the gangs roaming the
streets at night and that will (we hope) keep the dogs quieter. But then they may bark at the 700
additional police that are being flown in from other centres to help, and at the Army who have been
called out to assist the police. Everyone has to be off the streets between 10.30 p.m. and 4 a.m.. I wish it
had been extended to 7 p.m. till 6 a.m..

We grimace at the crime in the world today but Port Moresby is becoming something else altogether.
About a month ago the newspapers carried a report that we had 5 murders so far this year. Port
Moresby would be no bigger than Ballarat.

I forget the number of stabbings and violent crime, but they were unreal. People just dragged from their
cars and stabbed with screwdrivers. Pack rapes with gangs of 9 to 20-odd raping women and girls
while the husband/father is held at knifepoint. It amazes me with these people that they don't rape the
father as well, but maybe they don't want their mates to see them doing that. Papua New Guineans are
not known to be particularly fussy in that regard ... one chap even had to be cut out from the hole in the
towing gear of a bulldozer recently. Anything with a hole in it is up for grabs.

Just two weeks ago we were watching TV when a particularly alarming noise went off in our street. The
chap who lived two doors up disturbed intruders who shot at him. In the past month I have had four
friends bashed unconscious with iron bars as they were unlocking their cars. Naturally the cars were
stolen.

There has been another call for castration or hanging for rapists, but this has brought screams of protest
from the churches ... in particular the Catholics. Most priests don't have wives or daughters but they
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sure as hell do have lots of boyfriends ... and that's not being nasty. The lads will openly admit it.
November 11, 1985

Only this morning I signed yet another contract, taking me up to the end of 1987. I know I said I
would never take another contract but I still owe the bank in Cairns something like $60,000.
Another two years of working and earning seem to be far more sensible that returning to Australia
as an unemployed person at age 53 ... two years of extra work will help me get the Trinity Beach
unit paid off as well.

I still haven't been able to work out a future for Raymond. I have been waiting for months for
documents held by Immigration and Ethnic Affairs in Canberra that I am trying to get my hands on
from the Freedom of Information Act. These are wanted by the Queensland Deaf Society that has
offered to give the lad some form of vocational training if I can get him into Australia.

We spent Friday night under threat of death with the walls being kicked in ... it got so close this
time ... so the Commission has offered us another place with underground parking, 8ft high security
fences topped with three strands of barbed wire and fully barred doors and windows. We each
have two keys for the two gates and then both front and back entrances have one key for the
deadlock screen door, another for the deadlock wooden doors. And yet another for the Yale lock on
each door. It 's a time consuming work of art getting in and out.

November 21, 1985: Raymond's bicycle was stolen from out back of the flat last night at about 8.
We spent until almost 1am driving the streets searching for a short Highlander with a red T-shirt
who was seen throwing the bicycle out over our fence. So much for our excellent security!

December 3, 1985

Still smoke far too much but not a drop of alcohol since September ... may imbibe a little tomorrow
week when Anne and I go for a few drinks at the Islander on the way home from work ... after all,
53 is another milestone. Prior to my 50th I considered a dozen or so drinks a lot of fun ...
nowadays two is a hectic night out. From Raymond and me, cheers for 1985.

On March 29, 1986 my dear Aunty Ivy passed away in Melbourne. My cousin Margot phoned on the
following Tuesday to give me the bad news and said that the funeral was being held the following day.
Although she did not say where the funeral was, or at what time. I managed to catch a flight that same day,
Tuesday and was in Melbourne that night where I checked in at a hotel on Wellington Parade.
At first light the following morning I phoned Margot and was told very bluntly that I had best get to
her place quickly as the funeral was at 10 that morning. I took a taxi from the city all the way to Mount
Waverley and arrived at the home of Margot and her husband Bruce with bag in hand. I was greeted with:
“I don't know why you brought your luggage ... you can't stay here!” I said that was okay, as I would stay
at Ivy's. “You can't stay there either”, she told me … “We sold her house about twelve months ago”.
Originally Ivy had willed her house to me because - as she explained - my brother John, cousins
Margot and Dorothy and Frank (a cousin on uncle Bob's side) all had their own homes and families. I told
her that I couldn’t accept it and suggested it be sold and divided equally between the four of us. As Ivy
aged and her health deteriorated, Margot visited her on a daily basis - or so I was told. When I told Margot
of my knowledge of the will she said, “No way ... we had a new will drawn up and he (meaning Frank and
apparently the rest of us) gets nothing!”
An interesting fact is that my grandfather's mother was always referred to by my grandmother as ‘a
very stern-faced woman’. I have a photograph to confirm the fact. Her daughter, grandfather’s sister,
Aunty Maggie - an evil-tempered woman - haunted me as a child and she was bedridden for the few years I
knew her. Continuing down to the next generation of the family was Aunty Elsie - one of my mother's
sisters - who was a bitch of the first order, who treated Margot and me cruelly when we had to live with her
as children during the polio scare in Melbourne. Elsie would befriend the elderly and somehow come into
possession of their effects after they died. The next generation has cousin Margot. Can you see a pattern
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emerging?

When I eventually managed to get in the front door at Margot's, I noticed the crystal cabinet and original
water-colour painting that Ivy had always wanted me to have - ever since my teenage years - in her lounge
room. According to the will they were mine - Ivy had shown me a signed codicil to her will bequeathing the
items to me. I felt that was not a day to be having a family squabble, so said nothing.
I felt so uncomfortable, and was only too pleased when others arrived. After the funeral all relatives
returned to Margot's for a snack. Later in the afternoon when everyone began to disperse I asked someone if
they could drop me off at the railway station, as I needed to get back to town. This must have embarrassed
Margot as she said: "I suppose you can stay here for one night”. That really made me feel welcome!
During the evening Margot and I were having a very strained conversation when I asked where
Bruce was, she snapped back: "He won't come inside ... you're sitting in his chair!”
I must tell that there was just six months difference in our ages ... Margot and me. We had been
raised more like brother and sister - the relationship stayed that way right through our teenage years - I was
even a guest at their wedding.
The following morning I asked if I could leave my bag in the house while I went into the city to see
about a flight home the next day, Thursday. When I came back to the house I told her that the first available
flight was on Saturday. “That's a pity”, she said, “I don't know what you're going to do tomorrow because
we are both going out and we don't like people in the house when we aren't home”.
This was flesh and blood speaking - the only daughter of my only uncle on my mother's side of the
family.
I asked if I could make a phone call. I called the Sullivans. Graeme Sullivan had been my boss
until I left Myer in 1961. Mary, Graeme's wife, collected me in a matter of minutes and, as I departed, I
thanked Margot for the hospitality and friendship. Mary drove me to the Travelodge at the airport where I
stayed until I flew out on the Saturday after spending two nights at the particularly expensive hotel. This all
made for a very costly funeral as I had to pay for return fares from Port Moresby to Melbourne, a lengthy
taxi ride, and three nights in hotels.
Thank you, cousin Margot!
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RETRACING PERSONAL HISTORY 1986

Ever since I took possession of my first computer I have been doing research into family history. It's only
natural that I would make a massive task out of a frightfully big one. Not content with researching and
compiling one lineage, I took on all four ... my father's paternal side being the Ross line; his maternal side
was Fisher. On my mother's paternal side we had Cassell, and her maternal side was Dovaston. The
Dovastons bred like rabbits - the last I had to do with their history, it stood at 32 A4 pages in this size type.

Two years had passed since my last visit to Scotland and I had managed to save sufficient funds to hit the
road again, this time on my own. I discussed my plans with Raymond and explained that I would be
spending many hours sitting indoors in the Archives on Princess Street in Edinburgh, and he agreed to
return to his village and stay with his parents during my absence ... no running water, no electricity and a
very limited range and quantity of food.
In mid-1986, I was off again into the wild blue yonder humming You take the high road and I'll
take the low road to myself when the mood hit me. Let's forget all about the long, boring flights between
continents. I dearly love travel but I find little satisfaction in the process until arriving at the destination.
Being confined in a sealed cylinder with airconditioning that does little more than spread the germs is not
my idea of pleasure. You would think that after all the travel I have done, I would be somewhat blase about
Immigration and Customs - quite on the contrary - I still get all churned up inside and, although I have
nothing to feel guilty about, I feel I have guilt written all over my face. I wonder Do I look like a criminal?
Do I look guilty? – knowing full well that I have nothing to feel guilty about. What are they looking for
when they look you straight in the eyes and ask what appear to be very mundane and innocent questions?
On this landing I was going through all the usual jitters, checking over and over that I was in the
correct line and had all the necessary documentation readily available. The man at Immigration asked:
“What is the purpose of your visit?” I replied: “Researching family history!” He flicked back through the
passport to the inside front cover and read: “Graeme James Ross ... with a name like that,” he said, “I
believe you!” STAMP! “Enjoy your stay, Mr Ross!”

Edinburgh
The Underground took me direct from Heathrow to the very familiar surroundings of Victoria Station, from
where I took the overnight express to Edinburgh, arriving shortly after dawn. I had pre-arranged to stay in
the familiar B & B where Raymond and I had been so content previously. I found my hostess struggling to
hang laundry on the clothesline out back as she was suffering from severely sunburned feet. Imagine that if
you will ... sunburn in Scotland! I finished hanging the clothes on the line for her while she prepared
breakfast. I was given the very same room that we had previously occupied. It was just like being home
again.
If you are unfamiliar with the Scottish bus system - be warned - the fare must be deposited in a box
on entering, no change given. I hadn’t had time to get any UK currency. The driver refused point blank to
move until my money had been deposited … it was most embarrassing, having to take up a collection from
passengers - all strangers to me - until I had the correct fare.
To the best of my knowledge I was the first of our line of Rosses to visit Scotland since the
ancestors sailed from Liverpool aboard the Royal Family, on November 8 in the year 1862, by unassisted
passage. I can find no record to show more detail other than that of father and son arriving in their new
homeland in Australia, not as criminals, but as hard-working farmers. They were my Great-Grandfather
and Grandfather. I can find no record of what happened to Great-Grandmother.
It was no problem finding the Archives where all genealogical records are kept on microfiche. It
was, however, a new ballgame altogether trying to make sense of all the new technology. Even though I
spent several hours poring over and scanning the files and records I was unable to come up with any
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information beyond that which I had already recorded. I already knew that my father's Great-Grandfather
Alexander Ross was born near Bannockburn (date unknown) and that he married Janet Melville in 1808. I
had spent hours getting back to that already familiar information, but beyond that I could find no trace of
Ross whatever. There were numerous references to Roff that I ignored. My brain had become confused
searching through so many records that I eventually left the building and went for a walk as I was desperate
for a cigarette. I didn’t return. Later at home I was to learn that in yonder good olde days 's' was written
similar to our modern 'f'. Bad luck, Rossie, you fluffed it! So all those many years back, Ross was nothing
more than a four-letter word and an 'f' word at that.
On another occasion I took a walk in the other direction - away from town - and came upon an open
gate in a long wall with a long, sloping hill completely covered with trees. It reeked of mystery - The
Secret Garden - a strange atmosphere that I never dreamed could exist so close to the centre of a capital
city. I just had to investigate. A sort-of foot track led through high grass up the hillside. I came upon an
old stone fence and the remains of an old stone house. I climbed that fence and discovered myself in a
world reminiscent of a scene from the Tales of the Vienna Woods. Up slopes and down dales - a vast forest
of a type completely alien to me. Australian bush has much undergrowth to it; this place was more like
landscaped gardens with green grass growing between trees laden with golden-green leaves that trembled
aspen-like in the breeze. It was so pretty and relaxing that I lay on the grass to rest and appreciate nature in
the heart of a large city. I was able to lie there, gazing up through the trees, to a clear blue sky as I had not
done since childhood on the farm, but in those days I lay beneath a spreading walnut tree, nibbling on nuts
Later, after arriving back in Port Moresby, I was telling this story to a Scottish couple who worked
at the Commission. The wife said, “I know just where you're speaking of ... that's Corstophine Hill where
we conceived our first child!” I did say it was a good place to lie down awhile, didn't I?
Of course I have no idea what my friends did after they had finished copulating but I continued on
until I came out on the other side of the hill, looking out over a view that I learned was Arthur's Seat.
Arthur's Seat is an extinct volcano, and the area I had just walked through was Holyrood Park, an area of
some 650 acres of unmanicured landscape completely surrounded by the city. Holyrood Park is also known
as Queen's Park, because the monarch owns it, although it is almost always open for public enjoyment.
(Which takes me back to my fornicating friends again).
Back at my accommodation that evening I was talking with the host and hostess of the B & B and
Roy - the husband - offered to take me on a drive to some of the areas I had mentioned as being relevant to
the family history.

Most italics used in the following pages are taken directly from my compilation of family history...

Roy drove in a westerly direction out from Edinburgh, stopping first at Linlithgow. My Great-Great
Grandfather, Alexander Ross married Janet Melville near Bannockburn in 1808: William Ross, the middle
child of Alexander and Janet, married Helen Arnott at Bathgate in Linlithgowshire in 1832, one hundred
years before my birth.
We called in at Linlithgow Palace - a favourite residence of the Stuart Kings - that is now a ruin. It
was the birthplace of Mary Queen of Scots and later housed Oliver Cromwell, Bonnie Prince Charlie and
the Duke of Cumberland. Here I was walking through its halls, where even the Royals had slept on floors
strewn with straw. As there was no sewerage in those days, it was fairly common to do the jobbies indoors
on the floor and - after guests had left - the servants would sweep straw and excrement out before washing
the floors. Maybe that is why the palace had been built beside Linlithgow Loch - they needed the water for
ablutions. Then up would go the Vacancy sign once more. My Great-Grandparents would have
undoubtedly walked those very same halls.
I wondered if that is where the tongue-twister: The cat crept into the crypt, crapped, and crept out
again came from?
We continued northwest to Stirling: William worked at his father's property in Stirlingshire …
Here was I in 1986, in the same area where the couple had lived and raised their three children.
Stirling Castle, when I saw it, rivalled even Edinburgh Castle for sheer magnificence. It sits on a
high volcanic rock, guarding the lowest crossing point of the River Forth. It would have been of immense
strategic interest to anyone wanting to control central Scotland. I quote from research: The clan of Ross
were very warlike and a grandson of the first Earl of Ross led a large force of clansmen to help Robert the
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Bruce defeat the English at the Battle of Bannockburn in 1314.

In the year 1315, after 18 years of war, Scotland north of the Forth, was free. Stirling Castle - still
held by the British - lay under siege by the Scots. And so began the Siege of Stirling. I wasn't present,
neither were my Great-Grand parents. And more importantly still, neither was Mel Gibson who - in his
film Braveheart - depicted Robert Bruce as a traitor ... he was no such thing. But come to think of it, Mel
is of Irish descent, and wouldn't let a little thing like fact in Scottish history interfere with a good story line,
and let his mouth run away without considering the consequences.
Roy took me to small village taverns for a Guinness or two in each one and insisted on introducing
me as ‘one of the Rosses who used to live in the area’. With my Aussie accent, it would have been
perfectly obvious that I hadn't left just recently. It had been a most rewarding day for me to visit the places
where so many of my forebears had lived. We returned to Edinburgh - via the Firth of Forth Bridge - that
had been constructed in 1889.

Inverkip
Still on the historical trail and, at the Edinburgh railway station, I tried to buy a ticket to Inverkip. “Where's
that?” I was asked. “Just south of Greenoch,” a.k.a.Greenock, I said. “Never heard of it!” said he. So I
bought a ticket to Glasgow, feeling certain I had enough nouse to find my way from there. En route to
Glasgow, a conductor who was checking tickets asked where I was going. I told him “Inverkip!” “Never
heard of it,“ he said.
Glasgow, on the River Clyde, is the third largest city in Scotland. It was frightfully drab and
depressing and I was pleased to be merely changing trains there. I would spend a night there again in 1992
and still not be impressed. Not only did I have to change trains - I had to change stations as well. I took a
taxi to the other station from where I knew a local train would take me to Inverkip.

After William and Helen married in Linlithgow he continued farming for Helen's father for five
years, during which period two children were born – Alexander and Mary. At this time he secured
a position as Overseer for Sir Michael Shaw-Stewart, who was the 7th Baron in direct descent from
the younger son of King Robert III (Robert the Bruce's Great-Grandson). He was known as the
Laird of Ardgowan.

Ardgowan House is near Inverkip on the West Coast of Scotland near the city of Greenoch.

That was where I was now heading - Inverkip! If you are becoming confused at the proliferation of Johns,
Alexanders and Williams, spare a thought for me. Not only have I had to live with them all through
history, but the names kept occurring, even down into my own generation.
My train crossed the River Clyde, then made its way along the coast to Greenock, from where we
turned south and made our way down the East Coast of the Firth of Clyde to Inverkip. It was such a tiny
station, high above the ocean, with the village itself down a steep, short, winding street at the bottom of
which I found an equally small hotel with accommodation available.
In the bar that evening, I entered into conversation with a young nurse who had done her training in
nearby Greenock. In the course of conversation I remembered that the wife of the Scottish couple who had
conceived on Corstophine Hill had told me that she had done her nursing training in Greenock. I
mentioned the name and found that they had trained together. Being the thorough gentleman that I am, I
kept their dirty little rural secret to myself.
My little haven had Guinness on tap ... the barman told me there was absolutely no truth
whatsoever in the story that it was good for putting on weight. I believe him - there had been a time on
Manus Island when I drank an entire carton of it and never gained any weight whatsoever.

William and family lived in the overseer's house at ‘Bankfoot’, a house of nine rooms, each with a
window, just one mile from Inverkip. Two more children were born to William and Helen; they
were John and William. (The latter being my grandfather who died before my parents ever met).

Early next morning I set off walking north along a very quiet little country road. Before long I came across
a stable and a cluster of houses surrounding a cobblestone courtyard. Something in my mind told me I had
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to make enquiries. I knocked on the door of the first little bluestone house on my right, just inside the open
gateway. A dear little lady, with grey hair tied back in a bun, opened the door. I gave a thumbnail sketch
of my travels in search of the birthplace of my grandfather and told her that he had been born at Bankfoot.
The area I was in - together with the stables - was all part of Bankfoot, she told me. I was invited in for tea
and scones and we talked about so many things. I told her that my Great-Grandfather had been the overseer
to the Laird of Ardgowan, and from my charming hostess I learned that I was actually in the Overseer's
cottage. This was the very house in which my grandfather had been born in 1853! Beat that for a chain of
coincidences!

On Thursday, July 10, 1986 Graeme James Ross, Great-Grandson of William and Helen visited
Inverkip and had tea with the present 85-year-old tenant of 'Bankfoot'.

The only modernisation that had been done to the house was having electricity connected - otherwise it was
still in its original pristine condition - plus a few years of additional wear and tear.
After walking for 500-or-so metres further, I took a sharp left turn towards the coast and then about
the same distance south. I came upon a wide-open field with a single-track unsealed driveway leading
uphill through an avenue of oak trees. Through a space - where the road passed between the trees near the
top of the rise - I saw the greatest expanse of house I had ever encountered ... it gave the illusion of
sweeping right over the crest of the hill. I felt I had been transported back to the legendary Manderley of
Rebecca fame. I explored and found that to the extreme right of the house was a private chapel, while the
stables were at the left. The front door was ajar - I entered. He visited Ardgowan House ... Inside was a
large expanse of hall - practically barren of furniture - with a stairway leading upwards. I called quietly ...
no answer!

At the time William worked at Ardgowan House the property extended right to Glasgow and
employed some 700 staff. In 1986 this number had been reduced to 20 and the property was
considerably smaller.

The sound of metal upon stone reached my ears from around to the left. I walked around amongst the
outbuildings in the direction from which the sound had come and met the present-day Laird of Ardgowan,
Sir Houston Shaw-Stewart. Sir Houston was hand-feeding the horses.
Sir Houston seemed to be as fascinated with me as I was with him. We talked for quite some time -
he appeared to be extremely interested in the role of my Great-Grandfather on the property and the fact that
he had been born at Bankfoot. Sir Houston said he would have liked to invite me in for tea but: Her
ladyship was resting at the time, being ‘with child’. It was all so proper and old-worldly.
I took a shortcut through the fields and over the rise on my way back to Inverkip. Mission
accomplished! My mind was awhirl with the discoveries of that day - I had found my roots and now knew
from whence I had come.

On deciding to migrate to Australia in 1862, William was presented with a silver salver inscribed:

From the Tenantry of

Sir Michael Robert Shaw-Stewart
And a number of friends
16th June 1862

Oban and Environs

Sadly, I left the peaceful little village of Inverkip - as this line of my ancestry had done 124 years
previously - and retraced my tracks to Glasgow, from where I took a train west-nor-west, up along the
western shore of Lake Lomond, with the magnificent Ben Lomond rising majestically across the waters to
the east, and on to Oban.

Lt. Col. James Cassell of Oban, Scotland married Jane Granger. They had three children, the
youngest of whom was William. James was an Officer in H.M. Navy and served under Nelson,
after whom he named his first-born son - James Horatio Nelson Cassell.
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William was my mother's great-grandfather, and James Horatio Nelson Cassell was her granduncle. He was
later to become H.M. Customs Officer in Melbourne. They lived at Hawksburn House that warrants a
mention in Early Toorak and District, published in Melbourne in 1934, and owned an estate of about
eighty-six acres, bounded by Williams Road on the east, Cromwell Road on the west, Malvern Road on the
south and had for its northern boundary, Toorak Road. James’ wife was - like her husband - a Scot and
gave Oban Street its name. A later Hawksburn was the home of my Grandparents in Ballarat - not quite so
grand - and now demolished to make way for a car park for the Queen Elizabeth Nursing Home.

Upon the day that Mr. and Mrs. Cassell determined on the site for their home they observed a hawk
sitting on the side of the gully, wherein a stream flowed, or what the Cassells, in their Scottish
mode of expression, termed a ‘bur-rn.’ They saw something of 'avium garritus' or bird talk in this
circumstance and took it as an augury that their house should be called ‘Hawksburn House,’ and
so the name, in its turn, passed on to the locality.

According to the Public Records Office, London, Mr. James H.N. Cassell was the son of Lieut-
Colonel Cassell, in the Royal Marines with Lord Nelson, and that was why he was christened after
that gallant commander.

I fell in love with Oban instantly, finding excellent accommodation in an old-fashioned hotel at the
southern end of town. In 1986 Oban had a population of a little over 8,000. The town itself lies in a
crescent that occupies the hills surrounding Oban Bay. The Bay is protected from all but the most severe
weather by the northern tail of the island of Kerrera.
On our European tour I was a tourist - one who tours, especially for pleasure - on this trip to the
land of my heritage, I was a traveller - one who travels in distant places or foreign lands. There is a subtle
difference.
I felt at home here. I found a small stationery store where I bought a tartan covered address book,
then returned to my accommodation where I spent the afternoon sitting in the sun behind a wide glass
window - out of the cool breeze - overlooking the Bay, transferring all names and addresses etc to my new
book. What a delightful little souvenir! This was another of those settings where I could imagine Somerset
Maugham sitting, at peace with the world, taking notes of the mannerisms of hotel guests for one of his
novels.
I spent time wandering the steep streets, marvelling at how low the doorways were - about 5 ft (1.6
metres) - and generally taking the time to smell the roses that grew in profusion.
One day I made reservations for a day trip on a ferry from Oban across the Firth of Lorn to
Craignure, on the eastern side of the Isle of Mull. From there a courtesy bus took me across Mull to a tiny
village on the opposite coast, where a group of tourists was climbing into a smallish lifeboat-type craft that
made the short trip to Staffa, the island of the spectacular Fingals Cave … I joined them. This cave is
unique as the walls are mighty basaltic columns that reach up from the depths of the ocean, to be lost in the
blackness of the ceiling 35 metres (227 ft.) above water line. I guess it would be possible to land if there
were only one or two of you but it would be an extremely dangerous task.
Felix Mendelssohn visited this cave in 1829 and was so inspired by the enormity of the opening
that he composed his Fingals Cave Overture. On our return, an extremely savage storm swept down upon
us and rain fair pelted down. Our little craft seemed to be no match for the huge waves that crashed across
the bows, drenching everybody on board. It was merciless and somewhat scary. The wind roared in with
such force that it tore my newly purchased deerstalker hat from my head, to be lost forever in the driving
rain.
Are you at all interested in knowing that Fingal's Cave was featured in the 1971 film When Eight
Bells Toll?

Back on Mull again, the bus took passengers down to Fionnphort on the southeastern tip of the island. A
five-minute boat trip and you're on the Isle of Iona.
Iona has many religious associations; St Columba landed there in 563 AD and established a
monastery that became the centre of the Celtic Church. The island later became the burial ground for
Scottish, Irish and Norwegian kings. There is an atmosphere about Iona that I almost guarantee will give
you goose pimples. It is thought to be the first Christian site in Scotland. Because of the historic Abbey, it
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is a particularly popular spot for both tourists and pilgrims alike. Time allows a wander along an unsealed
road through the tiny village to the 13th Century ruins of the Iona Nunnery. There are no cars on Iona, but
the walk takes only a few minutes if you don't dawdle too much. I did dawdle, trying not to disturb the
ducks and geese with which I shared the road.

From Oban I caught the train again, this time through the very rugged Grampian Highlands to Fort William
at the head of Loch Linnhe in the Highland Region, and there I disembarked for no reason other than I felt
like doing so. I had never heard of Fort William, which is the largest town in the western Highlands of
Scotland. The nearby Ben Nevis Mountain is the highest in the entire United Kingdom. Fort William at the
time of my visit had a population of some 11,000 residents, relying mainly on tourism, with a little
aluminium smelting, whisky distilling and papermaking to keep it alive. It is certainly not dead, and is
restful in the extreme.
I wish now that I had allowed time to get out and about to explore the region more fully as I have
since read that it has unspoiled beaches, castles, interesting restaurants, and original shopping. I certainly
found that final attraction - shopping - and, as I found it mildly chilly at such an elevation I purchased three
items for present and future use … a pure wool hand-woven scarf with matching deerstalker hat to replace
the one that I lost at sea, and super-warm suede lambs-wool gloves that had the fleece on the inside. Not
that I have the opportunity to wear them much these days when living in the tropics, but there have been
many times during the past twenty-odd years when I have thanked my lucky stars that I have them. They
have brought much comfort to me on further travels.
Fort William is certainly a beautiful part of the world. From there I took the West Highland
Railway for the very short trip to Mallaig on the western coast of Scotland, arriving there just as dusk was
closing in. I soon found accommodation at a hotel almost on the shore, with a room overlooking the islands
of Eigg and Muck - never dreaming that one day in the near future I would be stranded out in that area due
to a storm. It blew a gale on the night I was there so I was more than content after dinner to spend the
evening in the lounge-bar where I met a delightful young lady - well-travelled - and worthy of sharing
conversation. Before we knew what was happening we realised that we were the only folk left in the
lounge. The fire had died down to a pile of glowing embers … we had chatted the entire evening away and
it was well after midnight. When I got to my room the wind and rain were lashing at the windows, but as
we had had quite a few drinks I slept soundly right through 'til dawn.

Speed Bonny Boat

I took a ferry up the Sound of Isleat - with the mountainous Isle of Skye on the left - to Kyle of Lochalsh.
Kyle is much older than it looks and it is quite possible that a settlement had been established there before
1600. In 1819 the road from Inverness was finally completed, giving a direct road link with Edinburgh and
all points south to London. In 1897 the Highland Railway also came through; I wasn't aware at the time
that I would be doing that trip in the not-to-distant future as well.
The lovely whitewashed Localsh Hotel attracted my attention and I had no problem in finding an
excellent room - with bath - for the night. The afternoon was spent wandering about the place - the village
itself is most picturesque and has an extremely busy little harbour. This was - in those days - the hub from
where ferries took passengers across to Kyleakin on the Isle of Skye. I was sorry to learn that since my
visit a bridge has been constructed across the strip of water known as Kyle Akin but I believe that the town
has succeeded to turn itself from a place where people came only to catch the ferry, into somewhere worth
visiting in its own right. For once, it seems, change has been made mainly for the better.
After breakfast next morning I picked up my bags, walked down to the ferry terminal where I
bought a ticket for the crossing and, in less than five minutes, I stepped ashore on the Isle of Skye. I had
scarcely found time to even think the words Speed bonny boat… and my crossing over the sea to Skye was
over. On shore there was a bus ready to go somewhere, I didn't care where, as I had no preconception of
what was where on this legendary island. Maybe the sign at front of the bus indicated Portree - if it did, it
did not register as I had never heard of the place, and to where I was going was of no concern. If it had
indicated another destination that wouldn't have worried me either. I had once, as a child, seen a movie set
in the west of Scotland called I Know Where I'm Going (1945) ... in my case it would have been I have no
idea where I'm going, but I'm going there all the same.
We drove at a very leisurely pace up the east coast to Broadford where a local got off and, from
there, the road went slightly inland, with the sea and islands on the right, while to the left, lofty mountains
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shrouded their heads in the swirling mists - Skye is not known as The Misty Isle without good reason.

The bus came to a halt in a small square in the heart of a delightful little village that the driver announced as
being Portree and, with bags in hand, I stepped down onto terra firma. Across to my right I spied King's
Haven B&B. It was very attractive, whitewashed with a grey slate gabled roof from which peered two small
dormer windows. I loved it on sight and was fortunate in being able to find a room for the required two
nights - my window was one of those that looked out over the square. For quite a few years I had lived and
travelled with the belief that if you visit a place and stay one night - that's all you've done - visit. Stay at
least two nights and you've had time to unwind and learn something of the customs, the people and the
locality. I guess I had come to this place in deference to dear Bonnie Prince Charlie.
I dropped my bags in my room and set out to explore. The square on which I was staying was
Somerled Square and the street where I had found accommodation was Wentworth Street. Such a
fascinating, narrow little street … lined on either side with an array of small shops of the interesting but not
essential type. I did each shop over thoroughly but bought nothing. Slowly, ever so slowly, I made my way
down to the harbour area where the buildings were a picturesque delight in their ageless beauty ... all stone
and whitewash. Fishing craft rested peacefully in the tiny harbour.

The centre of life in Portree is its harbour, with its many fishing boats, pleasure craft and other small vessels.
It is a completely natural setting, semi-surrounded on three sides by high cliffs. After a few hours inspecting
the wonders of this delightful place I decided on a good black coffee and a cigarette and popped in at a little
place on Wentworth Street. As my usual good fortune would have it, I met three young, and apparently
well-educated teenage lasses who entered in conversation. The three were English and I found that not only
had I spoken the language since about the age of two, and had for several years taught it, I was now trying
desperately to understand it. They asked if I knew how to get to Dunvegan Castle. They asked me - me of
all people - I scarcely knew how to get back to my own accommodation! They then seemed to adopt me as a
defacto grandfather and all four of us set out to make enquiries on how to reach Dunvegan. We learned of a
bus that would be leaving from the square at 9.00 the following morning. We parted, agreeing to meet in the
square next day. I didn't really expect them to turn up to spend a day with an oldie like me, and was rather
gratified when I spotted them waiting near the bus stop as I walked out my front door that morning.
The weather had turned decidedly grey, with indications of being drab and dull later. We drove up
and over the central mountains of the island and came down again at the village of Dunvegan on the west
coast. It was here, after the bus had driven off and left us, that I felt I let my newly hatched brood of
chickens down as, when we asked directions to the castle, we learned that it was a mile or so north of the
village. There was nothing else to do but walk ... me at age 53, with my three new grandchildren, skipping
along a country road in mist and drizzle and trying to find songs that we all knew. I remember they asked
who was my favourite male singer ... I hurriedly tried to think of someone of their generation that I knew ...
and came up with the name George Michael. They were disgusted but they forgave me for my preference.
No doubt they thought: to each his own. We all had a vague idea of the words of Singin' in the Rain and, as
that seemed applicable, that was what we sang until we reached the castle ... a most impressive old building.
Dunvegan Castle is the ancestral home of the chieftains of the Clan MacLeod and dates back to
around 1200 AD. It is thought to be the oldest residence in the United Kingdom continuously occupied by
the same family. As the four of us were on a budget we could afford only to visit a few of the rooms, but
that was sufficient to gain an insight into what it means to live in the same residence for thirty generations.
An incidental little touch of trivia is that the most famous resident of Dunvegan had been a 7ft 9in
tall man known as The Giant MacAskill ,who lived between 1825 and 1863.

Just after we left the shelter of the castle the rains came teeming down and we were all thoroughly drenched.
Being wet was bad enough but the day had turned very cold as well. Not one solitary vehicle passed along
the road in either direction as we made our way back to Dunvegan for a hot meal and drink. We sat -
huddled and shuddering - eating our lunch in silence!
Back in Portree once again we said our farewells: Those three girls had restored my faith in the
younger generation. I left them with the feeling that the world might possibly survive with what our
generation had been doing to it.
After a hot bath, a change of dry clothing and a good dinner, I was once again in the warmth of my
own room and slept well that night. A new day dawned - a local bus was ready for departure from the square
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outside my door. Back down along the coastal road again … I was still unable to see the tops of the
mountains. As I had plenty of time on my hands when we reached Kyleakin, I retained my seat and
continued down the heavily wooded east coast to Isleornsay. I considered continuing to the end of the road
but thought better of it as I wanted to catch the afternoon train to Inverness.
Before leaving home on this trip I had used a bit of rarely used sense and bought a pre-paid 1st
class British Rail pass, good for three or four weeks. I could get on and off as the whim hit me.

The Wild Northwest

On a small map I had seen someplace, I had noticed a small black dot indicating a railway station, just to
the east of where the greenish mountains that began on the coast at Kyle, ended on the eastern side. The
location, as it was on the map, appeared to be delightfully rural and so, after making our way through the
shallow pass eastwards out of Kyle, then through some low mountains, we came to the afore-mentioned
station. That’s where the whim hit me! I disembarked ... did I say rural? It sure was! The station was a
single platform - with a building that I took to be ticket office cum waiting room, toilets etc - running along
most of its length. I walked through an opening from where I could see, across the fields, a few small
houses scattered in the forest. Did I have to walk all that way? I was beginning to wonder about my next
move and where I could find transport and/or a bed.
Lost in my thoughts as I was, I heard, “Cannae help ye friend?” The voice came from a man who
wore a nondescript uniform of sorts. I asked if he knew where I could find a bed for the night as I had not
had time to get my bearings. He informed me that I was standing right outside the only hotel in the area. I
hadn't had time to look anywhere other than directly ahead, and now I glanced to my right to see the
signage on the property that - from the station side - I had taken to be the ticket office, advertising rooms,
meals, drinks and accommodation. I entered the first door I came to (one that I would have thought to be
another entrance to the station) and came upon a wonderfully warm lounge-bar and dining area with a
roaring great log fire. Not knowing what lay ahead in the way of time, I paid for dinner, bed and breakfast
in advance for one night only. After depositing my bags I returned to the bar and didn't move until dinner,
and later to bed. I was beginning to feel so very Scottish after a few drinks. During the course of the
afternoon/evening I had mentioned that I hoped to go up through the far northwest and learned that a local
bus would be departing for the north after breakfast in the morning.

Northwards through wonderfully rugged mountains to Gairloch where we stopped for a smoko, then on to a
spot where the driver said the bus would be staying for a one-hour break. He suggested I get out and have a
quick look around. We had reached the world-renowned Inverewe Gardens, near Ullapool. This site is
unique in that it is warmed by the Gulf Stream. It had been developed as a garden by the botanist Osgood
Mackenzie from 1862 until his death in 1922. Osgood collected plants from all over the world for the
garden he created. He imported soil from Ireland and worked to create gardens linked by a maze of paths.
I would dearly have loved to linger longer in these magnificent gardens but had found only enough time to
think of the distance I wanted to cover, and my rail pass expired in a little more than one week.
While waiting for the bus to depart I mentioned to the driver that I was anxious to get back to the
railway line as I wanted to catch a train up to Thurso. He told me to stay on board as we were on a round
trip and would be making our way down, meeting the line at Dingwall where we would arrive late in the
afternoon, and from there I would be able to catch a train and complete the crossing of the part of Scotland
known as Cromarty and Ross.

The Ross family name originated from that part of northeast Scotland known as Ross or Ros. The
name Ross being derived from old Gaelic or Irish; Ross meaning promontory or peninsula and
early ancestors are believed to have taken their name from Ross Peninsula, which was an
important part of their territory.

Close by Dingwall is Cromarty. It was there that I caught the northbound train up through Tain - oddly
enough when I later lived on the Gold Coast my home was in Tain Court. Following the coast of Dornoch
Firth very closely we wound our way up to, and through Lairg, then back to the coast once again at Golspie.
Just a little north of Golspie I saw through the window of my carriage a wonderful old stone bridge that just
had to be photographed; I set my heart on getting out at this point and spending a little time on the return
journey south. I noticed the place name - Brora.
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Thurso
Early that evening, with the sun still high in the sky, I arrived at Thurso - the northernmost point of rail
travel in Scotland. My greatest need at this hour was accommodation. A short walk and I found a great
little place within 500 metres of the railway station and paid for two nights in advance.
I really can't describe exactly why I liked Thurso as much as I did. It was grey, stone, flat, drab and
had a strange fascination all of its own - maybe it was the isolation. It is the most northerly town on
mainland Britain and I found the people to be particularly happy and sociable.
Thurso had once been a thriving fishing village but that has since faded into oblivion. About 15
miles to the west was something I wasn't in the least bit interested in seeing - the Dounreay nuclear reactor
plant. I gave that tourist attraction a big miss.
I was out walking early next morning when I noticed islands in the distant northeast - they turned
out to be The Orkneys. So that's where they were?! I had heard of the Orkneys but had always considered
them to be in some unreachable part of the world where mortal men feared to tread - or sail. They had most
definitely been way out of my reach, so much in fact that I had never even thought that I would ever visit
the region, wherever they were. And they would have remained unseen and unvisited had I not wanted to
ride the train to the end of the line. Now, there they were ... just a few miles over the waters on the other
side of the Pentland Firth. I had to find a bus quick-smart to take me to John O'Groats from where I felt it
would be an easy matter to find transport to take me to the ferry departure terminal at nearby Caithness,
across to the elusive isles.

The Orkneys
Never in my wildest dreams would I have believed it possible to experience such a perfect day as this ... the
Gods of my ancestors had blessed me with a magnificent day. The islands were clearly visible from
Caithness, silhouetted against a glorious blue, cloudless sky. The 6.75 mile crossing - on a vehicular and
passenger ferry - from Caithness to St. Margaret's Hope on the island of South Ronaldsay, took one hour,
during which time I was able to study a map of the area and ease myself back into the distant past. The port
of St Margaret's Hope - the third largest town in the Orkneys - lies at the eastern side of the deep, great
natural harbour known as Scapa Flow. This was the main anchorage of the Royal Navy during Wars I and
II, and it was here that the interned German Fleet was scuttled in 1919. Before that, however, the Navy had
set sail from this very harbour to engage in the Battle of Jutland in 1916.
On stepping ashore - I can’t describe my feelings of that moment - I was being swept back into a
distant part of history where, with eyes closed, I could imagine Norsemen landing, with swords clashing,
cries of pain and terror. On opening my eyes again, I was back in the present, a present where the very
atmosphere felt as if it had been pervaded by a mystical aura. It was all most uncanny and - even though
the temperature was in the mid-twenties Celsius - I gave an involuntary shiver ... I went all ‘goosey’.
South Ronaldsay is connected to the largest island in the group - known as The Mainland - by a
causeway over which we passed on the way to the small, tranquil city of Kirkwall, the administrative
capital. Kirkwall is a city with a population in the vicinity of about seven thousand. Every building is
constructed from grey stone or red sandstone, with roofing being shingle or slate. The streets are narrow
and cobblestone. I guess the first thing that had made an impression in my mind was the almost total lack
of trees. I wondered about their heating, but discovered that there were ample supplies of peat in the area.
Peat, I learned, is partially decomposed dark plant debris that has been allowed to lay for many years in
waterlogged conditions, particularly in cold climates. It is from peat that we get our sphagnum, or peat
moss, so extensively used in horticulture throughout the world. I was able to watch farmers reaping the
peat - quite similar to the way we are now able to buy ready-to-lay lawn - cutting square, shallow slabs
from the ground surface instead of making it up into rolls as they do with lawns at home. It is then taken
home where it is stacked, stored under cover and allowed to dry into hard ‘cakes’ similar to briquettes, for
burning.
Very few homes have gardens due to the scarcity of arable land, and the horrific climate would be
enough to keep all but the most avid gardener indoors for most of the year.
You may wonder how such a small settlement could be called a city. I found out why when I
visited the hundreds of years old Saint Magnus Cathedral. I spent most of my day in this fascinating
cathedral, imagining the thousands of feet it must have taken over the years to wear the stone floors down
to such an extent. I wish my memory were better as I was intrigued when reading the clearly legible
inscriptions on the tombs. Life had been short in those dim, dismal, difficult days. Forty was old!
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In the year 1135 AD, Earl Magnus Erlendsson of Orkney was canonised, at about the time that the revered
remains of the newly sainted Magnus were taken from their resting place in the ancient Norse settlement at
Birsay Bay, where they had lain for twenty years. They were moved to another small settlement by the sea
on the site that would eventually be known as Kirkwall. They were moved again when construction of this
massive red and cream sandstone Cathedral - that had begun in 1377 - was completed.
The little time I had left after leaving the Cathedral, was spent in the main street - the central part of
town - with its quaint little shops was equally fascinating. I did a little shopping and ‘just looking thank
you’, enjoyed a light meal at a small cafe on the pavement and, no doubt, would have finished it all off with
a strong black coffee and a cigarette. I felt bad at my polluting the air in this delightful little place, but
everyone else seemed to smoke and I reasoned that mine would have little further effect.
On the way back to John O'Groats I had a feeling of having made an astral visit to Kirkwall and had
been re-transformed to a far less harsh age of enlightenment. I felt that the day had somehow been several
days long, while at the same time there was the feeling that I had not visited the place at all. Fortunately it
was no dream.

The following day saw me on my way south once again. I wanted to photograph the lovely arched bridge
that I had noticed on the way up, but where had I seen it? On the way north I had been sitting on the right
side of the train - determined not to miss my intended destination - this time I sat on the left. Lucky was I
that the bridge was to the inland side of the line ... I read the sign: Brora.
One block towards the coast from the station I found a great little place in which to spend the night.
It was still reasonably early in the day when I was checking in. The woman at the desk asked the usual
question of where I was from and said she was surprised that I wasn't in London for the wedding. “What
wedding?” I asked.
The day was Wednesday, July 23, 1986. I spent the afternoon watching the wedding of Prince
Andrew Duke of York, and Sarah Ferguson on the television in my room. In the hotel dining room that
evening I commented to a fellow diner that I considered the bride to have all the elegance and grace of a
brewery draught horse after the way she slouched down the aisle.
On my way to the station the following morning I stopped by the lovely bridge that had me so
intrigued - I knew why I liked it, it reminded me of the Ross Bridge in Tasmania. I sat awhile to admire its
arch and then did a little photography.
Further along on the way south I stopped off at Newcastle upon Tyne to - hopefully - locate the
house in which a Great-Grand Uncle of my father had lived. He had been born at Airth in 1810 and the only
record I had of him is that he became a teacher had lived at 16 St James Street. The entire block in which
No 16 had been located had been razed to the ground so that a shopping centre could be built. Not a
solitary house remained standing.

I wrote to cousin Beryl:

August 18, 1986

The days were becoming unpleasantly cold for me. I popped into a shop in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne
just to get away from the chill and came out with a ticket to Paris. This meant that I wouldn't be
getting to Birmingham to check on the Dovaston family tree, but as everyone kept telling me, don't
waste time going to that awful place. The following day saw me in London and the next in Paris.
Not a cloud in the sky! The weather was magnificent, so I spent four nights in Paris and loved it. I
realise at long last why the French are so arrogant ... they have every reason to be. Paris is a truly
beautiful, well laid-out city, and I found the more Bohemian side of Montmarte fascinating.

Naturally, I visited the Palace of Versailles and Notre Dame and did a cruise on the Seine. Back to
see the Moulin Rouge at night and the artists’ quarter of Montmarte and Mont Parnasse. Saw all
the exclusive spots such as Maximes, Place Pigalle, Cafe de la Paix, Charles Jourdan, Christian
Dior and Freds. Stayed out at La Defense (pronounced La d’fonce), which is an ultra modern
suburb, just a short trainride on the Metro from Paris central. I went to the Louvre but the queues
were too long so I gave Mona Lisa a miss. Wandered around Place de la Concorde and the Arch of
Triumph ,and took the lift and stairs up to the top of the Eiffel Tower. I do not like cities, but I sure
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do love Paris.

Back in London - a city I like even less now than when I first went there. I was walking past
British Airways and decided to pay them a visit to see if they could get me on a flight out of town. I
was asked where I wanted to go to and I told the lass anywhere, as long as I can get away from
London. We settled on Singapore, as that is where I had accommodation booked for my scheduled
arrival. I was able to get in a week early at the Park View Holiday Inn, where I held a reservation
- only 12 months old . There I stayed eight nights until time to catch my previously booked flight to
Port Moresby. Having been to Singapore four times previously there was little of a tourist nature
for me to do apart from shopping, spending days poolside and relaxing.

On arrival home I found a tape from Ian Ross (a cousin I had never heard from in all the years
I've been up here) telling me that brother John has had a rather nasty operation for a growth in
the urinary tract and has been castrated. I no longer have to worry about him being murdered by
an irate husband or father.

And in a later letter dated November 14, 1986:

I have just refused to do a trip to the Highlands. It was suggested I take the new journalist up on a
familiarisation tour trip of Commission holdings, but have passed the honour over to the boss ... a
poor, permanently bewildered Tolai who never knows what he is up to. I am so sick to death of
travelling with nationals as they leave home with not a toea (cent) in their pocket and expect their
white chaperone (me) to pay for their every need.

November 21, 1986: You may be aware that we have been having our problems up here and life has
been extremely confusing. Yesterday and today are showing signs of normality once again in Port
Moresby, but the Highlands are still bad news. I had a call from a friend in Goroka this morning,
telling how he is paying out hundreds of kina (a higher rate of coin, more-or-less equivalent to a
dollar) to people who claim to have saved his life during the rioting. It was bad enough here ...
destruction would have to be seen to be believed and all this was done by unarmed people. I dread
to think what would happen if real warriors armed with bows, arrows and spears went on the
rampage. Far worse in my eyes than all the looting, burning and destruction of offices, shops and
vehicles, was the carnage to trees and gardens ... trees had their branches absolutely stripped until
only the trunks remained, the branches being used as weapons

Last Monday Port Moresby was a disaster area and everything was closed down completely. The
funny thing about it was that I had let myself run out of everything that could be classed as food,
with intentions of having a big shopping spree after work on Monday. This was not to be. And it
was a matter of getting home as quickly and safely as possible. The entire city closed down in one
big hurry. The General Manager asked me to take two of the office girls in my car … we made it
safely by driving around back streets to their homes ... quite close to mine. At home we had nothing
in the line of food ... no meat, milk, rice, vegetables, fruit, tea, sugar ... well, just nothing. I had
never done that before.

On Tuesday ... back to work as usual. At 1.20 p.m. the warning came ... under siege, close the office
down or face the consequences from an unruly mob of Highlanders. The initial warning came to
me, being the Public Relations Officer, as I could find neither the General Manager nor his deputy
so I took full responsibility to close for the day. It was a case of when in doubt, panic! But try not
to show it. I delegated staff to pass through the building, telling staff to evacuate as quickly and
quietly as possible as word had come that the rioters had left the airport (which was closed to all
traffic). And so we got the 1,500 staff out and home without one solitary injury ... but another day
passed with no shopping.

The week has been a national disgrace. No law or order in the country whatsoever. Large
department stores completely looted of food, drinks, clothing, TVs, hardware and bicycles ... not a
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thing left and all because one politician died of natural causes. It's alarming to think what could
happen if a leader was assassinated. It seems the looting was in retaliation for businesses remaining
open when the Highlanders considered the entire country should have been in mourning for Sir
Iambakey Okuk, Director of Discontent.

February 27, 1987:

Raymond and I took a trip to Australia in February of 1987. Called in to see brother John for the
first time since I shouted him to PNG in 1974, and for the first time in living memory we parted as
friends. The years have mellowed us both, I feel. His recent operation and lack of finance seem to
have made him a far nicer person.

On the return journey we spent a week in the apartment at Trinity Beach ... our first time to stay in
the place ... it was lovely ... two bedrooms, nice gardens, small but suitable pool, and only one block
from the beautiful blue Pacific. The week was all relaxation in the place that I am now so eagerly
looking forward to settling into.

Arrived back in Port Moresby at 10 on the morning of Monday 16th February - straight from the
airport to work, as I had to be in a meeting at 11.30. It was there that I finally burned my bridges
and gave notice that I would not be accepting another contract ... December 31 it is! Final!

The days since then have been frantic, trying to catch up on two weeks of work whilst preparing to
head into the heavens again on Monday morning ... off to the Highlands for another week as we start
making a film on the Yonki Hydroelectric Project. It will be planes and helicopters all next week.

Raymond seems to have accepted the fact that I am finishing at the end of the year. Now to see what I
can arrange in the way of accommodation for him after I depart. I used a little bribery and told him
he could go down for holidays at Trinity Beach annually and I'll buy a bicycle for him to use while he
is down there. That takes a lot of worry off my shoulders.

The author with cousin Beryl, who supplied 27 years of letters that I had written to
her during my stay in Papua New Guinea..
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TALES FROM THE PORT MORESBY WARDS 1986

On and off over recent years I had been suffering from an undiagnosed malady - there were frequent
occasions when I felt weak and completely lacking energy. Late in the year 1986 I had another bout of
listlessness where I was unable to even get out of bed. Raymond was being no help at all, so I suggested he
go to stay with his parents in the village for a while to give me a rest.
I had been off work for a few weeks when the doctor suggested that I was possibly suffering from
either glandular fever or chronic fatigue syndrome; he recommended that I go into hospital for tests. All
my adult life I had experienced bouts of severe swelling of the glands and had even had one removed from
my neck and another from the armpit for analysis. I don't remember ever being told anything adverse from
the results other than that I possibly had glandular fever or a streptococcyl infection.
I entered the ‘new’ Port Moresby General Hospital on Taurama Road - not to be confused with the
new one I have never seen - the new, new PMGH that has been built since my departure from the country.
I went in for blood tests and observation and was put into a 4-bed ward - the bed near the window was
occupied by an acquaintance named Brian. I had the adjacent bed to the right - next to the wall that abutted
onto the corridor, on the other side of which was the nursing station. This wall - running along the corridor
- was almost floor to ceiling louvres to allow a through flow of air for ventilation. Directly opposite these
two beds were the other two - foot to foot with ours - with a good walk space in between. The patients in
those beds changed almost daily. My room-mate Brian had a badly fractured shin due to the attempted theft
of his car. He had chased the car and managed to open the driver's door, which was slammed shut as he got
one leg inside. He was then dragged some distance until the door was opened sufficiently for him to fall to
the roadside. That's all I gleaned of his condition as he appeared to be a very private individual who did not
welcome conversation.
I overheard the above information by hearing him telling visitors the details. Something
particularly odd was that he had a viewing window put in the plaster on his leg so that he could display to
all visitors where he had his operation. Brian was in for the long haul - in fact he was in until death did us
part.

My bed had a mattress, completely sealed in plastic, and a very flat pillow. As I could not get a grip on the
plastic I kept sliding about helplessly every time I moved - sitting up was impossible - as I would just slide
down the mattress again. When I asked for sheets I was told the hospital didn't have any spares … a nurse
took down one of the curtains that was used for closing around the bed for privacy during a doctors' visit,
and put that over the mattress for my comfort.
The ward had a most unpleasant odour about it and, when I mentioned it to one of the nurses, she
indicated a trickle of liquid coming from beneath the opposite wall. When I eventually could no longer
bear the smell I made my way around to the door of the adjoining room to determine the cause … it was the
women's toilet. I knocked a few times and heard nothing. On opening the door enough to peer inside I
saw that the showers ran directly onto the floor and the toilets were blocked and overflowing - it was that
effluence that was seeping under the wall into our ward. When I mentioned it to the head sister she
shrugged her shoulders and said, “They're blocked!” How very observant of the girl!

Almost a week had passed by before my first visitor came to see me. Betty, the fiancée of my boss at the
printing company where I had worked as a commercial artist. Betty could always be relied on to help when
possible. A friend of another patient had told her where I was but other friends didn't know I had been
admitted. Workmates thought I was convalescing at home and Raymond was away. Betty must have heard
of the conditions in the hospital as she brought a large vase of frangipani to deaden the stench somewhat.
She detected another bad smell as well and traced that down to the ‘sheet’ on my bed - it had never
once been washed since my admission. She took it away - laundered it - and returned the next day with a
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lovely set of fresh bed linen for me - not hospital curtains - real sheets.
Blood was taken for testing on a daily basis and each day my doctor visited to tell that more blood
would have to be taken as the previous lot had been lost or mislaid. In the year 1986 it was a common
practice for the same needle to be used over and over until considered too blunt for further use. After much
blood being taken - on an almost daily basis - I was eventually diagnosed as having Ross River fever -
dengue - and malaria, both at the same time. Either could be fatal and having both was absolutely
debilitating. I did not need anyone to tell me that as I most definitely did feel ill - and, fortunately, I slept a
lot.
Nights were the bad times; it was not uncommon to have a nurse wielding a knife, screaming and
chasing another nurse through the hospital corridors. After hotel closing of an evening was the most
troublesome time when drunken husbands or lovers - feeling either angry or overly amorous - would burst
in to either attack or copulate with a patient. Because of this, external doors had to be locked after visiting
hours ended at 9 p.m. and guards patrolled the hospital grounds and corridors throughout the night.
It was not uncommon to hear someone calling for assistance during the night, in which case I -
being one who was able to walk - would leave my bed and try to assist or, if the problem was too great, I
would search the wards to find the night sister and arouse her from her sleep.

For reasons unknown to anyone, Brian asked if I would mind swapping beds, as he no longer wanted to be
near the window. As I considered it preferable to have an open window at my side, I agreed readily. The
exchange was made without incident and, from that day onwards, Brian insisted on having the curtains
drawn around his bed at all times. There were occasions when I caught sight of him through the curtains
and could see that he spent quite a bit of time writing. Then he began screaming during the night; I would
get out of bed and ask what was wrong; on most nights he told of having extreme pain and would fall
asleep again. I would locate the night nurse and get her to take over. One morning at 5.30 he gave a loud
scream - it was so loud that I leapt from my bed and ran to get a nurse. After I returned to the ward he gave
a few groans and then there was silence - deathly silence.
When the new shift came on at 6 that morning there was much hustle and bustle in the ward, mostly
behind the closed curtains. A large pale blue plastic body bag was unfolded and, with much rustling, they
slid the bag over the body before it was fastened at the head. I wasn't exactly alone in the ward, although I
would have preferred to be. What had once been Brian now lay in the bed next to mine - last week it had
been my bed - and there the body stayed until late afternoon. He had one visitor that day, a chap I think
may have been his haus boi - servant. He came to me and asked, “Brian i slip, eh?” (Is Brian asleep?) I
said, “Nogat, i dai pinis!” No, he's dead! “Aaah ... mipela i kambak bihain taim.” Aaah, I'll come back
later.
He returned the next day, looked at the empty bed and asked, “Brian istap we?” Where is Brian? I
told him again that Brian was dead. Incredulously he asked, “I dai pinis eh?” Is he dead finish? I replied,
“Yes, Brian I dai pinis!” In the Pidgin language die can mean sleep whereas ‘die finish’ means dead as the
proverbial doornail. “Ah so, mi save!” I understand!
It was later revealed that Brian's mysterious writing was his will and a farewell to friends. The
mystery remains of how he had been admitted with a fractured leg and - within a few weeks - he was dead
and had his will drawn up. How did he know to write his will when he did? Another of life's unsolved
mysteries.

I was discharged shortly before Christmas and Marilyn and Noel took me out to Christmas dinner at the
Gateway Hotel where I had once worked, but I was most unwell and could eat little, even though the
Gateway was known for it's wonderful food. Sometimes I feel that Millie may have been with us and other
times I don't think so. I spent the days and nights in a daze, drifting from one day to another, not knowing
what was going on in the world around me. Although I do not remember being discharged from hospital, I
do recall that I was at home alone on New Year's Eve. The crashing of garbage cans had awakened me, the
barking of dogs and the yells of an unruly, out-of-control mob that signified New Year in Papua New
Guinea.
I slipped back badly after discharge as no one knew where I was due to my doors being locked at
the flat and the phone had not been connected. I have a vague memory of Leonie - another friend from
work - coming to take me out to lunch. I knew I would be unable to leave the flat. I was too weakened
from hunger as I had been unable to get out to buy food, and Raymond was away. I remember Leonie
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making all sorts of suggestions that might appeal and I have hazy recall that we may have had a Kentucky
Fried Chicken lunch.
There was one night when I heard sounds of conversation, as if in a dream - or what one hears
when coming out of anaesthetic. A muted dialogue seemed to be drifting in from a parallel world and had
no bearing on reality. In my imagination I still occasionally hear similar sounds. Two or three weeks later
- after recovery - the mystery was solved … in my stupor, I had been listening to a neighbours VCR playing
‘The Cat and the Canary’.
My diagnosis was still a combination of malaria and dengue fever. I had been off work for six
weeks and, although I had gone since teenage years with a mild caffeine addiction, once I was hit with this
illness I just couldn't get coffee down - instant in particular. I took up tea drinking and ever since, have
drunk coffee only if nothing else is available.

Sometime early in 1987 I wrote a rather lengthy letter to my cousin, extracts of which appear below:

With all of my friends who have moved on over the years, I never realised what they went through
beforehand. The business of moving from one country to another isn't quite as easy as I'd like it to
be. I originally came up here with an allowance of 40lb of luggage. Now I have to move the
accumulation of 26 years and my future home is so small that I haven't a hope in the world of fitting
everything in. I have been trying to sort out what I can't live without, what I need for reference
material, what I intend leaving with Raymond and what has to be disposed of. Not simple!

And the lad isn't making it any easier, either. His every moment when at home is spent asking me to
write to Australia, phone Australia, tell Australia that I am his father and that he hasn't been to
school and can't look after himself ... that he has nowhere to live and no money to keep himself. It
really is sad and I can't do a thing about it other than turn a blind eye and go. In fact I get furious
with him for nagging when I feel so totally inadequate as I have no solution. It's not as easy as I
thought it would be. I had hoped that he would take it that an era has passed but he really is in a
hopeless situation and it saddens me.

Time has passed … The days since then have been frantic, trying to catch up on two weeks of work
whilst preparing to head into the heavens again on Monday morning ... off to the Highlands for
another week as we start making a film on another Hydroelectric Project. It will be planes and
helicopters all next week.
140
 141

BAD NEWS! 1987

This was the year when reports were beginning to seep out to the public about a terrifying new disease that
had been discovered in Africa and San Francisco. Quickly I went back through my chamber of memories
and was relieved to realise that I hadn’t had any intimate overseas contacts since 1979. I was safe and very,
very relieved. Great care would have to be taken in future!
My bouts of ‘glandular fever’ persisted on and off right through the first half of the 1987. When at
work I continued to have lunch with work-mates Marilyn, Leonie and Anne in my office each day, where
we would sit doing needlepoint to pass the hour away with idle chatter. The four of us - plus their
respective husbands - were the very best of friends and frequently mixed socially outside working hours ...
playing cards, dinners out, parties, picnics and barbecues at the beach or in the Variarata National Park.
Anne and Marilyn worked in the Finance Department of the Commission, Leonie was in charge of
Personnel, and Anne - my financial backbone - worked in Finance, while I was the Commission's Public
Relations Officer.
Now that I desperately needed money my interest in stitching became an obsession and I was
selling everything as quickly as I could design and produce it. From sales of my original needlepoint
designs - tapestry to some - I had been able to pay off the flat at Trinity Beach in less time than the signed
agreement had called for. I would work at my pieces from when I first got out of bed of a morning until
time to leave for work, then from when I arrived home, right through until bedtime.
Following the publicity that came my way from the exhibition I was asked to design - in public - at
the Waigani Arts Centre during a big art show. You can imagine some of the comments I received as I sat,
stitching in public. The men were fine and, in most cases, asked pertinent questions about the work ... most
of the women were wonderful but - believe me - I came across some frightfully rude bitches who seemed to
consider needlework to be women’s work. Men did not do cross-stitch, they claimed. There will be much
more about this later.

Wednesday, January 6, 1988 is my final departure date from Papua New Guinea after so many years.
I worked out that I have sold over $60,000 worth of my original tapestries in the past two years. In
May of 1988 I will have to go to Brisbane to meet Raymond at the airport so that we can attend
Expo. I intend flying him down on May 6 for three weeks.

Such were my plans …

It was late May 1987 and my glandular fever attacks had become so severe that my doctor recommended
further blood tests. The blood was sent to Pathology and I could expect results a week later. Anne had
given notice to leave and would be terminating her contract with the Commission and returning to Australia
permanently. I dreaded the thought of losing such a close friend and confidant.

On Friday June 5, 1987 I was going right through all four floors of the building taking up a collection
towards a farewell present for Anne, whose departure was imminent. Sometime shortly before lunch that
day I was called to the phone - it was my doctor's off-sider, a Pacific Islands lady doctor with the unlikely
name of Rexona: “Graeme, your blood test results are back; I'd like to you to come and see me at your
earliest convenience.”
Thank God! I was about to learn at long last what had been ailing me for so long. I deposited the
collected cash with my secretary, picked up my car keys, and was out of that building like a shot, reaching
the doctor's surgery not long after the squeaky-clean Rexona had replaced the phone on its cradle. She led
me to a small private room and shut the door. “Graeme, the results of your tests are back and they prove
positive!” “Thank heavens for that,” said I. “At last we know it IS glandular fever!” “No, Graeme … I'm
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sorry to have to tell you, the bad news is that you have shown positive to AIDS!”

I know now what shock is ... how to express it is another matter. My mind raced wildly with the
impossibilities of it all ... since Raymond had come into my life I had been leading a cloistered life of
abstinence. For the last five years I had travelled either with Raymond - or in Scotland where sex was
unheard of - to my mind it was absolutely impossible for me to have AIDS. Before going into a complete
panic at the news, I realised the strong possibility that the medical profession in Papua New Guinea was
reasonably ignorant of so many aspects of modern medicine and, in particular, about this new, almost
unheard-of disease. Somewhat shaken, I asked: “What does this mean for me?” Rexona matter-of-factly
replied: “You have between two and six months to live!” God! ... what was I going to do about Raymond?
was my first thought. I knew I was his life, I was his sole provider without me he was homeless. “What do
I do now?” I asked. I was told that the next step was to fly to Brisbane. “Leave arrangements in my
hands,” Rexona said. “I'll make all the necessary arrangements for you to fly out, possibly on Tuesday.”
My next question was to ask how long she thought I would be away as I had to cater for Raymond in my
absence ... she told me that it was most unlikely I would ever be returning to Port Moresby. An
appointment was made for me to come back on Monday morning to see my G.P. for final details. “Until
then, keep it quiet and don't tell anybody!”
I drove back to my office and asked my Secretary if she could continue with the collection for me.
Then I walked downstairs to Anne's office and told her the devastating news. Before leaving the office I
called a New Zealand friend, Gillian, who worked in the office of a well-known solicitor in town - later he
would become her husband. I needed a legal will made and I apparently needed it quickly. We arranged to
meet in the bar of the Islander Hotel after work at 5.30 p.m. - not exactly the ideal venue for a transaction as
important as a will but Gillian was a good drinker and I needed someone to console me in my time of need.
Everything other than the official signing was completed there and then over several beers in the hotel's
lounge. Unfortunately, I then had to draw the session to a close as I had to meet the ‘gang’ that evening for
a farewell dinner for Anne at our favourite Chinese restaurant. I really had no desire to go out - all I wanted
to do was curl up and die someplace - alone.

As usual when there was a group, Raymond stayed home for the evening as he was embarrassed at being
unable to communicate with anyone. He preferred not be involved in close contact in a crowded area when
he could see lips moving, but had no idea of what they were taking about. So, beside myself, Anne was
there alone. She and her husband had recently agreed to go their own separate ways. Leonie was there
with husband Bryan; Marilyn and husband Noel and Vivienne with husband Greg, and another couple who
were friends of all but on the outer edge somewhat as they were not employed by the Commission. Anne
and I were the only two singles. These were amongst my very best friends in Port Moresby and,
unbeknown to them, this would be our very last meal together. Let's enjoy it! I found conversation
difficult - practically everything they had to talk about related to the future, and I knew that I did not have a
future.
I was able to join in on any subject that related to the past but just couldn't enter into any discussion
of that day or the day after or the future. Only Anne knew how I felt and I had sworn her to secrecy. Apart
from my trusted Secretary, Moi, no one knew that I had earlier absented myself from the office without
permission.
As in any gathering of friends, there is always much talk about future plans. Tonight, such talk
bothered me no end, as I knew I had no part to play in any future plans. My mind would slip into a world
well apart from the familiar and away from the restaurant. I was unable to connect with the friends around
me and I felt as though I wasn't even there! I felt no reason to communicate as in another month or two
they would realise why I had been so very quiet - because I would be dead.
On every occasion that we all went out together, at the end of the meal the bill would be divided
equally, which often irritated me as I didn’t drink wine, and only ever had one course. Tonight I didn't let it
bother me because I knew it would never happen again.
After we left the restaurant and - as everyone was heading towards their cars - I asked Vivienne and
Greg if they would mind waiting with me awhile. I confided in them not to tell anyone. I knew I could
trust them both, as they were a very God-fearing couple whose lips would remain sealed. They kindly
invited me back to their house for coffee and later said a prayer for me. That made me feel even worse as I
felt I was being given the last rights - was I dead already and didn't realise it?
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When Raymond and I caught up with them a few years later in Darwin they were so pleased to see that
their prayers had worked and saved me. My opinion on the matter was that I had taken good care of
myself, I didn't worry about my condition and I knew deep inside that my continued good health was
because I did it my way. As May West once said, “Goodness had nothing to do with it, my dear!”

Having told Raymond that I had to go to Brisbane on business early on the Monday I took him out
shopping for food. He could have whatever he wanted as I felt I would never be returning. I left him at the
flat with our purchases and then drove to work - arriving late. This was really out of fashion for me as I
was always there very early so as to read the newspaper. At the appointed time I left the office quietly to
keep my appointment with Dr Webb. He told me I would be flying to Brisbane the following day.
As I didn't know Brisbane very well in those days I asked for the addresses of affordable
accommodation near Brisbane General Hospital. He advised me once again not to tell anyone I was going
away as he feared the outcome if the word got out. With a sealed envelope - addressed to someone in the
Infectious Diseases Unit at the Brisbane General Hospital - in my bag I left his surgery and returned to my
office. There I explained to the Commissioner that I had urgent matters of a personal nature to attend to in
Brisbane and would need a week off work. I told Raymond the same thing ... I would be back at the
weekend. That lie was the most difficult thing I have ever had to do. I could have cried when I said
goodbye to him because - as far as I knew - we would never be seeing each other again.
I carried a very small bag that contained my very oldest clothes, the sealed envelope the doctor had
given me, and every bottle of old sleeping pills and associated nasties that I had gathered over the years, for
use if ever an unlikely event such as this should arise. I had my way out! Once in Brisbane, I made my way
to Fortitude Valley and, on my way up Brunswick Street, I saw a pathetic sight - a frail little old lady trying
to make her way across the street amongst all the traffic. I found an inner peace in realising that I would
never reach that stage ... I would never need anyone to help me to cross over anywhere, as I had the means
to end it for myself after the visit to the hospital. The accommodation the doctor had recommended was an
awfully squalid lodging place on Gregory Terrace, quite near the hospital. This was the ideal place to end it
all. I had it all planned that if I dressed in my oldest clothes and took the contents of my various vials and
bottles, the finding of a body in a sub-standard place such as that would attract little attention from the
media. I had only one worry in the world, and I had left him at home with about a month's supply of food.
Gillian, who had helped me with the will, was the partner of my then solicitor who in the event of
my death would naturally be informed and subsequently make arrangements for Raymond.

This was a ridiculous time to feel embarrassed but I didn't want anyone who knew me to see me sneaking
out of such an awful place. Although I didn’t know Brisbane very well I had many friends living there. I
took care in crossing the street as I didn't want my infected blood splattered over any innocent pedestrians
and found my way to the Infectious Diseases Unit. This was really embarrassing ... I felt dirty, diseased
and disgusting. The thought entered my mind that I should return to my room and end it all there and then.
At the Infectious Diseases Unit I was met by a truly lovely lady - aged about 50-or-so - who took
the letter, read it and asked how I was feeling, I told her exactly how I felt ... dirty, diseased and disgusting!
She made an attempt to hold my hand and I quickly withdrew it, saying that I didn't want to infect her with
my virus. At that she laughed ever so sweetly and said: “I want you to kiss me Graeme ... I don't think you
are at all dirty, diseased or disgusting.” I gave her a teeny peck on the cheek and she said, “No, not
there ... on my lips!” My immediate feeling was that she was looking for a quick and - from what I had
heard - a very painful way to end it all herself.
She took my hands in hers and explained that there was every possibility that I would live to die of
old age, although I didn't relish the thought of that after what I had seen down the street. This was nothing
at all like the doctors in PNG had told me. I spent the remainder of that afternoon filling in forms,
answering thousands of the most embarrassingly personal questions, and undergoing numerous tests.
Nobody treated me as one diseased, in fact I felt better than I had felt for years. By the time I left the
hospital I was due for a meal ... I was ravenous. I made my way down Brunswick Street - taking care of the
traffic - as I no longer wanted to be injured and, on Wickham Terrace, found a wonderful Chinese
restaurant where I was able to order my favourite Szechuan chicken. I felt as though I had been re-
introduced to the land of the living.
The staff of the Infectious Diseases Unit made me realise that I was not unclean. Blood tests had
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shown that I was not a carrier of AIDS but I had been infected with HIV. The only way I could possibly
infect another person would be by an intimate exchange of body fluids i.e. sexual intercourse without
protection, or intermingling of blood. It could not be passed on by touch ... not even by kissing. It would
take about one bucketful of saliva to carry enough virus to infect another person. I was not a danger to the
community and - as the delightful woman I met when I first came to the hospital had told me - I had every
chance of living a completely normal life thanks to recently discovered medication. I was free to return to
PNG again.

I had time to think and to wonder about how I came to be in this condition. I wondered about the
mysterious death of Brian - his body being sealed in a blue plastic bag and being left there until night. I
thought of how we had exchanged beds, and wondered why? I thought of the many specimens of blood
that had been taken and lost, and the injections that we both received. Did they use a new needle each
time? Or was the same infected needle used more than once. I mentioned these facts to my doctor.

Sometime later in 1987, I wrote to Beryl:

A few months back I was going out of my way to get publicity. DMC want me to design for them.
The Times newspaper wanted to do a ‘going finish' article on me. Although I have not seen the
draft of it as yet, I have had a call from a locally produced full-colour magazine requesting
transparencies of any pieces as they wish to reproduce the article with colour illustrations.

In the last week I have been trying to avoid publicity ... imagine the horror I felt on my first day
back in Port Moresby to see the local newspaper with banner headlines proclaiming: THE
KILLER HAS BEEN ALLOWED TO RETURN TO THE COUNTRY AND IS FREE TO WALK
AMONGST US.

Although no name had been mentioned in the newspaper, my doctor and the medical profession were
furious that the news had been leaked to the media, as the article suggested that this was the first known
case of AIDS in the country, and despite the media, I didn’t have it. I asked the doctors if I should pack up
and leave the country early or not. I was advised by both my doctors - and the medical profession in general
- not to make any rash decisions, as this happened to be the period in PNG’s development when the
positions held by expatriates were being localised and taken over by PNG nationals. As my contract was
due to end at the end of the year, my doctor advised me to stay on and continue as if nothing untoward had
ever happened. That was not easy!
As I had been absent from work for only four days, not a soul in the entire Commission other than
Anne knew that the headlines referred to me. I advised my immediate friends and associates to have blood
tests done in case it was one of them who was the carrier. I then learned who my true friends were. I was
ostracised by my gay ‘friends’ who I had confided in, as they accused me of bringing the deadly disease
into the country. There was nothing to suggest that I was the carrier of the virus - it could have been
anyone. And I had never in recent years been to any of the infected areas. Although I told them that it was
considered impossible that I was responsible they would not listen to reason. Some of my accusers were
regular visitors to the Caribbean and I felt sure that it was they, not I, who had been the carrier - and most
of them have since died. What I had was HIV - presumably contracted in the hospital.
Fortunately for me, a well-known Port Moresby businessman who had been under investigation for
alleged bankruptcy, disappeared during the week while I was in Brisbane. The general populace then
thought the newspaper heading referred to him and cast their aspersions in his direction, leaving me
relatively free to live my own life. I was invited to give a talk to members of the medical fraternity to pass
on all of what I had learned whilst in Brisbane. But pressure from Government officials was becoming
very nasty with a call to banish anyone infected to a remote island and leave the to their own devices.
In the middle of all this distress my good friend Anne left as scheduled and settled in Cairns. I
missed her terribly. More than ever before, I needed friends around me … true friends!

Part of my position in Public Relations was the production of the Commission's staff magazine. With a
circulation of over 1,500 copies monthly and - as most of readers were young, single males who I knew to
be not at all adverse to certain nocturnal activities - I devoted a portion of the July edition to an article on
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how to avoid contracting this new virus. One of the local - national - staff in Top Management objected
very strongly to the article and ordered all copies of the ‘obscene’ magazine to be recalled and destroyed. I
am pleased to say that some copies did make their way into circulation. The ‘boss’ who had ordered the
publication to be destroyed, issued an order that I was to front up to Management to apologise for
distributing such offensive material. I was adamant that I had done nothing wrong - that I was acting in the
interest of over 1,000 young male staff - and refused to apologise. This action eventually worked to help
my cause, as towards the end of the year I was offered an extension of my contract but refused to accept on
the grounds that I was not prepared to work for anyone who held the health of staff in such low regard.
After eleven years of being extremely happy in a most interesting position I would be finishing work at the
end of the year as planned. I wanted away from all the worry and distress of the newspaper reports - I had
been wanting to leave for several years and now felt I had a good reason to go.
On the morning of my last day at work I was advised that there would be a farewell presentation for
me in the Board Room that afternoon. I declined their invitation and apologised that I was unable to attend.
I then received a directive from Patrick, the person who had led the campaign against me, demanding that I
make an appearance, or face the consequences. As I did not know what the slimy little bastard had up his
sleeve, I decided to attend.
I slipped out of the country as previously planned, very quietly on Wednesday, January 6, 1988,
saying goodbye to only my closest friends. I later learned that the Commission had to employ seven
national staff in order to replace me … such was the variety of roles that I had covered. I had been public
relations, journalist, typist, editor, artist, photographer, producer - as well as director and narrator - of
documentary films. As for Raymond, I could not bring myself to say farewell. I had moved out of the flat
we shared one week previously and had him settled in with family members. I told him a false date of my
departure ... the date being one day after I actually left the country. When he went to the airport at the
appointed time to say goodbye, I was no-where to be seen. Mistaken or not, I felt it was kinder that way.
As we soared skywards I was so relaxed ... it seemed impossible that after so long - after 27
wonderful years - I was still alive and fortunate enough to get out of the country reasonably unscathed. I
left behind many good friends, with Raymond at the very top of the list. I left my mother in her grave at 9-
Mile and the memory of ten friends who had been murdered during my stay in the country. But I carried
with me a wonderful collection of very pleasant, never-to-be-forgotten memories as well.

A very important chapter in my life and development was over - but it wasn’t the end - only the good die
young!

One evening at Elcom we held a Miss Universe quest to raise funds for the
Red Cross … The caption reads: What’s a nice girl like me doing in this
daggy line up?
 146

The Quiet Country Boy

Part Two

THE ADULT AUSTRALIAN YEARS

1988 – 2006

After an Absence of Twenty-Seven Years 147

Around the USA, Mostly By Rail 151
Travels With Lynly 163
A Teeny Touch Of Australia 171
The South 175
The Indian Pacific Railway 179
The Trans-Mongolian Express 183
New Year in Penang 201
An Australian Walkabout: Twentieth Century Style 203
Mediterranean Cruise 215
Too Much Of A Good Thing 221
A New Look At Hong Kong 227
Seven Nights On The Great Barrier Reef 229
Back To The Old Stomping Ground 233
The Ghan And The Murray River Cruise 237
 147

AFTER AN ABSENCE OF 27 YEARS 1988

I returned to Australia in January 1988, after an absence of 27 years to be met at the airport by my very dear
friend, confidant and ex-workmate, Anne. As yet I didn’t realise that I would be a foreigner in my own
country but I was all too aware that I was twenty-seven years older than when I left. Many changes had
taken place during my absence and I had a whole new currency to learn. Fortunately for me, just a few
years back in the mid-1980s, when television first came to PNG, I had learned how to switch a TV set on.
Just a few years earlier when a work-mate and I had gone to Sydney on business and were staying in an
apartment at the Cross, we heard on the radio that something was being telecast simultaneously. We looked
at the TV set ... neither of us knew how to operate it. I felt so damned stupid having to take the lift down to
ground floor to ask the receptionist how to switch the TV on. Talk about Ma & Pa Kettle Go To Town!
I didn’t know how to use an ATM, or how to fill the tank at a petrol station. I didn’t know how to
operate a public phone and had never even heard of a remote control. There was a lot to learn.
Naturally, I was anxious to see my new home while - at the same time - Anne wanted to catch up
on events since she had left PNG. We sat at the airport bar for quite some time having a few drinks, both of
us talking and smoking furiously until she drove me to Trinity Beach. Here I was ... home at last! And -
what’s more - I'm here to stay! But there was nagging doubt in my mind as to my longevity. I was very
uncertain as to what my future held health-wise. The first thing we did to celebrate the beginning of new
life as a born-again Australian was to boil the jug for a cuppa.
All my personal possessions had been delivered prior to my arrival. Cartons all but filled the main
room. I'm sure we are all aware of the horrible job it is in the initial stages of settling in and trying to get on
with life while so many of the essentials are packed away. I was certainly no newcomer to unpacking as
during one 18-month period in PNG I had seventeen changes of accommodation ... for that entire period I
lived out of cartons, never having the time to unpack anything other than the basic essentials.

Our evening meal that first night was at the Trinity Beach Hotel, almost diagonally across the street from
home, on the edge of a hill overlooking the beautiful blue South Pacific Ocean. That hotel later lost its roof
in a cyclone and had to be rebuilt.
I must quote an instance that happened soon after I settled in ... my immediate neighbours were a
married couple in their senior year - Audrey and Bill. Audrey had been a ballet teacher and she was still
actively involved in Highlands dancing. Even when hanging clothes out on the line she was immaculately
dressed as if she had just stepped out of a Versace salon ... she was a doll! … a dumpy, gorgeous little doll.
There came an evening when we were entertaining and a visitor asked Audrey what it was like at the
Trinity Beach Hotel. I now quote as best as my memory allows when she replied: “Oh, it's quite nice
really, if you don't mind athletic singlets, hairy armpits, a certain amount of body odour, plastic thongs and
coarse language ... and the men are just as bad!”

The days were carefree and pleasant. My home was in a block of holiday units. There were three blocks
side by side - separated by covered parking bays - with one bay per unit. Each block had its own swimming
pool and we were just one block from the magnificent Trinity Beach with its wonderful sweep of almost
pure white sand. The bathing was wonderful at any time other than the summer months when the waters
became infested with the highly poisonous Irikanji jellyfish, or stingers. These transparent little critters can
be as small as the fingernail of the little finger; their tentacles - I said tentacles - are long and practically
invisible. The slightest contact is sufficient to cause shocking raised, red welts and indescribable agony.
There have been cases where death has occurred - such is the degree of shock. Needless to say, I stayed
clear of the ocean waters during stinger season, and contented myself with the pool, but it was good to
know that an application of common household vinegar gives great relief from the pain
However life wasn’t exactly all fun and games between the beach and pool, I still had a cloud of
 148

uncertainty hanging over me and - despite what I had been told at the hospital in Brisbane - the words of
Rexona were still lingering in my ears. To take my mind from thinking of the possibility of death in the
near future, I spent my days designing and stitching cross-stitch - looking at a photograph - stitching what I
saw, and transposing each stitch by hand as a symbol on a large sheet of graph paper that I had drawn-up
and printed for that specific purpose. I would work day and night - stitching until tired, sleep for one and a
half hours - stitch until tired - sleep one and a half hours and so on. When the stitching of a design was
completed, so was the chart. Then, and only then, could I sit back and appreciate the thrill of knowing that
since time began, the piece before me had never previously existed. Nobody in all the countless millions
who had lived before me had ever created that particular piece of art. How satisfying it was! On each
completion I realised what was meant by the agony and the ecstasy of creation. There were occasional
breaks when I would drive up to Christopher Skase’s Sheraton Mirage at Port Douglas for breakfast, or
make the four-hour drive south to the casino at the Sheraton Breakwater in Townsville. Thinking that my
life span was limited, I saw no need to keep the money in the bank. If I was going out, I was going out
with a bang, and determined to enjoy my last few months on earth. Quite often I spent weekends in a
luxury hotel at Palm Cove and would often drive the ten minutes home on a Saturday evening to do a little
stitching, then back to the hotel to sleep. How pleasant it was, awakening in the morning, having a dip in
the pool, followed by a shower, then to be waited on hand and foot, and be able to enjoy a wonderful
prepared breakfast poolside amongst all the luxurious green, tropical vegetation.
This really was fun while it lasted, the only problem being that my health was continuing to
improve with each passing day, while my bank account was decreasing. I could see the writing on the wall
- that if I continued with this idyllic lifestyle I would soon be financially
broke. What could I do at my age to earn a living? Nobody wanted a
fifty-six-year-old unemployed male, so I continued to stitch, building up a
collection of designs. I became friendly - in a business fashion - with a
delightful Chinese lady named Bev Chiu Chong. At that time Bev had
two needlecraft shops - one in Cairns City and one in the recently opened
Smithfield shopping centre that catered for the northern beaches residents.
Bev asked if I would care to work, stitching and designing for a couple of
days in the wide passageway outside the door of her shop at Smithfield. I
enjoyed those days, meeting like-minded crafty folk while doing what I
would have been doing if sitting at home alone. It created tremendous
interest. The piece I was designing at the time was the head of a White
Tiger that became the best seller in my entire range of over one hundred
designs. During the next ten years that Tiger sold in excess of 10,000
charts, and still I could not stop myself from designing.
As planned earlier, Raymond came down on holidays later that
year and we flew to Brisbane where we stayed with friends Berenice and
Malcolm and spent four wonderful days at Expo. There was no way in
My white tiger cross-stitch design the world that I was going to let him miss out on that once-in-a-lifetime
experience.

I open my own business

The manager of Australia's largest import-export needlecraft business DMC - who had asked me to design
for his company - asked if I would spend a week designing at the Stitches & Craft Show in the World Trade
Centre in Melbourne. That put me right on the map as a designer and enabled me to meet the owners of
craft shops from all over Australia and New Zealand. Being my first time to demonstrate big time in
public, I was decidedly nervous when I noticed - right down at the far end of a long passageway - a big,
burly, heavily tattooed and bearded bikie dressed all in black, with silver studs and chains from head to
foot, arms akimbo, heading my way. I could feel myself shrinking ... I wanted to hide, but there was
neither time nor space. He strode right up to me - looked at the Koala I was stitching at the time - looked
me straight in the eye and said: “’Ave ya got anythin’ with motorbikes, mate? Me and me mates would like
to do some motorbikes!” I gave a sick little smile and apologised that I had nothing in that line but would
give it serious consideration. “Come back and see me next year - if I'm here.” Never have I been more
relieved than when he departed as I really thought he was homophobic and I was going to be bashed up.
These shows opened at 10 a.m. ... at 8 the following morning I was roaming the northern end of
 149

Melbourne’s Elizabeth Street where there were numerous motorcycle businesses. Dropping my voice one
or two octaves, I would swagger into a shop and ask if they had any posters of motorbikes to give away - if
the answer was in the negative, which it usually was, I'd hot-foot it out as quickly as my legs would carry
me until I came upon a Harley Davidson dealer who gave me a very large poster of a Harley Davidson
Evolution 1990. That design eventually overtook the White Tiger in sales.
As a result of the success of that show Denis, the DMC guy, asked if I would follow it up with
another show at the Randwick Racecourse in Sydney. More people, more exposure. DMC paid my
accommodation at a Kings Cross hotel and I was asked if I would allow DMC to produce and distribute my
range of designs in future. I hadn't had time to make a firm decision on the matter when, just before closing
time on the final day Diana - from Needlecraft International - said she was taking over as my distributor.
She organised for her son to take all my framed and completed works directly from the display and put
them in their vehicle. I was absolutely flabbergasted as I had never been involved in business of this nature
before. I didn't want to offend anyone, and I didn't know what to do. Whatever I did was going to offend
someone. At closing time Denis said he would collect the designs, and me, from the hotel and drive me to
the airport the following morning. I was so confused I could not bring myself to cope with the reality of
the situation and tell him what had happened … that I no longer had the designs.
The next morning I was anxious to get out of the hotel before Denis arrived and was waiting in the
foyer for a courtesy coach to the airport when he arrived. “Okay, where are they?” I explained that I didn't
know, because someone had taken them from the venue and said they would contact me about it later.
Naturally, I had to make my way to the airport alone. I felt really bad that morning and realised that if I
was going to make it in the craft scene, I had a lot of learning to do.
Needlecraft International took control of my designs and had the exclusive rights to print, publish
and distribute them under the name of Emily Rose - Diana's mother's name. There were two faults in this
arrangement that I soon had to put a stop to. I was still designing by day and by night and producing more
designs than Diana could handle, and I was getting so much crap from within the industry where people
started calling me Emily - thinking that Rose was a play on my surname; I had to be firm, I allowed Diana
twelve months in which to sell her existing stock of my designs while - in the meantime - I would be
bringing out all new designs under the registered name of Ross Originals. Diana was a very unhappy lady
but, as she had ‘done the dirty’ on DMC in the first place, I felt entitled to look after myself.

I worked from a barrow at the Radisson Plaza's Pier Marketplace in Cairns, beginning with one design only.
I had 1,000 of the White Tiger charts printed - these were kept in a beer carton in the trunk of my car, in the
underground parking lot. Financially I was in dire straits as I really had lived the good life for a couple of
years and now I was so broke I could afford only one cream-filled bun for lunch each day until conditions
improved. While waiting for customers to come along, I continued to design and stitch then, on
completion, would have 1,000 of the new design printed. I now had two designs on the market and the
tourists loved them. Each chart had my name, together with company name and address printed on the
front. Soon I began receiving orders from overseas as the tourists returned to their homes and showed my
charts to friends and to the craft stores in their area - orders began to come in from all over the English-
speaking world. At this time I seemed to develop a defacto grandfather relationship with a teenage blonde
lass who worked at a nearby barrow, she would come to
me with her problems and tell me of the excitement of
evenings out with friends. I would later be invited to her
21st birthday party and, later again, to her engagement
party. And later still to her wedding.
Worth mentioning is the time when my hair was
possibly a little longer than usual and I was sitting beside
my barrow stitching a design of a Persian cat - a woman
with a little boy of about four years walked by. The
child, at the top of his voice, yelled: “Look Mummy, the
lady’s knitting a cat!”

The days of selling from a barrow passed and I now had a

very nice little shop on the 1st floor - 2nd floor for My very favourite photo of Raymond and me when I was
Americans. Business was booming - so much so in that working on a design outside my shop on the first floor of the
 150

some days I would have to call on staff from other shops to come and help with sales. It was not
uncommon to have customers - five or six deep - waving their charts and money in the air, screaming for
service. We didn't even have time to put the money in a cash box, or enter sales in a ledger - money just
had to go into pockets or in whatever happened to be available - drop the charts in a plastic bag, say “Thank
you!” and pass them over.
Stitching away merrily one morning, a young American lass came along and asked if I could mend
a hole in her shorts and when I say shorts, I mean shorts! The hole was in a spot where - if she had been
wearing a bikini - there wouldn’t have been a hole as there would have been no fabric. Naturally, the
young thing couldn’t take her pants off while I mended them - she didn’t know me well enough - and I had
to stitch with my right hand, while the left hand was up the leg of her shorts so I could make sure I didn’t
jab her in the Bermuda Triangle. All went well until I had almost completed ‘darning’ the hole and I told
her, jokingly, how embarrassing it was going to be as I didn’t have any scissors and would have to bite
through the thread. Any video of her reaction would be appreciated!
It was at this time that Elizabeth entered my life. An Australian citizen, married to an Australian
businessman working in the USA, Elizabeth ran a business from her home in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania by
the name of DownUnder Designs ... a name that was known worldwide. Elizabeth phoned from the States
one evening, asking if she could have the exclusive rights of marketing my designs in the United States and
Canada and asked - if she paid the fare and accommodation - would I be prepared to go to the USA to
promote my works. I honestly thought she was out of her mind - who in the United States would want to
buy the designs of an unknown, ageing Australian? Initially I refused the invitation, as I was aware that
anyone affected with the HIV virus was not permitted to enter the United States. Eventually, I had to
confess my plight about my medical status to Elizabeth and I agreed to make an appearance in the States,
but I had to be devious and very careful. I had a considerable amount of prescription medication to
smuggle in my luggage - and no, I had no known medical conditions.
Elizabeth promoted me overseas and taught me heaps about the trade. She really was keen to get
me known over there and, in fact, together with husband John, they suggested I move the business to the
USA and live there. That idea held no appeal for me whatsoever. Why should I uproot myself from my
homeland and go all that way to work when I already lived in the best part of the world? After a few
minutes of reasoning I decided it would be a great way to have a working holiday and - not wanting to
become obligated in any way - I declined the offer of the free fare and asked her to give me a computer
printout of all her best customers throughout the United States and Canada who were already selling my
designs … I would try to link them all up with the aid of an Amtrak timetable.

My very good friend, Eddy, from Teachers’ College days on Manus Island - and our Asian trip - was by
now living in Mansfield, Victoria. He was unemployed and - knowing how much he liked tropical living -
I suggested he come to a warmer climate for a working holiday. If I
paid his return fare from Melbourne to Cairns and back, he could live
in my house free of charge and have full use of my car in return for
looking after the business in my absence. For as long as I had the
shop, and he lived, this was an annual event. It worked well for both
of us.
In those days the only direct flight from Cairns to the USA
was to Los Angeles. This year that didn't suit as I needed to fly to San
Francisco in order to commence a round trip that I was planning. Out
came one of my trusty atlases - I have The Macquarie Illustrated
World Atlas, the Readers Digest Atlas and my very favourite of all is
one put out years before by the Australian Women's Weekly - with no
publication date recorded. Thus armed, I began by following the little
black crosshatched lines that represented railways in the United States.
I planned an around-the-USA route that would take in many of the
cities ias possible n which Elizabeth had her best customers.
Canadian authorities insisted there was no timetable for that
country. In fact I was advised not to even attempt the trip, as there
weren’t any rail crossings of Canada. I can assure you, it is possible,
because I have done it. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Designing the “Hibiscus” chart
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AROUND THE USA, MOSTLY BY RAIL 1991

Cairns to Vancouver
After the usual boring crossing of the Pacific Ocean, the flight arrived extremely late at Honolulu. It was
panic stations as I had to catch a connecting flight to San Francisco in a matter of minutes and I was way
back at the end of a very long line. After sweating it out for some time I was able to catch the eye of a
ground staff person of the female sex - political correctness - who took my papers and credentials and led
me right to the front of the line where she presented my passport and other relative papers. Once cleared at
that desk, she told me to stay close by, to hurry, and not get lost. We raced through back corridors, through
a staff cafeteria and a kitchen area, out a door and down onto the verge of a tarmac, along which we raced
at an ungodly pace, through another doorway and up some more stairs, and then I found myself in the
departure lounge where my flight was already being called as final boarding. I thanked the lady profusely,
or as profusely as possible in a panic-stricken state. I was literally buggared - which is Australian for
exhausted. I collapsed into my seat and relaxed until 'Frisco.
Most of my intended rail travel had been pre-booked and pre-paid and I was on a very tight
schedule. Delays or mishaps would throw my plans into complete disarray. Using the Amtrak table, I had
made reservations for First Class seating on all sectors of less than eight hours - on all sectors in excess of
eight hours I booked Deluxe Class sleeping. All accommodation and meals, other than on the trains, was
the responsibility of the store in which I would be demonstrating.
Although the first day of travel was longer than eight hours, I chose to travel First Class sitting, as I
knew I would arrive at my destination before dark and - as I would be travelling through a previously
unseen part of the United States - I wanted to sit up and take notice. I found Amtrak to be an excellent form
of travel and particularly comfortable. Their dining service was excellent! I would eventually learn that the
same menu was rotated weekly. Very quickly, we made our way northwards up the Sacramento Valley. By
the way, did you know that Sacramento is the Capital of California? … not Los Angeles, not San Francisco,
but Sacramento! While crossing the Siskiyou Mountains we went through the very picturesque Siskiyou
Pass into Oregon. A little north of Longview I saw the beautiful snow-capped Mt St. Helens in the distance
on the right. My previous boss - the Commissioner of the PNG Electricity Commission (third from the left
in the photo on page 145) - had asked me to contact his son who lived in Portland, Oregon if I was ever in
that area. Unfortunately, the train didn’t stop long enough for a visit. I did try to phone the son from the
Portland railway station but didn't know how to manage the local telephone system - especially when in a
great hurry. The whistle from the engine had sounded our departure as I began my dash for the door.
All through this area is magnificent country - very heavily forested - with the Puget Sound making
itself felt at almost every turn. As I sat in my comfort, admiring the glorious scenery, I wondered at the evil
that lurked in the Seattle area. What had gone wrong to cause so many people to murder and suicide in
Seattle? Read almost any book on true crime in the United States and you're bound to find that the killer
responsible for the crime is a native of - or a visitor to - Seattle. A quick check-up has brought to light the
names of forty-three serial killers connected to the State of Washington alone. For anyone interested in true
crime, I would definitely recommend anything by Anne Rule, a local resident … and a brilliant
investigative crime writer. I have read many of her superb books.
Although my destination was Renton, I stayed on the train until Seattle, as I had never heard of
Renton , and Seattle was where I had arranged to be met. Seattle is situated quite close to the West Coast of
the USA in the state of Washington, and should not be confused with Washington DC on the East Coast.
The city is squeezed in between Puget Sound and Lake Washington - a boomtown in the Alaska Gold Rush
of 1897 - and was a very busy port of entry to the Klondike area.
Immediately south of Seattle, to the left of the line, was the huge Boeing Aircraft Company, which
- in 1993 - employed a staff of 120,000. I do not know the acreage but it was immense.
 152

I was met in Seattle - a city I can’t claim to have really visited - by owner of ‘Stitch n Stuff’ needlecraft,
who promptly whizzed me off to see her store, then drove me to my accommodation in a neat little motel
from where I could see the skyline of Seattle in the distance. She then - like so many ladies of the craft
industry - left me to my own devices and spent the rest of the day at golf. I spent two days working in the
Renton area, showing customers how I went about my style of designing, autographing my charts and
answering many questions about Australia, most of which I was able to respond to with reasonable
accuracy. I had travelled extensively in Australia before ever heading off overseas.
I declined all offers of lifts to and from the store as it was a magnificent autumn (fall) climate in
which to take a leisurely stroll, and I certainly could do with the exercise considering the long hours I spent
sitting and stitching. Not far from the shop was a small fast food place that made the bestest hamburgers
ever ... I saved my hostess a little money by buying my lunch there both days and eating in a nearby park.
From my motel I had phoned my friends John and Jan - with whom I had once stayed in Toronto.
They were now living in Vancouver and I needed to advise them the time of my arrival by bus. I almost
saw Seattle - maybe I saw a teeny weeny little bit of it - as I recall passing along two streets in what may
have been the downtown area on the way to the bus terminal.
Next came the bus trip to Canada. - lunch en-route was a roadside stop at Everett.

The Rocky Mountains & Montana

John and Jan met me at the bus terminal and drove me through extensive parklands and over a long bridge to
their aerie perched high above West Vancouver. After a pleasant couple of nights with the pair of them,
they then drove me to the railway station in Vancouver and saw me comfortably settled on the Rocky
Mountaineer bound for Calgary. Everyone knows of the grandeur of the Rocky Mountains - quite a bit of
which I saw by hanging precariously out the door of the train while taking photographs. I had good training
at that when filming from helicopters in Papua New Guinea. The tops of the mountains were fully covered
with snow - below was a wonderful raging river of pale blue, icy cold, milky-blue water.
There was an overnight stop at Kamloops with all passengers being billeted out in various
accommodations around town. The only reason I can think of to explain why Kamloops was there is
because a railway line passes through it. On the second day of the crossing we stopped briefly at Lake
Louise and Banff and - at the very eastern edge of the mountains - the train terminated at Calgary at the east
of the Rockies, where I was booked to do some work in a craft store. As accommodation was at a premium
due to the famed Calgary Stampede, I checked out on the day before the stampede and headed north to
Edmonton to spend a couple of days working at Needlepoint Gallery and made time to see what was then
the world's largest shopping centre. Retracing my steps I spent another few days in Calgary where I was in
for a wonderful surprise ... my friend Nevionne - who Raymond and I had met in Europe - called in at the
shop in which I was working for lunch one day - we talked considerably. She had driven 200km from
Sparwood, British Colombia to see me.
To continue on the route I had chosen I needed to get to Shelby, in Montana, USA. The only link
between Calgary and Shelby was by bus - commonly called a coach in the U.S. - but that conjures up images
of wagon wheels and red Indians. The road southwards took me through extremely monotonous, flat plains
to the border at Sweetgrass. That little place has been embedded in my memory for a lifetime, as there was
nothing there other than a sort of immigration post - a small service station - and a tiny convenience store.
The coach had parked on the American side of the border so I walked the few steps back to show my
credentials before calling in at the store for a cool drink. There was only one person there - an extremely
elderly gentleman with pipe in hand - whose age I guessed at somewhere between one hundred and death -
rocking gently in a wooden chair in the only shade to be found, on the veranda of the store. Being
absolutely stuck for words, and knowing he wasn’t going to initiate conversation, I remarked, “Nice little
place ya got here!” He turned to me and very slowly drawled, “Thar ain't no place smaller thun
Sweetgrass!”
Further down the road I was dropped off at the Shelby railway station late in the afternoon, after a
relatively long and uninteresting bus trip … there was only one building … a dun-coloured weatherboard
railway station. On my north, east and south was nothing but flatlands, while to the west was a smallish
mound of earth that - had it been a little higher - could have been called a hill. I walked up and down the
platform, looking in each and every doorway ... there was no-one home! I was in the middle of
absobloodylutely nowhere and there was no-one home!
My timetable showed that the next train was tomorrow morning … no more today, but there was
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one tomorrow. Just as I was beginning to get concerned about sleeping arrangements for the night a utility
- a pickup in the States - came to a screeching stop in a cloud of dust. A big, burly, butch number - who
had a vague resemblance of being a woman - threw herself out of the vehicle and announced that she
operated Shelby's one-and-only taxi in town. I had heard about ladies like her, so I had nothing to worry
about! Less than 500 metres away, behind the mound of earth, we came to Shelby - a surprisingly sizeable
township - where I found excellent accommodation. The walls in the corridors of the motel were really me,
all adorned with movie memorabilia, everything and anything as long as it related to Montana. There were
posters of ‘Montana’, ‘Montana Belle’, ‘Montana Mike’, ‘Montana Territory’ and others I no longer recall.
This was the West, but no longer wild. I had to close my eyes and think hard to remember what the blue
Pacific and swaying palms looked like.
From my room that night I phoned Eddy who
was ‘holding the fort’ in my shop at the time, just to
check with reality and see how things were going
downunder. He told me he had found a mistake in
my chart of the ‘MacDonnell Ranges’ design - I
asked him to correct it - he did, and it was on the
market when I returned home. Eddy had reached the
stage where he was now telling me how to design.
In his advancing years - although five years my junior
- he was being referred to as ‘The Expert On
Everything.’ No matter what anyone suggested,
Eddy knew better, or he had a better way of doing it.
Once, in his hometown of Mansfield, Victoria he was
visiting the parish Priest, who happened to be
building an aquarium. Eddy offered to help, or made
suggestions of a better way to do the job, when His
Worship - or whatever he was referred to as said that This MacDonnell Ranges cross-stitch is a composite of two
he could manage the job by himself. Eddy snapped photographs so as not to breach copyright laws in relation to an
Albert Namatjira watercolour
back: “I hope all your bloody fish die!” and walked
off.
In the meantime, however, there was I spending the evening in Montana, enjoying a few drinks
with the locals and - strange as it may seem for America - some of the locals had heard of Australia, maybe
they had heard of Chips Rafferty! Our fame was growing! I surely was the odd man out in that locality - I
am definitely no John Wayne!

The following morning I caught the train and found my pre-booked deluxe class sleeper awaiting me, as I
had estimated that I would need a sleeper for the crossing of the vast plains of Montana. Here and there I
saw the weathered remains of a small cottage with no water to be seen anyplace. I could imagine savage
hordes of redskins riding across the plains on their trusty steeds, taking scalps as they wiped out the wagon
trains and settlers ... or is my imagination somewhat warped in time and space?
Each compartment had its own map, timetable and official information sheet covering the entire
route. Passengers were advised to keep an eye open for elusive jackalope that frequented the area. I sat
there for hours, studying every tussock and hollow that we passed, and mentioned the fact to fellow diners
in the dining car that evening. It began with a chuckle at my table, then spread rapidly through the entire
dining car. That's when I learned that the jackalope was the equivalent of the Australian bunyip ... there
ain't no such thing! In the mythology of the West it is a cross between a jackrabbit and an antelope.

Northern U.S.A.
All of the stores I was working in during this trip were the most select customers of my friend Elizabeth and
it was on her stand that I displayed my designs at major craft shows in Brisbane, Sydney and Melbourne
after she returned to Australia to live, following the death of her husband.
Next stop on this trip was Minneapolis/St Paul ... in my mind I am unable to separate the two. I
was absolutely dead-beat when met at the station in Minneapolis. The crossing from Shelby had been a
long one and I was hurriedly bundled into a car and told that we were going to a grand-daughter's school
presentation night in Saint Cloud. Now this was real snow country we were heading into - lots of fir trees,
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steeply gabled roofs, interesting little shops and architecture - not all that far from Fargo. Ever see the film
‘Fargo’? Brilliant! Get it on DVD and it will give a far better description of the area than any words of
mine.
In all honesty, about the only words I could think of to describe the presentation night would be 'utterly’
and ‘boring' when co-joined. Naturally, in that part of the world, I knew not a soul, and I was so damned
tired I could scarcely keep my eyes open. The best thing about the night was that I was given a place to
sleep at about 11 p.m. ... I hadn't even had time to open my baggage since leaving the train that morning.
In the midst of work and socialising, signing and answering questions the following day, I was
absolutely exhausted. I just couldn't go on any longer. I excused myself from duties and went to the
basement of the store where I lay myself down on the hard-topped table that they used for cutting fabric,
and dozed off. That evening a pseudo Australian barbeque was staged in the back garden of my hosts’
home with me as the guest of honour. During the obligatory spell of home movies I saw a most unflattering
piece of cinematography ... me, filmed from the feet upwards, flat on my back on the cutting table with
arms crossed on my chest, mouth wide open and looking for all the world as though I had been laid out for
burial. At all times during this period of my life, I was extremely careful about how much I drank on these
nightly social occasions as I constantly had to have my wits about me - I needed to be in complete control
at all times - and definitely did not want to have the shakes in the mornings when I had to be stitching in
public.
But somebody loved me ... one lady had flown all the way from Thunder Bay on the north-east
shores of Lake Superior just to see me. That was flattering! Wouldn't you just love to visit Thunder Bay?
I love that name ... it conjures up all wonderful and exciting images. I wonder what it’s like?
This was a wonderful way to earn a living ... a comfortable train trip, meeting interesting people
along the way, and a different city in which to work at each stop. As earlier mentioned, I had arranged the
travel so that I paid all fares, while the shop-owner provided my accommodation and most meals. My duty
was to spend the day stitching, talking to customers, autographing my cross-stitch charts that they so readily
bought, demonstrating my unique style of designing and answering questions. In most cities I was given
celebrity status, occasionally verging on hysteria. Three nights was the most I spent in any one centre -
sometimes in luxury hotels, sometimes in a motel, sometimes bed and breakfast places, and quite often in
private residences.
On this - my first such business trip - I travelled from Minneapolis/St. Paul by bus down to Kansas
City where I stayed in the hotel made famous by the New Years Eve internal bridge collapse not all that
long before my visit. Kansas City is where Hallmark cards come from. From there by Amtrak to St Louis.

On this leg of the journey between St Louis and Washington DC, I again had a deluxe sleeping
compartment and joined in conversation with the porter - the most magnificent specimen of manhood you
ever did see and, as was customary after dinner, he came along to check that I was comfortable and ensure
all was satisfactory. I asked if the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the wall that adjoined the next compartment
had a dual purpose … he told me that it would slide across to provide access to both compartments. He also
told me to call for assistance if there was anything I required during the night. I asked if he was aware that
the compartment next to mine was vacant and suggested that if he happened to be taking a rest in that
compartment during the night, he should feel free to knock.
Well he never did knock, but a little before midnight I was laying on my bed completely naked and
reading when the mirror slid silently aside ... and there he stood, legs akimbo, hands on hips in all his
glistening, black, stark-naked glory, wearing nothing but a huge smile. “Wow!” he said. No doubt, a
similar response was in my mind, but for the first time in my adult life, I was speechless.

I saw New York from underneath. The train pulled in way down in the bowels of the earth and - not having
made allowances for sight seeing - as I had visited the Big Apple recently on a trip that hadn’t warranted
mentioning - I decided to stay subterranean and relax. All I had to do was change platforms so as to catch a
scheduled connection south. An interesting thing about this stop was that as I was travelling 1st class at the
time, I was directed to the 1st class waiting room with all facilities available. An announcement over the PA
system advised that the next train to Washington was arriving. A wide doorway slid open, revealing the
train waiting directly outside … a walk out, walk in situation.
That train and I parted company at the magnificent, recently restored railway station at Washington
DC where Sue, my hostess for the next few days picked me up and took me to my accommodation in Falls
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Church, Virginia. This accommodation was adequate but definitely no class. Sue had booked me there
because it was within easy walking distance of her shop, Needlewoman East - just along the street a little -
where I spent a few days designing. The hospitality in Falls Church was superb ... breakfast each morning
with Sue and her sister Sally and their friends at a little restaurant they frequented, where they met daily
before work. Sue took me out to private homes for dinner and on the most interesting drives to show me
many of the historic areas of Washington.
One evening a party of about twenty of us went to see the movie ‘Air Force One’ ... the audience
reaction I found to be nothing short of hysterical ... I had never heard such screaming, shrieking and
cheering since the era of Gene Autry, Hopalong Cassidy and other Cowboys and Indians films at Saturday
matinees. I am sure that the Americans really believed Harrison Ford was the actual President of the
United States. I've never experienced such reaction from adults anywhere outside the Jerry Springer
show.

At Needlewoman East I met a middle-aged couple and their school-age son who was an ardent cross-
stitcher. On a subsequent visit the lad had grown into a teenager and had ridden his motorcycle over two
hundred miles to see me again, and his parents were there to visit me as well. I made some incredible
friends in Falls Church ... that's where I was introduced to the singing of the magnificent Barbara Cook, and
was also taken to a restaurant owned by the cousin of Pete Sampras ... my God they look alike!
Incredibubbly gorgeous, both of them!
I sat up for the short trip south to Richmond, Virginia. During one minor delay along the way I
had time to observe a colony of the most delightful and amusing little critters on the face of the earth -
prairie dogs - just a couple of metres outside my window. One would stand on hind legs, scanning the
horizons of his little world ... he was obviously acting lookout as he held one tiny paw up to shelter his eyes
from the glare of the sun, maintaining observations, while the others scampered in and out of view at great
speed and then, quite suddenly, another would take over the role of lookout, and the ex-lookout would join
in the scampering and capering. I was sorry when the train moved onwards again.

I was met at the station in Richmond, Virginia and driven to the shop in which I was to work and I couldn't
believe my eyes when we turned the final corner to see - outside the shop - a very large sign proclaiming:
GRAEME ROSS HERE TODAY. The shop was rather tiny, very busy, and it was there that I met a most
interesting Afro-American woman who had once interviewed me for her programme on television.
One evening she took me out to dinner and showed me where she had grown up in the days of
segregation. Some of her stories were shocking - but also all-too-terribly true - real Billy Holiday sort-of
stuff. We have remained friends and corresponded regularly ever since. Treeda had always wanted to visit
Australia and, early in the 2000's, it was all arranged that she would make the long awaited trip that was
being constantly and annually postponed. It is now 2006 and the visit is still on hold, as she has advised
that she will be visiting within the next four months … five months … six months. I hold my breath!
A customer - a regular old harridan - through my hostess Doris, invited me to her Country Club for
dinner one evening. This woman was from one of the families who had never found their way into the 21st
century. As Doris and I were being seated our hostess remarked, “Doris, my dear, you certainly have
scrubbed up well! I really thought you would have nothing suitable to wear”. Calling the waiter by name
she ordered three whiskies ... both Doris and I apologised that we didn't drink whisky, she said, "I am
paying for them ... you will drink them!" And so the evening went on until we could tolerate her arrogance
no longer. We excused ourselves and left ... leaving two untouched whiskies on the table.
Business trips to the U.S. of A. had become an annual affair. On one of my visits to Richmond -
one that included a Sunday - Doris had requested that I bring a suit, as I would be required to attend church.
Not only did I dutifully attend church - much against my better judgment - but I also had to conduct some
sort of Sunday School for an unruly mob of pre-schoolers who had no idea what I was talking about … not
only were they too young, but they couldn’t understand my accent either. Anyway, for the sake of
goodwill, I did my duty. It was awful!
All-in-all however, it was a pleasant stop. I stayed in the lovely home of my hostess, her husband
and son, in a forested residential area where scampering squirrels abounded. I stayed with them each year
for about three or four years. Doris told me that her father lived in a downstairs room and she never, ever,
went down to visit him - his only contact with the outside world was a carer who could access his room
from a rear door. The compassion shown to the father did not seem to be part of any form of Christianity I
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had never heard of - but this was Richmond, Virginia and I was a guest - I had to keep my mouth shut. In
recent years I have heard that both Doris and her husband have been confirmed as Ministers of the Baptist
Church.
Five or six of us drove down from Richmond to Charlotte in North Carolina to attend the massive craft
market - a show we would call it - annually for four or five consecutive years. This market was one of the
biggest of its kind in the world. Each year we made a point of stopping at a huge discount shopping mall en
route. On that first trip down I was so tired I dozed in the back seat most of the way, coming alive again as
we reached the outer suburbs of Charlotte.
It was from connections that I made in Charlotte that I was able to find distributors for my designs
in Canada, New Zealand, the Netherlands and the United Kingdom, in addition to other countries I was
already dealing with. I also met with many of the world's finest cross-stitch designers ... lovely, down-to-
earth uncomplicated people they were, too. I also met many hundreds of people who complained of
boredom. Due to folk such as those I coined the phrase: Bored people are usually extremely boring people
- and I would tell them so as I firmly believe it to be true!

Annually, on the last night of the show, it was customary for between twenty and thirty of us to go out to
dinner in Charlotte ... those huge American meals take a lot of getting through. It was there that I
discovered the gourmet delight of breaking bread and dipping it into small bowls of balsamic vinegar and
olive oil. I recall the evening when I was sitting opposite a young blonde woman who very quietly
confided that she had to go to the bathroom. I happened to mention that in Australia we called it a toilet
and, quick as a flash, in a rather loud voice she announced, “You Australians are so crude!” I wonder how
she would have coped had she been to some of the areas in which I had travelled. Never leave the USA,
darling!
On the Thursday evening of each year at these shows Elizabeth and I would get away on our own ...
each time to the same Chinese restaurant and to one of the largest shops I have ever seen under one roof
that specialised in sight and sound. I stocked up annually on CDs and Videos. Unfortunately that was
before the days of DVDs that are my current obsession. We usually dined first and then went shopping.
There was one year that we did our shopping early as the shop was closing at 9 p.m. and we then went to
the restaurant afterwards. We both carried huge sacks filled with our purchases, slung over our shoulders
like two swagmen. Actually we must have looked like brother and sister Father Christmases. The Chinese
restauranteur - restaurateur - felt so sorry for us being so burdened, that he drove us back to our hotel after
the meal.
My visits to Charlotte hold some of the most pleasant memories I have of the United States,
possibly because I had time get to know the city so well. We were often warned not to walk at night, yet I
found if a far more comfortable place to walk in than any city in Australia. It was in that city that I was
annually able to catch up with friends from so many countries around the world.

But this was my first visit and, after the show, I was driven in a private car to Lexington in South Carolina.
Shortly after crossing the border into that state I was shocked beyond belief to see a roadside sign
announcing that ‘KKK MEETS HERE’. In our wonderful isolation, we Australians are not familiar with
such things ... or was I naive in thinking that such racial hatred had died out? I found no indications of
intolerance in Lexington itself ... a dreamy little haven ... a great place to unwind and relax after the rush
and bustle of the world's largest needlecraft show. My hostesses were sisters Susan and Becky of ‘The
Needler’. Experiencing neither excitement nor anything out of the ordinary in Lexington, I really have little
memory of my visit.

All plans had been made months in advance for Lois to meet me at Jacksonville airport, but it was
becoming somewhat difficult to get there. This Jacksonville is way up near the northern border of
Florida ... a hop, step and jump from Georgia. I had phoned from Lexington confirming my arrival and,
somewhere between there and my destination, an announcement from the pilot explained that a severe
storm - a hurricane - was sweeping in from the Atlantic. The flight was diverted to somewhere in the
region of Macon where we were informed that all flights had been grounded. Just when I was beginning to
wonder about sleeping arrangements at the terminal for the night, an announcement came over the PA to
inform all passengers on the Jacksonville flight to re-board the aircraft immediately, as there appeared to be
a ‘window’ in the storm and they were going to attempt a landing as per schedule. I've done some very
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low-level flights in my day but this one deserved an entry in The Guinness Book of Records. From our
extremely low altitude I could see just how much water had been dumped in the area in recent hours ...
whole fields with houses surrounded by water … trees reaching upwards with naked limbs as if to save
themselves from drowning. After a rugged landing we touched down. Even scarier than the landing was
the drive in to Jacksonville, part of which crossed over the highest and longest bridge in the world - quite
possibly I exaggerate somewhat but it was long and it was high. I held onto the armrest like grim death as I
felt we would be blown into the waters of the St Johns River, so far below. Nothing quite so dramatic
happened and my hostess told me she was accustomed to driving in such conditions.
Looking back on all this I am amazed at what a dumb Aussie I have been. Now that I am familiar
with television, I am fully aware that these hurricanes - reverse cycle cyclones - sweep in regularly from the
Bermuda area.

During my time at Jacksonville’s ‘A Stitch in Time’ I had mentioned that the next part of the trip would be
by rail, but Lois assured me that trains did not pass through Jacksonville and she was most definite that they
had no railway station. After I showed her my train ticket she made enquiries, during which many others
confirmed her belief that there was no station, while others agreed with me that there was. Although the
distance to the station was a mere couple of miles, it took us close on an hour to find it as she kept getting
lost. We arrived at the station as the final boarding call was being made and I just made it onto the landing
platform as the train moved out. Once on board, the conductor checked my ticket which stated that I was
going to Gainesville some distance to the south … I might have been going to Gainesville, but he assured
me that the train wasn't ... in fact no trains went to Gainesville. I had to take a small jump seat close by the
door, as a whistle-stop would be made at Lake City sometime during the night to allow me to disembark.
From there I had to find a bus to Gainesville. This was the only foul-up I had during about eight years of
train travel in the USA.

On arrival in the University City of Gainesville I contacted Sally and she and her husband came to pick me
up from the bus depot. This home-stay was another of those unforgettable American adventures all in
itself. It all centered around their canine companion ... I hesitate to call it a dog or I could be up for
defamation ... the most spoiled, pampered pooch I ever encountered. On arrival at my new home I was
advised never to walk through a doorway ahead of the animal - whatever its name was - and to try not to
offend it in any way, as it would retire to its bed and ‘pout’ when upset. I really was on tenterhooks at all
times lest I cause the dog to have an emotional upset.
Every solitary piece of wall-space in every room that I accessed was completely filled with the
dismembered and stuffed heads of wildlife that had been taken as trophies on hunting expeditions. It
sickened me to the stomach that self-professed animal lovers could have such a morbid display in their
modest home.

My next stop was arranged for Fort Walton Beach but no plans for transport had been made due to the
Gainesville mix-up. I have never been able to work out how I was able to adhere to the planned railway
itinerary from Fort Walton Beach onwards, but whoa! ...I haven't got that far yet. It seems that Sally's
sister-in-law owned the shop where I would be working in Fort Walton Beach. I was put on a Greyhound
bus, together with a lot of low-life, and made a stop at Pensacola … we arrived at Fort Walton Beach in the
dead of night ... I was desperately tired, very hungry and exceedingly thirsty. We found a fast-food joint
where the latter two complaints were soon taken care of.
I was billeted out at the apartment of a staff member of ‘Stitchery House’ who lived in one of
several towers of apartments that had been built on the narrowest spit of sand ever ... not much wider than
the foundations of the buildings themselves. This small stretch of sand ran parallel to the coast, separated
from the mainland by a stretch of water twenty or thirty metres wide. I commented at the time that I would
hate to live there if ever there was a hurricane. The area was hit by a hurricane just a week or so before my
second visit in 2004 - and again during Katrina in 2005 - amazingly the apartments survived reasonably
unscathed.
When I next arrived the following year, the nearby coastline was much the worse for wear as a
hurricane had created massive damage, right along the coastal fringe of the Gulf of Mexico from
Tallahassee, right through to the eastern coast of Mexico. Accommodation was impossible to find due to
the enormous number of evacuees who had fled to the built-up areas. Sally and her husband shopped
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around until they found a friend who loaned them a motor home that they parked on a neighbouring vacant
block near their store and that was my home for the duration of the stay. I could have done with a taxi to
take me from the door of the luxury transporter back to my room near the rear of it. Talk about the long,
long trailer!
It fair breaks my heart to admit that I have forgotten the name of one customer who came to the
store and invited me to her home for dinner. She was young, vivacious and Australian and had been living
in the States for several years, since doing exceptionally well in the marriage stakes. I was about to enter a
life-style such as I had never before experienced, and spent the rest of the evening in a bewildered daze. It
was all repeated the following year when I returned.
Tammy was not her real name - but she did have the name of a famous singer - so we will leave her
as Tammy for the ease of reading. I met so many interesting people on these trips that my failing memory
just can’t cope with all the names. Late in the afternoon, Tammy called for me at the store where I was
working and I settled myself in the rear seat ... she asked what I would like to drink then dialled her
husband on her mobile and ordered a long cold beer for Graeme. We then drove to the home of a woman
who was obviously a member of the rich - but not necessarily famous - where we picked up a second
expatriate Australian woman of similar ilk, and her drink was ordered. This was repeated for a third
passenger, then we continued around the shore of Lake Choctawhatahee, coming to a stop in the driveway
outside the front door. With each pick-up, Tammy had phoned her husband and ordered the required
drinks.
Brad - not his real name - the husband, greeted us at the door with drinks laid out on a small table in
the hall, then all six of us moved into a huge, split-level lounge that held a fortune in very select sculpture
and art. It was more like a very exclusive gallery than a home. Walls, carpet and furniture were white,
which really showed the treasure off to full advantage. A table set for six was on the higher level, while the
lounge was on the lower level.
I guess I am lucky that I have had the opportunity to travel to such a great extent and, in doing so,
have met people from all walks of life. Anyone who knows me well knows that I am never stuck for
conversation.
Tammy excused herself as kitchen duties called ... I joined her as I felt we had so much to discuss
since she had mentioned names of various folk we had both known in Papua New Guinea; in fact, as it
transpired, our paths had crossed on a number of occasions, albeit briefly. When the kitchen was at a stage
where it could look after itself for a while, Brad announced that it would be pleasant if we took our drinks
down to the boathouse for a cruise on the lake in order to enjoy the sunset. And so, on this day near Fort
Walton Beach you can imagine my surprise when - as we walked down through the trees towards the
boathouse - I saw this rather large catamaran slowly descending from near the roof of the boathouse to the
water below without any visible help from man.
Now this was luxury ... we sailed around on the rather large lake, starting just before sunset. The
wide deck was fully carpeted - there was comfortable seating for all - and naturally, as one would expect,
the obligatory bar-fridge, sound system and all accessories. We cruised along the southern shore of the lake
while I marvelled at the size of the luxury homes with their landscaped gardens. We crossed to the north
shore and back towards the coast where a bridge was the only thing between us and the Gulf of Mexico. It
was sheer heaven!
Back at the house again, dinner was served ... none of the elaborate, artistic, inedible-looking
nonsense that I had come to expect from staying in 4-star hotels ... just damned good, home style cooking,
very nicely presented. It was close on midnight when I was returned to my accommodation and I sure did
not require any rocking to sleep.
I have been extremely fortunate in being able to cover the States from North to South, East to West
and - for most of the way - have been right around the perimeter of the country quite a few times, mostly by
train. I could quite easily fill a book on the U.S. itself but will abbreviate it to a few points that grabbed my
attention above and beyond all other.

In the course of business trips and designing I returned to New Orleans on two additional occasions, staying
with very good friends, Al and Doug - not in the French Quarter as on my first visit - they considered it to
be unsafe. They could scarcely believe that I had spent time with Chicken Man - a local icon. One day they
drove me over the twenty-plus-mile-long causeway across Lake Ponchartrain to Covington on the northern
side. I felt somewhat uneasy being so completely surrounded by water and having the road ahead
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disappearing into infinity.

There was one day when I took a little time off and walked to the Audubon Zoo - a day when the
temperature touched the century Fahrenheit - and it was there that I enjoyed my first-ever Cajun meal and
had a good talk to a couple of koalas that told me they were furious at being referred to as koala bears; they
reminded me quite emphatically: We are koalas… we are not bears!
I was unable to catch up with Chicken Man on this or later visits and shortly afterwards received a
newspaper cutting from Doug and Al, telling me of his untimely death.

Amongst other interesting aspects was passing through Baton Rouge en route to San Antonio - a place I had
wanted to see ever since seeing the film South of the Border, with Gene Autry (1939). Bobbie - my hostess
of the time - booked me into the old-world luxury of the 314-room Menger Hotel that had been established
in 1859. I learned that I was occupying the very same suite that Oscar Wilde and Sarah Bernhardt had slept
in, in years past. The ground floor of the Menger is a virtual museum, with huge glass showcases, not
unlike those found in fashion houses of the era. The hotel is situated right across the street from the Alamo
- not Across the Alley from the Alamo, where a pinto pony and a Navaho were reputed - as it was in song -
to have once lived. In Western movies The Alamo is way, way out in the wild countryside but a fascinating
city seems to have grown up around it since then.
Without doubt, the greatest feature of San Antonio - a city that can trace its roots back as far as
1536 - is the famed River Walk that is a little touch of Venice, complete with gondolas and gondoliers,
deep in the heart of Texas. At night the walk is thronged with folk who come out to wander along the tree-
lined banks of the river that is festooned with coloured lights. All along the walk are restaurants offering
delights from almost every country of the world and they - together with the gondoliers - fill the air with
subdued, romantic music. One day whilst doing my thing at The Yarn Barn where I was working, I
happened to mention my nocturnal wanderings … it brought a horrified response that the area was most
unsavory and definitely unsafe at night. I thought it was fabulous! One lovely little heart-warming
happening was when an adoring fan presented me with a basket filled with the very beautiful, tiny, yellow
rose of Texas … she hoped I would not be insulted by being given flowers. Me insulted? My dear, I love
flowers!
On a later trip Bobby drove me to Austin - the capital of Texas -
to attend a Trade Show and, as usual, autograph my designs. After the
show Bobbie returned to San Antonio and I took a train across to El Paso -
an interesting little place. Fortunately I didn’t feel like a - cowboy as
there wasn’t one in sight. I did see, in the distance, the actual pass that
one must travel before crossing the Rio Grande in order to enter Mexico.
On this, my first visit to El Paso, a male customer - and apparent
fan of mine who rode a motorcycle and was heavily adorned with tattoos -
gave me a beautiful photograph of a wolf. He was not at all what I
expected a cross-stitcher to look like … sort of a cross between the Harley
guy in Melbourne and Willy Nelson. I created a design from that
photograph and sent a print to Nancy at The Counted Thread to give to the
photographer as a sign of my appreciation. This had a very sad and
sentimental aftermath, as just a day or so before the chart arrived, my
tattooed friend was killed in a motorcycle accident … he never did see the
result or realise what it had meant to me. Before my second visit the staff
and customers of the store had stitched my design of ‘The Wolf’ and left
the final stitch for me to do when I next visited … this was that visit! I
guess that piece is still hanging in the store as a memorial to a most My cross-stitch design of the Wolf
interesting individual who had given me the original photograph. I hope so!

The train left Texas just a few miles west of El Paso and then we were into the vast wastelands of Arizona.
Next stop Tucson - pronounced Tooson. I was heading towards a particularly interesting needlecraft store
by the seemingly simple name of ‘The West’. The years have dimmed my knowledge as I can no longer
remember what the WEST represented … I do know, however, that the W was for Womens’ and the store
was a charity business with entirely volunteer staff. Proceeds from all sales went to some form of
institution to help either unmarried or destitute women. I may be wrong - and I have tried phoning on
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several occasions to clarify the mystery - but have been unable to make a connection. ‘The West’ does not
seem to be listed in the USA yellow pages or on the Internet.
On my first visit - and subsequent visits - I stayed privately with an elderly couple by name of
Helen and Vincent Crawford at Oro Valley - a very up-market, gated, residential community in the desert
very near Tucson. I found it all very interesting inasmuch as their gardens were barren red earth with little
more than cacti growing … not unlike Central Australia. At the back of the house they had a swimming
pool enclosed within a wall some eight-or-so-feet high. It was not uncommon to awaken in the morning
to see a mountain lion resting atop the wall. Whether it came for the water, or had eyes on their pussycat,
we never did work out.
Helen was a very dedicated stitcher while Vincent, a definite intellectual with much travel behind
him, was in very poor health. He was more content to while away his days surrounded by his extensive
library. Within a year of returning home from my first visit to Tucson I received a phone call from Helen
to tell that Vincent had passed away. On a subsequent visit I stayed with a very lonely elderly lady who
missed her husband very much.

I had phoned the owners of the shop in Phoenix - where I was due to spend a few days demonstrating my
designing technique and doing the usual job of autographing charts - giving them the ETA of my train as
they were to meet me on arrival. Some distance short of Phoenix, the train steadied, then ground to a
dead stop. To this day I do not know if we were in the outskirts of Phoenix or not but there were a few
shops, a service station and a hotel to the west of the tracks. It was not a built-up area by any means. After
a few hours an announcement came over the PA system to advise that there would be a ‘slight delay’ due
to a gas leak ahead, and they requested that no one leave the train ... so there we sat. It was awfully hot!
The hours passed by ever-so-slowly and a few hardy souls, who I took to be locals, disregarded the
Amtrak request to stay on board and took off towards the hotel and a take-away food place a short
distance away. Not being quite that game, I sat on the tracks adjoining those on which our train sat. I was
starving! I remember a reasonably old Afro-American gentleman squatting on the track a little to my right
… he was eating. I gave the thumbs-up sign for good! And with that he came to my side and offered me a
sandwich, after which he went on his way and re-boarded the train. How nice to find there was no
discrimination when hunger prevails. When we eventually reached Phoenix there was not a soul to meet
me, but after all, we were eighteen hours late … such had been the length of our delay.
Eventually, Gail and her husband - from Old Town Needlework of Scottsdale - learned of the
train’s arrival and collected a very weary me from the station, delivering me to a wonderfully comfortable
hotel within easy walking distance of their shop. In my mind I have Scottsdale more or less as a suburb of
Phoenix … possibly it was a city in its own right and the two had grown to become close acquaintances.
My mind by this time had become one giant blur as for quite a few years I had been travelling almost
constantly, running my business back in Cairns, which had grown from a beer carton of stock to a
magnificent shop on the boardwalk of the Radisson Hotel complex. It had grown to become not only a
very busy retail outlet, but a wholesale and export business as well, with worldwide mail order. When
away I had to be in almost daily contact with Eddy and staff who, as usual, looked after matters for me in
my absence. Right now, I was desperately tired! My hosts suggested I spend the day resting. I didn’t
argue!
Life seemed to be little more that ‘planes, trains, taxis and hotel rooms. There were times when I
didn’t know where I was. One weekend, for instance, I closed up shop on a Friday afternoon, drove to
Cairns International Airport where I boarded a flight to Los Angeles - worked two days at a Trade Show
in Anaheim - took a taxi back to LA International, and was back behind the counter of the shop again on
Tuesday morning. There was no time to develop jet lag, as I never did have a chance to adjust to the
different zones. Maybe this explains why for the past eighteen-or-so years I have never used an alarm
clock and can be awake at any time necessary and, maybe again, it could be that I scarcely sleep as I am
constantly looking at the clock. My inner clock is still working as in the old days when I would follow the
work until tired, sleep for one and a half hours, work ‘til tired routine. I was also finding difficulty when
travelling, having to keep up with an ever-increasing supply of medications.
Now here I found myself in a lovely room in Phoenix or Scottsdale or wherever and I was able to
enjoy a damned good sleep for a change.

It was stinking hot in the Arizona desert but in the city they have an ingenious system of extremely fine
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sprays of mist on the sidewalks to introduce a little humidity into the air. In amongst the strange haze of
my brain I recall some excellent dinners out and a wonderful drive north to a place where Lucille Ball and
Dezi Arnaz once lived. All houses and other buildings were of a sort of terracotta adobe that blended in
with the surrounding desert. We also took in Montezuma’s Castle, which was a collection of small caves
dug into a cliff-face with mud brick walls high overhead, where Indians of old tended gardens by the
riverside. As a point of interest, Montezuma never lived there, and there is no record of him ever visiting
the area either.
Quite out of the blue, on arrival at Los Angeles I boarded another train and headed off to Las
Vegas, Salt Lake City and eventually Denver, where I spent a few nights with my ex- boss Jack Reid - the
ex manager of the Papua New Guinea Electricity Commission where I had worked - and his wife, Peg. It
was Jack’s son I had tried to contact when passing through Portland, Oregon. One evening Jack and Peg
took me to dinner at a very exclusive restaurant in a converted fort in the foothills of The Rockies. They
ordered - as they wanted me to try a local delicacy - prairie oysters. I was a little suspect when a plate was
set before me, on which was a large ovate, meaty object that resembled something I preferred not to think
about. I sliced off a portion, put it in my mouth and tentatively tested it for texture and taste, chewing
gently in order to not get too much flavour all at once, when the waiter came along and asked: “Are you
enjoying it, Sir?” Then he added: “They normally come in pairs!” That was all I needed to know to
confirm my suspicion … the penny dropped! I gagged, and had to spit it all out onto the plate … I thought
so, it was a bull’s testicle! They normally come in pairs, said he. I had actually been chewing on a bull’s
ball! I never allowed them to order for me again. That was enough to put a nasty taste in anyone’s mouth.
It was Jack who, when he was Manager at Elcom, was constantly suggesting I leave the
Commission as he felt I would do far better in the field of art. However I just didn’t have the courage to
take the plunge. I really didn’t think I had the talent. Now I was able to fill him in on what had happened
to my life since leaving Papua New Guinea.
On another occasion I took a train from Vancouver all the way across to Montreal. From there I
made my way across to the state of New York. It was there that I met up with Kathy, of ‘Homespun Heart’
in Schenectady, where I spent a few days doing a stint in her needlework shop. Without knowing anything
of my childhood dreams, Kathy and her husband had taken me on a drive to a most interesting Museum in
really beautiful Last of the Mohicans type country … you wouldn’t believe it … the place they took me to
was a museum, a complete history of my childhood idol Norman Rockwell, of Saturday Evening Post fame.
How on earth we had received that magazine regularly at the old farm in Victoria, I will never know, but I
grew up with a love of the wonderful art of that gentleman genius. The museum held so many of his
original works of art, some of which I remembered from when I was so very young.

On one of these trips to the United States - after having great difficulty getting return reservations in a hurry
- I did a stint in a needlecraft store in San Diego where I stayed the few nights with Merryl, a distant
relative of mine, whose husband worked at the wonderful San Diego Zoo. Oh man, is that place worth a
look-see? It is a truly spectacular zoo!
On my final day, Merryl drove me to the shop where I was to do a day’s work and we said our
goodbyes as I had to leave for Australia that afternoon.. I was standing outside the shop, taking a break just
a few hours before I had to depart for the airport when I suddenly felt unwell. Debbie, the storeowner, must
have noticed something strange about me and came out and asked me to go indoors and sit down. The next
thing I knew was when a team of white-clad paramedics swarmed in, wired me up and then told me that I
would have to go to hospital, I thought of all the trouble I had gone to in getting the reservations for the
flight and said that I couldn’t possibly go to hospital. They argued - so did I - eventually I had to sign a
waiver, releasing them of any responsibility if I had further problems.
Lynly in typical Debbie
“I’m a Kiwi” pose atdrove me
my 55th to the airport
birthday,
where I caught a flight in a small six-seater ‘plane to LA, then a connecting flight to Australia. I felt
Trinity Beach
particularly unwell all the way home.
On arrival back in Oz, I phoned my doctor from Cairns airport and explained what had happened -
he told me to go home, pack a small bag and he would then meet me at the Cairns Base Hospital. I drove to
the hospital, had myself admitted and was connected to a heart monitor in Intensive Care before the doctor
arrived. I really didn’t need to ask what was wrong with me and I didn’t want to know, either.

The next big event was to upgrade my living style by buying - together with a friend, Olive - a truly
beautiful three-bedroom house in North Cairns. Olive was the estranged wife of Lynly’s cousin Peter. All
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through the breaking-up period of their marriage she would come to me every Friday afternoon to sit and
discuss her problems, claiming that I was the most positive-thinking person she had ever known. She said
she admired my tenacity as once my mind was made up, I would never change it without having a very
good reason to do so. I had always felt that whatever decision I made in life, it was the correct one. Very
seldom have I looked back with regret. I knew that I had no one or nothing to blame for my errors. I was
solely responsible for my own decisions and actions.
It was a pity to move from the lovely Trinity Beach but I needed to be nearer my shop and this
would cut the driving down by about forty kilometres daily. By this time my charts were selling extremely
well world-wide, and I was getting very close to having one hundred designs on the market, so I could no
longer claim to be destitute. I felt I deserved it as nothing had been given to me, I had worked hard for
everything I got by using my own ingenuity and talent.
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TRAVELS WITH LYNLY 1992

My doctor discovered that I had hardening of the prostate gland and
recommended a biopsy. “No way, Jose!” said I, “I’m about to go
overseas and I’m not letting anything interfere with travel.” I agreed
to have something done about the matter after returning from a
business trip to the United States, as Lynly had returned to Australia,
bringing her dog Deefa with her, and I was taking her along for the
ride. I was to demonstrate at trade shows in both the United States
and United Kingdom and decided to take her on a round-the-world
trip that would include both venues and, at the same time, thank her
for over forty years of friendship as she was the first openly gay-
friendly woman I had ever known. Lynly was, and still is, a very Lynly in typical “I’m a Kiwi” pose
independent person and was reluctant to accept anything that even
suggested charity. We eventually came to an agreement whereby I would be responsible for all fares and
accommodation, while she was responsible for her own personal expenses, including food and drinks. As it
turned out, it was indeed fortunate that I had made that last item clear. And, she told me, she had a very
pleasant surprise awaiting me in Scotland.
For as long as I had l known Lynly, I was aware that she had a severe drinking problem that she
had hidden when we travelled in New Zealand. At the same time, she had such an effervescent personality
that I was inclined to overlook her most unfortunate habit. Excessive drinking can be overlooked when
contact is limited to purely social occasions, but I found living together and sharing lives twenty-four hours
a day is another matter altogether. I was aware of one occasion during our years of friendship when she had
disappeared while we were out socially and I had to send a third person to look for her in case she was ill.
She was found asleep on the floor in the restaurant toilet. On another occasion - New Year’s Eve at the
Trinity Beach Hotel - she went outdoors thirty minutes before midnight … I found her asleep on the steps
of the bottle shop. When I disturbed her to take her home she became particularly loud and abusive.
Instances such as these I chose to forgive as I realized that it was an unfortunate disease she was suffering
from. Still, I wanted to thank her for the years of friendship. I should have given the matter more serious
consideration as the trip was nothing short of a complete disaster! Looking back on the period, I find that
my mind has chosen to forget the few pleasant episodes, and it’s the unfortunate incidents that have stayed
with me.
Our first night in the United States was spent at the Disneyland Hotel. I had gone to bed early and
was awakened by a great kerfuffle in the room. We were both heavy smokers at the time and the rubbish
bin happened to catch fire while I was asleep - Lynly had emptied the ashtray into it before retiring. It was
my fault! She screamed at me for smoking so much and not butting my cigarette out properly, completely
ignoring the fact that I had gone to bed a long time before she had. No matter what I said, it was my fault,
not hers.
We spent four nights in Anaheim and Hollywood, revisiting many of the places I had previously
seen, we then flew to New York. She showed interest in nothing other than 5th Avenue and Broadway.
Then there was a quick trip down to Charlotte where I was to make an appearance on the booth where my
US distributor, Elizabeth, had many of my designs on display and I was to talk with customers and
autograph my charts as they sold. Sad to say, Lynly fell foul of everyone - exhibitors and customers alike -
by telling all and sundry that my designs were full of mistakes and she wouldn’t recommend them to
anyone. “Get her off this stand”, Elizabeth said. “She’s going to ruin your business and reputation!” It
seemed that jealousy was taking hold as whenever I was introduced as ‘Graeme Ross, the Australian
designer’, she would push in and say, “And I’m Lynly Matheson from New Zealand!” She would then
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carry on with absolute diatribe about her recently deceased dog and how much she missed him.
We flew from the east coast of the states direct to Paris - such a beautiful city that I wanted her to
see. She was interested in seeing only through the lens of the camera, going ‘click’ at each interesting
landmark … the Paris Opera House, the Louvre, the Arc de Triumph, Eiffel Tower, Notre-Dame, Sacre
Coeur, Moulin Rouge and even at the incredible baroque Palaise de Versailles where we were able to
wander at leisure in the footsteps of Louis XIV and Marie Antoinette. Paris was being reduced to nothing
more than a photo album. Click, and it was over … let’s have a beer!
Her attitude towards the French was sheer embarrassing ignorance. She would sit, wreathed in a
cloud of smoke, waving her cigarette in the air and slurring: “Friggin’ French! Whadya think of the
Rainbow Warrior, eh? Friggin’ French … ya sunk the Rainbow Warrior! I come from New Zealand and I
hate the friggin’ French! I hoped against hope that nobody would understand her slurred words and beery
Kiwi accent, and I felt sure that no ordinary citizen would know anything of the time when a French
national had bombed the Rainbow Warrior - a Greenpeace vessel - in Auckland Harbour in 1985.
I was completely unaware of the anti-French feeling that persisted in New Zealand until - on July
10, 2005, the twentieth anniversary - the media revived the event and prevailing hostilities.

We took the hydrofoil across the Channel to Dover. Elizabeth - who had introduced my designs into the
United States - had recommended that I contact Betty, a distributor in the U.K., who had a business known
as ‘Needlepoise’ in West Yorkshire. Betty wanted me to go to the UK to demonstrate on her stand at a
Craft Fair in Birmingham. Nearby was Dudley where my maternal grandmother’s parents had come from.
Travelling by rail, we retraced much of my previous travels as Lynly had never been to the UK
before and, like myself, she had Scottish ancestry. There was a tree that she just had to visit a little inland
of Kyle of Lochalsh that had some connection with her ancestors … she had taken notice of the site from
the train as we neared Kyle and took a taxi back that afternoon to make a pilgrimage while I rested and
relished my solitude.
At this time, a small coastal vessel - similar to the one on which I had travelled up from Mallaig
previously - took us southwards to Mallaig once again. We over-nighted in the very same small hotel in
which I had once spent a very stormy night a few years previously - not stormy for me - but decidedly so
outdoors. The next morning we took an inter-island vessel out to the Isle of Rum - one of a small group of
islands just to the south of the Isle of Skye - with the most unlikely names of Rum, Eigg and Muck.
Lynly’s surprise was that she had made reservations for the two of us - her shout - at the legendary Kinloch
Castle.
A family by name of Bullough, who had made their money through engineering, bought the island
in the latter half of the 19th century and built the luxurious castle with its ballroom, elaborate Great Hall and
- for that period - he most unique and complicated showers. It proved to be a wonderfully secluded venue
for private parties with a glittering guest list. It seems that the family must have tired of the island … after
one visit they locked the doors and left, never to return.
In 1957, the island had been bought by the Scottish Natural Heritage council who now controlled
all operations on the island, including the running of the castle, that had a full compliment of live-in staff
including an imported Continental chef.
At the time of our visit the Castle remained just as it had been left. A roaring fire was kept burning
in the library - the only room in the Castle where smoking was permitted. Guests dined in the magnificent
dining hall, with a superb table set to seat twenty guests. All silver and crystal was the genuine article as
left behind by the departing family. The beds were unbelievably luxurious 4-posters, and showers above
the massive baths could be adjusted for fast flow, slow flow, spasmodic flow that stuttered with jets of
water, or the stream could be made to play from different directions.
Lynly’s family, the Mathesons had some historic connection with Rum and she was aware of a site
on the other side of the island where they had once lived. She was determined to go visit and I was equally
determined to stay dry and in shelter at the Castle. It was cold, wet and windy when she set off alone and I
felt no regret at letting her go. Off she went into the unknown, swathed from head to foot in billowing
plastic. I reasoned she was old enough to look after herself.
All went well until a storm hit and all boats to the island were cancelled. The sea became an ugly,
menacing, churning mess and there was no way to leave.
Management of the island were assured that no one could do a ‘flit’ and not pay, as everything
including lodging and meals had to be paid for in advance and any extras had to be paid in cash. Credit
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cards were not accepted and, eventually, due to the inclement weather, we were heading for disaster. One
young guest - when his money ran out - was fortunate in being able to find a tent in which he slept nearby.
Just as I was beginning to think that Lynly and I would soon be doing the same, the storm cleared and we
were able to return to the mainland.

I was desperate for time as I had to be on duty at the craft show in Birmingham in a day or two. On arrival
at Mallaig I learned that we had just missed the train. Fortunately two of the other guests had left their car
at Mallaig and offered us a lift to Fort William where we managed to catch the next train out. Then came
the long haul southwards to Birmingham but, as luck would have it, heavy rain and blustering winds set in
not far north of the city. I said to Lynly, “I don’t care what happens, but I’m not getting off this train in this
sort of weather”. We stayed on, thinking it would clear and we would be able to stay at another town or
village along the way and return to Birmingham the following morning. I was determined not to leave the
comfort of the train for the bleak, wet and windy conditions outside. The weather did not improve and we
stayed on until reaching the end of the line at Penzance, very late at night.
Penzance, in the darkness of a miserable night, is scary! Narrow, poorly lit streets and buildings
that seemed to be straight out of Pirates of Penzance. The streets were glistening wet from the rains, giving
the place an even more sinister atmosphere. We took the first accommodation we could find - a small
tavern near the station - anything would have sufficed on a night such as that … two tiny rooms on an upper
floor. The licensee advised us to be at the station early in the morning as there was only one train daily, and
it was imperative that I be on duty the following day in Birmingham. We enjoyed a wonderful dinner and
retired to our rooms shortly afterwards. I would not have been at all surprised had there been a notice in the
room advising that Jack The Ripper had slept there.

Once in Birmingham I understood perfectly well why 25% of my ancestry had up-rooted themselves and
departed for the Great South Land. Samuel Dovaston, my Great Grandfather was born in Shrewsbury -
near Birmingham - on August 10, 1834. On October 25, 1858 he married Mary Ann Sheasby of Napton
and - on August 18, 1863 - the pair sailed from Liverpool aboard the ‘Landsborough’. In the meantime,
their first child had died in England and their second child, a girl, died aboard ship en route to Australia.
They initially settled in Melbourne, Victoria. Only five of their nine children survived to reach adulthood.
Their second daughter Lucy Ellen was born at Creswick and was to later become my wonderful, beautiful,
much-adored grandmother.
No doubt they settled in easily at Creswick because the climate was almost identical with
Birmingham - maybe Creswick wasn’t quite as bad, and living conditions would have been decidedly
better. As a lad, Great-Grandfather Samuel Dovaston, had worked in the coalmines - that had put him in
good stead for the mines in the Ballarat/Creswick area. Due to an accident with a sledgehammer, his left
leg was stiff and he walked with the aid of a walking stick. His motto was ‘To leave the world a better
place than I found it’. I would like to think some of his philosophy had been passed on to me.

Here I was, in the latter part of the 20th Century, on their home soil. Betty had reservations for the two of us
at an excellent hotel quite near the hall where the show was being held.
On our second night in town, she put on a special welcome dinner for twenty-or-so guests, with me
as guest of honour. After introductions and interruptions from Lynly, Betty gave me an envelope with an
Australian postage stamp affixed. I recognized the handwriting as being that of Eddy - who was currently
looking after my shop. I excused myself from the table, saying that it was a letter from home and I would
like a few minutes to myself to read it in private. On returning to the table I casually mentioned that my
one-and-only brother, John, had died and been buried the previous week. “Don’t be such a bloody
hypocrite”, Lynly snapped in front of all the guests, “You never did like him! Then, as I left the room, the
awful realisation struck me … I was the sole survivor of the family. The last man standing, as it were.

That night in bed, my mind raced wildly through what I knew of John’s life in recent years. While I
was living in Papua New Guinea, John and Beverley had sold the family property known as
‘Avondale’ and moved into very down-market accommodation at what had, during my childhood,
been the RAAF - Royal Australian Air Force - Camp. I heard that they bought a caravan and
headed to the warmer climate of Queensland, settling for a time at Noosa.
Word from Mum told that they had divorced. Beverley and the children had settled on the
Gold Coast while John seemed to gravitate around the Ballarat area. Some time in the early
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1970’s, John had driven north to the school where the children were enrolled and had somehow
coaxed them into his vehicle, telling them that he would drive them home to their mother’s place.
Instead of doing so, however, he headed directly down across the Queensland/New South Wales
border. The Coolangatta police advised Beverley not to follow him and the children to Ballarat, as
that was what they thought he wanted - they knew he had guns - and it would have been
dangerous for her to follow. They felt that he would soon return the children when he realised his
ploy didn’t work. Beve was in a shocking predicament as it was hard not to follow, but the
Detectives had made the right decision. They made it to Ballarat, where the four of them settled
into Mum’s tiny cottage. She, at the time, was on a pension and was the sole breadwinner for them
all.
I was told that Mum had suffered another mental breakdown and was receiving psychiatric
help brought on by the strain of looking after a son and three young grandchildren. In the
meantime, John had driven the children back to the Gold Coast, where he dumped them in the
beer garden of the Coolangatta Hotel, where Beve worked in the office. Their oldest child, Craig,
had phoned his mother to tell that his father had left them in the beer garden of the Coolangatta
Hotel where Beverley could find them.
I flew to Melbourne where I stayed with uncle Bob and Aunty Ivy and they drove me to
Ballarat to see Mum and search for John, eventually finding him living as a derelict in an earthen-
floored little house on the southern outskirts of Ballarat. It was heartbreaking to see him living in
such conditions after the good life he and Beverley had known on the farm where they didn’t
exactly have everything money could buy, but they had been reasonably comfortable. After the
children had started school, Beve worked at two office jobs in Ballarat to help cover school
expenses. She played golf, always bought the very best quality clothes for John, while she, a
dressmaker, was a fashion statement to be admired. Now he was nothing more than a dirty,
scruffy, bitter drunk. He hated the world. Like father, like son!
John had lost his wife and children and, when next we met, he was living in a de-facto
relationship with another woman and, the next time I visited, he was married to another woman,
again. Jean had children of her own, one of whom was deaf and mute. As it was only a week or
so before Christmas I bought the biggest, most expensive tool set I could find, far more expensive
than I could really afford, to put under the tree in the front room. As usual, John wanted cigarettes,
I gave all I had on me. As I was about to leave he asked for money … I told him that I couldn’t
afford to give any. His parting words were, “You’ve always been a mean bastard!”
Our next contact had been at the wedding of his eldest son, Craig, after which I had, all-
expenses-paid, taken him to Papua New Guinea. That has already been covered in the chapter:
‘Life After Mother’.
The last time I saw John was after I had contacted him to advise that I would be visiting
Ballarat and calling on him. I knew that he had recently had an orchidectomy - castration - and was
living in a caravan in the front garden of yet another woman. Apparently she had been looking after
him in more ways than one … he was dressed neatly and - on a coffee table - he had a shoebox of
old photographs he wanted me to look through; I was to take any and all that I wanted as he did not
recognise any of the subjects. I knew practically everybody and added them to my collection. For
the first time in our lives we parted without any words of anger.

As I was about to leave for England I told John I was going overseas and had no known forwarding
address - this was intended to mislead him into thinking that I was leaving permanently - as I
did not wish to have any further contact. The next I heard of him was on receipt of Eddy’s letter.
Dead at age sixty-five! Dad had committed suicide at age sixty-four. Mum died as the result of
being pack-raped aged sixty-nine. And here was I - who was supposed to have died years ago,
still battling along quite happily due to my pills - aged fifty-nine.

Regarding the pills, I was finding it extremely difficult managing my medication … and I was not supposed
to tell anyone of my condition. Of course Lynly knew … she had been one of the first that I had confided
in; in fact she had flown across from New Zealand the moment she had heard the news of my infection.
One particular pill had to be taken every twelve hours. No food could be taken within one hour before the
bulk of the medication and no food to be consumed within two hours after taking it. Hotels and restaurants
just didn’t cater for such eccentricity in dining habits and pill-taking … they had their schedule and I had to
adjust my life and dining habits if I wished to keep the HIV under control. Believe me, it was not easy!

The morning following the dinner we awoke to find a lovely autumn morning. The show had been a
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tremendous success and I had been asked to spend a few days designing, stitching and signing at Voirrey’s
Embroidery. What a delightful woman Voirrey was! She had all the poise and personality of Penelope
Keith and then some. She was blonde - she was beautiful - and she had the most gorgeous Isle of Man
accent. She asked if I could spend a few days demonstrating at her store.
Time was of no consequence and so we decided to see a little more history whilst we were still in
the Birmingham area. We hired a car and set off to find the famed cottage of William Shakespeare at
Stratford-upon-Avon. (I have heard of him being known as Wobbleweapon.) Never in my wildest dreams
had I imagined that the quaint old city would have been such a Mecca for tourists. We found parking to be
nigh impossible and, shortly before reaching the cottage, I pulled into a side street and an apparently vacant
block that had a large sign with lettering about 6” high saying PARKING … I swung left into the car park,
marvelling at how lucky we had been … there were only two other cars in the lot … one of those best kept
secrets that pervade everything in life these days. We walked to the cottage but, having had such difficulty
in parking, I had lost all interest in going further back in history. A quick look from outside sufficed - a
click of the shutter for Lynly - and we headed back to the parking spot where we discovered clamps on the
front wheels. Actually we did not know what they were as neither of us had ever heard of clamps on cars.
With no signage as to what to do, Lynly stayed with the car while I went seeking information. I learned
that one had to pay a fine at the Council office some distance away and that could be reached only by foot
or taxi. My protestations that we had not seen any sign other than the large PARKING fell on deaf ears, but
I was able to convince an officer to return to the car with me to see for himself. Once there, he indicated
the large lettering, then underneath the word PARKING - no more that an inch high - was: FORBIDDEN. The
clamps would be removed if we paid some ridiculous amount … something in the vicinity of £80. No
amount of arguing on my part helped and - although our cash flow was getting uncomfortably low - I had
to pay or leave the car where it was. I paid! I was furious … not often I lose my cool but I was decidedly
shitty this time. Getting behind the wheel once again, I yelled to the world what the Councilors of Stratford
could do to themselves, Ann Hathaway, too, as well as her cottage, even though we hadn’t even seen it. In
a fury we headed north to the wonderful city of York.
I allowed Lynly the honour of booking us in at a B & B in York - completely ignoring the fact that
I was addressed as Mr Matheson.

York is recommended as a place of interest for everyone, mainly for the extraordinary excavations that have
been carried out on an ancient city buried right beneath the new. Once underground, one boards a small
‘train’ of Disneyland proportions, that carries passengers back through the centuries of this age old city,
together with sounds and aromas to suit the localities.
A visit to the magnificent Cathedral known as York Minster - which is the largest Gothic Cathedral
in Northern Europe - was well worth a visit … here I go again, visiting churches! Curse my fascination
with architecture, a subject I had studied at Arts School in Ballarat. A small wooden chapel had been built
on the site of the Cathedral in 627AD for the baptism of Edwin, king of Northumbria. In the year 1220 a
250-year programme began to rebuild the Minster around its Norman predecessor.
Almost as interesting - and only a few minutes walk from the Minster - is the oldest cobbled street
in York - ‘The Shambles.’ In earlier times the street was known as Flesshammel due to its association with
flesh, as it was the street of butchers. I would recommend anyone interested in the gory story of England to
search out further information on Margaret Clitherow who lived in The Shambles, but as this is my story
and not hers, I will leave it to the desperate to find out the rest of the terrible tale for themselves.

Leaving York we headed westwards as I had a morbid interest in visiting the area in which Peter Sutcliffe,
Huddersfield’s infamous Yorkshire Ripper - whose murderous reign of terror had begun only nineteen
years before our visit - had lived. Now, having seen Huddersfield, I can understand to a degree what
could have tipped his mind towards insanity. What we saw from the car was the grayest, drabbest, most
depressing place ever. We both agreed not to even stop the car … I drove straight on through town and
over the rolling hills to Holmfirth.
As television had only recently entered my life, I had neither seen nor even heard of ‘The Last of
the Summer Wine’ that had been filmed in the area . You’ve heard of ‘picture card perfect’ – that’s what
we discovered Holmfirth to be.
Westwards we headed towards Chester. Now that is a fascinating city if ever I have seen one. The
entire city centre was a collection of magnificent heritage architecture, a centerpiece of which is a
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wonderful old wrought iron archway, topped by a huge clock that bore the inscription ‘This clock was
presented to the City by Edward Evans Lloyd, Citizen and Freeman 1897’.
Unfortunately we stayed only one night in Chester as Betty of Holmfirth had asked us to call on a friend of
hers in Wales and we just had to spend a few days at Voirrey’s before heading south to visit Jane, an ex-
Port Moresby hairdresser friend who now lived in Brixham on the English Channel coast. Raymond and I
had visited Jane a few years earlier.
Still in our hire car, we set our course for Voirrey’s Embroidery, which we found in the magnificent
rural Wirral area at Brimstage, an area just south of the River Mersey. In hindsight I certainly wish I had
known more of the area prior to our visit as Brimstage is rather close to Liverpool, from where all four
sides of my ancestry had sailed for Australia more than 100 years earlier.

I want the world to know of Voirrey and her husband Tony, and the incredible needlecraft shop they
opened in 1983. This shop is unique in that it was initially opened in the 12th Century crypt of an old
Manor House known as Brimstage Hall. Not long prior to our arrival Voirrey had moved the business into
some abandoned farm buildings surrounding the courtyard of the Hall … she had one wing, while the other
two wings were occupied by other crafty little shops. The neighbouring business was a small teahouse
with its own resident ghost. Never have I seen anything quite like it in all my years of travel … a
needlecraft shop in what had once been the stables of the old manor house, surrounded by miles of fields
and farmland. Walls of chunky bluestone and massive beams supported the ceilings.
Voirrey and Tony took us both to dinner that evening in a very exclusive restaurant known as ‘The
Grange’ in nearby Thornton-Hough. We stayed at a most peaceful coastal village - possibly Wallasey - not
far from Birkenhead, from where we had an unbroken view out across the Irish Sea. It was so exhilarating
having a few days in such a delightful rural area.
An amusing little happening occurred at Brimstage … I was sitting right inside the large plate-glass
window of the shop, stitching and taking advantage of the daylight that flooded in through the window,
when a woman with a decidedly Australian accent approached me and said, “I hope you don’t mind me
asking, but are you from Australia?” “Yes!” I replied. “From Cairns?” “Yes!” “Oh!’ she said, “I
thought I was going crazy because you look just like a man who has a cross-stitch shop in Cairns and I only
spoke to him a few weeks back!” I jokingly told her that that wasn’t me … that was the other one.

However, all good things must come to an end, and we still had a long way to go. Retracing our tracks a
little, we headed down along the southern coast of the Wirrell towards Chester, but made a sharp turn right
where we crossed the Dee estuary. For the first time in our lives we were in Wales - me at the wheel and
Lynly as navigator. No way in the world would I allow her to drive as she always claimed that it was
perfectly legal to overtake on double lines as long as you couldn’t see anyone approaching. This is where I
learned that Lynly had not the faintest clue on how to read a map. We were driving westwards along the
northern coastal strip of Wales when Lynly suddenly barked: “Turn left!” I swung the wheel and turned
sharply left as ordered, and then she started yelling that she had told me to turn left. I told her I had turned
left. “Well I obviously meant right, didn’t I?” she snapped.
Further along, with the map folded on my lap, we did turn left down a very narrow road that was
marked in yellow on the map and was heading south. We were off to see the Wizard and were following
the yellow brick road, except that the tarmac was the usual dingy grey of most roads, not yellow as
indicated on the map. This was such a pretty area, heavily forested and lush in its greenness. That prettiness
lasted until the fog set in - and then the rain - and then we had to turn the lights on as darkness was
dropping like a lead balloon. As luck would have it, we rounded a bend and there, nestled in amongst the
trees immediately on our right was a small all-white hotel. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see
Snow White and her kinky little bedmates come running out from this hotel in Wales to greet us. It was
such a fairytale setting - reminiscent of an old hotel I had known during childhood - on a bush track in the
State Forest between Creswick and Ballarat - called the White Swan Hotel. Often, until the area was
denuded of forest and flooded with the development of the White Swan reservoir, friends from Arts School
and I would ride our bicycles out to the area to sketch the lovely little hotel in the middle of the forest.
But hell was about to break loose that evening due to Lynly’s drinking and making a complete ass
of herself. At one stage she told me to turn the car’s lights on … jokingly, I told her I was trying to
conserve electricity. She took me seriously and from that day onwards, whenever she had been drinking,
would tell all and sundry how ridiculous I was trying to save electricity in a car.
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That was the frame of mind she was in when I was desperately tired and driving on a road that I had
not imagined would demand such extreme care, with all the drovers and their sheep and cattle. I found that
we were running way behind schedule as we neared a place with the impossible name of Aberystwyth. I
suggested we overnight there as I needed time to learn how to pronounce it before proceeding further … the
best I could come up with was ‘Abba-wrist-wuth’. It was quaint, it was interesting and it turned out to be
the biggest town in West Wales, and home of the University of Wales. Unfortunately we saw little of its
charm apart from the Promenade and - although it is known as Mid Wales’ main seaside resort - I felt the
beach was about on a par with Cairns’ mud flats … such was the colour of the sand. We saw little other as
we still had to get to see Jane at Brixham. Fascinating mountain scenery made this portion of the journey
extremely picturesque, but the same narrow winding roads as in southern Wales made it all very slow
going. I was beginning to get somewhat agitated as the hours raced by. Accustomed as I was to the wide-
open spaces of Australia, I had not anticipated all these narrow, single lanes with hedgerows on either side.
To see such a setting on ‘Getaway’ sets the pulse racing with a desire to experience the beauty of ones
surroundings … to drive it when being so anxious about time was a nightmare.
Eventually we descended to sea level and crossed a bridge over the Bristol Channel to the county of
Wiltshire. Before dark we reached Brixham and found Jane, now living in a great sprawling home in the
upper level of the town. When Raymond and I had visited a few years earlier she had been living in a
delightful 400-year-old, four-storey cottage known as ‘Rose Cottage’ that seemed to cling precariously to
the cliff-face.
I had always referred to Jane as ‘the woman with the geometric eyes’ because of her most unusual,
Cleopatra-like use of black mascara. Two eyes flashed and twinkled beneath almost rectangular blocks of
black and she wore her hair - which was the colour of deep mahogany - way down to the middle of her
back. That was Jane, as I had known her in Port Moresby, and also on Raymond’s and my first visit to
Brixham. On that previous visit she was single and dressed in long frocks with masses of chunky jewellery.
She made her living by reading tarot cards and gazing intently into a crystal ball … the Amazing Miss X!
On the second visit with Lynly I found a far more mature lady with less make-up, less jewellery, but the
spark of brilliance and love of living was still with her. She had married and was apparently happy with
Roger … when he was home.
I recalled our previous visit when I took Raymond to the nearby fair. Having never been to a fair
previously, the lad was completely taken by the Dodgem cars … it was one of those cases of Please Dad,
can I? Can I, can I, huh? Can I? What followed was well worth the money! The young chap in charge of
the cars was one of those festival freaks who just have to show off … he did so by leaping from the back of
one car to the other, holding on to the upright conducting rod that carried the electric current from the
overhead ‘live’ mesh while giving a damned good impersonation of a chimpanzee. It just so happened that
when he missed his grip, he landed, standing upright, on the floor dead in front of Raymond’s vehicle. It all
happened so quickly … Wham! Raymond’s car hit Mr. Showoff with a resounding thump that sent him
flying through the air, to land on the grass outside the driving area. Fortunately he was not injured and the
event has given the two of us something to chuckle about for the rest of our days.

Meanwhile back to the future, which is still 1992. We three - Jane, Lynly and I spent the afternoon ‘at
home’ as we recalled and shared two decades of memories of bygone days.
Roger had used some sense by leaving the three of us to our own devices while he went off with
friends. He returned in time to venture ‘down town’ to where Jane had booked Lynly and myself into a B
& B in the delightful old quarter where I continued to look for a parking space. We walked most of the
time we were outdoors, and used the car again only when about to depart, as the parking situation was
desperate. We dined at a quaint little tavern down on the lower level in the town centre, almost opposite
the statue of William III, known as William of Orange, King of England 1689-1702.
The following day we headed northeast towards London and Heathrow Airport for our flight home.
I was sick to death of this trip - wanted out. I wanted home. I wanted my own privacy - a place of my
own. I wanted away from the mood-swings, the highs and lows but - fortunately I didn’t realise it - the
worst was yet to come.
Quite by accident we came upon Stonehenge. Sad to say, due to vandalism, the great monoliths are
now behind a wire barrier. When I first saw them one could park the car on the roadside and walk right up
to the site … now there is a large parking area, with an underpass beneath the main road to ease traffic and
pedestrian congestion. And I was no longer interested as I waited for the click of the camera! We drove on
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towards London where I was overwhelmed by the traffic and confusing road conditions. All I wanted was
to get to Heathrow and get rid of this bloody car and passenger. Suddenly there was a terrifically loud
‘boom’ overhead that sounded as though a plane was about to crash right on top of us - I admit I panicked -
I was momentarily terror-stricken and my nerves were shattered. We later learned that it had been the
Concorde either landing or taking off.
Once indoors in the huge terminal I contacted the car-hire people and advised them of
approximately where the vehicle could be collected. I couldn’t tell them where exactly as I was totally lost
and still shaking with anxiety and fright. After checking the baggage in, getting seat allocation and passing
through customs we made our way up to the designated departure gate. The gate opened onto a very
lengthy corridor with our departure point way down near the end on the left. Even at this late stage, Lynly
wanted to spend some time looking through Duty Free while I sat and waited … when she returned I told
her I needed to get some cash from the ATM that was just a few metres away from where we sat … the
boarding call for our flight was already coming over the PA system. In no time at all I had pocketed my
card and cash, turned around and found there wasn’t a soul in sight that I knew. Where in the hell had she
got to? I asked the ground hostess on duty at the gate if she had seen where Miss Matheson had gone. She
answered “No!” Hurriedly I checked all shops in the area … I was frantic, not knowing if she had decided
not to board and done a runner … maybe she had been grabbed and whizzed off … the lass at the gate knew
nothing and I could not believe this was happening to me. The final boarding call came over the PA and
the hostess told me I would have to hurry or miss the flight. I just could not bring myself to leave her like
that. “Quickly, Mr Ross, please!” I headed down along the long, long corridor, pausing every few metres
to look back. No Lynly in sight! It was an agonizing, gut-wrenching anguish!
How was I going to explain arriving in Australia alone? I was dreading facing up to friends when I
could give no logical explanation for her disappearance. I was sickened to the stomach. Irrational thoughts
bombarded my grey matter.
I was the last passenger to board and was asked to hurry to my seat near the back of the ‘plane.
God, I was feeling awful. I reached the row and swung around to seat myself and there she was, snuggled
low in the seat near the window. “Where have you been?” she demanded. “I thought you were going to
miss the flight.” “You thought I was going to miss the flight,” I snapped … I was far too angry to reply any
further. The following day, Thursday, September 20, 1992 we landed in Cairns after scarcely a word being
exchanged between us. As she claimed her luggage she thanked me for the trip and said she was going to
visit Deefa’s (her deceased dog’s) grave. I tried to keep my cool and merely said, “You do that … now
piss off … and I don’t want ever to see or hear from you again!” “But we’re still friends, aren’t we?” she
asked.
In hindsight I realise how crazy I was to tolerate her attitude but - as she had been a good,
considerate and trusted friend for so many years - I thought it best to let the matter pass. A lesson learned
… good friends do not necessarily good travelling companions make.
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A TEENY TOUCH OF AUSTRALIA 1994

Raymond arrived down on holidays once again. He is the most wonderful travelling companion I have ever
known - he doesn’t talk much - in fact, as you are already aware, he has never said a word in his life. He
doesn’t want the radio blaring loudly and he gives me oodles of time to concentrate on driving and
thinking. There is one drawback, however, as when he does want to ‘talk’ I have to try to watch his hands
and the road at the same time. I love that lad … he’s my son!

Before we flew to Scotland back in 1984, I had told Raymond that I would take him to Central Australia,
but we had to postpone that inland trip to travel with Jim and millie. Now, in 1994, this seemed the ideal
time to do it. We took a direct flight from Cairns to the recently opened airport at Uluru - formerly known
as Ayres Rock - near Alice Springs. When the pilot heard he had a deaf-mute Papua New Guinean on
board he invited the two us up to cockpit for a bird’s eye view of Alice Springs as we flew over the city,
returning us to our seats for landing.
My first visit to Ayers Rock had been in 1952 when with John - a hypnotist friend - and I had taken
the old Ghan up from Adelaide. We had raised enough money to pay for the trip by hiring a hall at a
Victorian coastal town and putting on an evening’s entertainment of hypnotism. Two very daring
amateurish entrepreneurs and, as it was peak holiday season, the hall had been packed to the rafters with
holidaymakers desperate for entertainment. We could scarcely rake the money in quickly enough.
On this trip, forty-two years later, I was accompanied by ‘The Lad’, who immediately wanted to
climb the massive monolith - the rock. He managed to get up about four metres, then dropped to hands
and knees and crab-crawl back to ground level again. That old black magic had him in its spell once more!
On this trip we saw what the media later referred to as being a once in a lifetime event when it
rained on the Rock - strange how often an event can take place and still be referred to as a once in a lifetime
event - it had rained on my first visit as well. A similar thing happened in mid-2005, the alignment of
certain planets that was also a once in a lifetime event … strangely, I had seen that forty years earlier, in
1965. Grandfather had always told me that the life expectancy of Australians was three score years and
ten.
One evening we went with a group to experience absolute silence on a ‘supper with the stars’ bus
outing. About midway between The Olgas - a fascinating group of rocks - and Uluru, we pulled to the side
of the road and everyone got out. The moonless night was pitch black … the heavens were aglow with
millions of stellar fireflies in the absolute blackness. The silence was deafening … nothing, but nothing to
be heard other than the occasional scuffle of feet on the red gravel and, for me, my tinnitus. Nothing could
be seen other than the stationary diamonds that twinkled overhead. By the light of a battery-operated torch
we enjoyed a sandwich and cold drink right in the centre of Australia.
We also took a tour bus from Uluru to King’s Canyon. Many of you will be unknowingly familiar
with King’s Canyon as it was the climb made by the three drag queens in the splendid Australian film
‘Priscilla Queen of the Desert.’ I had been confused by one line in the movie - Terence Stamp’s line of:
‘That’s just what this country needs, a cock in a frock on a rock’ - as the trio climbed a wall of the canyon,
not a rock. This was not what had been planned in the script. The scene was supposed to have been shot on
Uluru itself, but the traditional custodians would not allow it to be desecrated by drag queens and the
location was moved to Kings Canyon while the script remained unchanged. Oh, by the way - I climbed
Kings Canyon - the guide tactlessly remarked that he had never known anyone of my age to climb it before.
He didn’t even know how old I was! The view after reaching the top was endless - equaling the Grand
Canyon of the of the United States for spectacle. Quite unexpected was the wonderfully cool, crystal-clear
pool, way up top where most who had completed the climb took a refreshing dip - skinny-dipping.
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We spent a couple of nights in Alice Springs where we nearly had a problem when a drunken
Aborigine bailed Raymond up in the main street one evening, and was trying to hold a conversation with
him. He became aggressive when Raymond would not respond. I intervened, telling him that Raymond
was deaf and mute … I ducked as he took a swing at me, shouting, “You shut yer fuckin’ mouth … I’m
talkin’ to him, not you!” So much for brotherly love in Alice Springs!
As we were about to depart for Brisbane I phoned my niece Yolande, she said she would meet us at
Brisbane airport on arrival. The last time I had driven on the stretch of the Highway south from Brisbane
had been when Basil, Raymond and I had done it in 1982. At an area known as Logan we had been amazed
at all the clearing for future development. I remember saying to Basil as we were driving down that I
couldn’t imagine anyone ever living in that awful area. Twenty-two years later we seemed to be driving
through a place I had never previously seen … Logan was now a city in its own right. Little of the old
countryside remained as it had all been smothered in hideous suburban sprawl.
Yolande drove us to our lodgings in the very nice comfortable resort area of Southport that her
husband - another Graeme - had booked for us and then, after we had settled in, she drove us to their place
in a delightfully quiet, leafy little cul-de-sac: Tain Court. I remarked at the time that I would never again be
able to find her house as it was snuggled so deep in the heart of a vast marina development known as
Sorrento. There was water at every turn. Little did I realise that I would be living in that same street in a
couple of year’s time.

Forty-one fabulous years had passed since my first trip to Asia in 1963 and I was beginning to feel that my
days of travel were coming to an end. I seemed to be spending more time sitting at airports and en-transit
than I was in leading a ‘normal’ life. And the fact that the ban on smoking was beginning to spread from
airline travel to all forms of public transport, combined with my trying to cope with an increasing amount
of medication, was all taking a toll on my organizational abilities.
Business continued to prosper and I still managed at least two business trips annually to the United
States, including a trans-Canadian rail journey.
With all reservations made for one of these trips to the States in May of 1994, I was dreading facing
the non-smoking at airports, in transit - in all forms of public transport - as well as at the Craft Shows, and
good manners dictated no smoking in stores where I would be working. One evening, when sitting in bed
in my home in North Cairns reading and thoroughly enjoying a cigarette, my concentration was constantly
being interrupted with these thoughts. I stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray beside the bed and said silently
to myself: “That, my friend, is your last cigarette!”
I left that full ashtray beside the bed for the next six weeks - with the stench of it getting worse and
worse with each passing night - emptying it only on the morning of my departure. The stink, so close by
my pillow, had been disgusting in the humidity of Cairns. Right back to my time in Papua New Guinea I
had been ‘trying’ all sorts of ‘cures’ to give up smoking - even hypnotism - but truth be to tell, I really did
not want to stop. I enjoyed every solitary lungful of the poison. I was determined not to stop. But now I
realised that the law, my health and finance, all had to be taken into consideration. I had often sat with
calculator in hand, estimating how much money I had wasted by smoking over a period of forty-seven
years. Not good! This time I wanted to stop … but should I tell anyone of my decision? I told everyone! I
reasoned that with my determination, I would be too ashamed at loss of face to admit failure by lighting up
another. I told myself: “Stick to it, Rossie … Dad always said you were determined!” That was 12 years
ago … I’ve never had a cigarette since.
As I would later learn, the decision had been a wise one. But first things first …

During a flight at this time my mind wandered back two years to when my doctor had recommended a
prostate check-up … it had slipped my mind that I was to have another check-up on return from that
overseas trip. By another digital examination the Doctor determined that the gland had enlarged since the
previous examination; he made arrangements for a biopsy to be done in Townsville. I drove the 300-plus
kilometres south to Townsville - had a biopsy done - stayed the night with friends Leonie and Bryan, and
drove home the following day. A few days later I was called in for a ‘social visit’ and told that I did,
indeed, have prostate cancer … treatment was urgently required. “What were my options?” I asked. I was
told I could have surgery to remove the prostate gland, or I could have radiation and would possibly live
for another 20 years. What were the after effects? With surgery there would be no real after effects, other
than impotency! Radiation … six weeks of treatment with little possibility of any future sexual activity and
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a life expectancy of approximately another 20 years. No treatment at all … I should live for about another
20 years. Not knowing anything whatsoever about this ‘killer’ disease, I chose radiation as I had taken my
HIV status into consideration and came to the conclusion that no sex - practically sterilisation - would make
it all but impossible for me to infect anyone. Did I make the right decision? Whatever! That was fourteen
years ago and, as I have always claimed, every decision I have ever made in my life has been the right one.
I guess if I had made a wrong one I possibly wouldn’t be alive to tell the tale. As it turned out - I am sure I
made the right decision as I have managed to cram a helluva lot of living into those bonus fourteen years.
Only one downside to it all - no sexual activity - thanks for the memories, glorious memories! Maybe that
was a Godsend as I don’t get into trouble these days, but I don’t enjoy myself quite as much as previously,
either. I can now think about it; fantasise about it; write about it and live every beautiful, sordid detail over
and over in my mind. Memories are made of this! During this period I had received some very wise words
of wisdom from a very dear lady friend in Melbourne who told me: “If you have a digital examination, and
you enjoy it, make sure to ask for a second opinion!”

In the course of business I had met a customer by the name of Bill who was an avid cross-stitcher. Pat, his
wife, was an equally avid bowler. Bill sat at home alone, stitching, while Pat went bowling. He asked if he
could come to the shop and help occasionally instead of sitting at home by himself. In a very short time,
Bill and Pat would become two of my very best friends. He looked after the shop when I was called to
Townsville for the biopsy. The treatment that followed entailed radiation daily, five days a week, for six
weeks. Each session lasted no more than a few minutes, and so initially I was able to drive to Cairns after
treatment on a Friday to sort paperwork out in the shop, returning on Sundays to Townsville. Soon,
however, my dangly bits became so damned raw and sore from the radiation that I could no longer sit long
enough to drive the car. I took my computer and fax in the car with me and set up office in my awful room
over the street from the hospital. Bill suddenly found himself with full-time employment and would not
accept a cent in payment.
After four weeks, my groin and associated accessories became so uncomfortable I was having
difficulty even walking across the street for treatment. I was reminded of a tale I had been told many years
earlier about a young blonde woman who had been savagely raped and was considering laying charges
against the rapist. A friend asked if she had filed her decree and she said, ‘File it? I can’t even touch it with
a powder-puff!’ I understood exactly how she felt … I couldn’t even use toilet paper and had to accept the
generous offer from the Queensland Cancer Association of a bidet … Aaah …so cool, so beautifully cool!

My sixty-second birthday was one I will not forget in a hurry … it was spent in the Oncology Unit of the
Townsville General Hospital with cake and coffee and a few fellow cancer patients, all of whom were far
worse off than I. One thing about life-threatening illnesses and accidents that annoys me no end is the
media constantly referring to how brave victims are. What a lot of bullshit! We are not brave … there is
no choice other than tolerate the treatment and make the best of the situation. I am not in the least bit brave,
but I have come through quite a lot of pain and suffering by not worrying unduly. My philosophy is: Worry
and you’re dead … don’t worry and you are bound to outlive the majority of those miserable suckers who
constantly complain. Smile for God’s sake … say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and live to enjoy another day.
To the men who happen to read this … please, I implore you, have regular check-ups. It is not
disgusting and is not all that intrusive. It is certainly nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed about. As they
say in the TV commercials nowadays, eleven years after my treatment: ‘Go on … be a Man!’
Just one week before the treatment finished, I received a very nice letter from the Manager of the
Pier Marketplace - where I had my shop - to advise that I had to vacate the premises within two weeks as
alterations were being made to the complex. No mention of Get well soon, or speedy recovery, or anything
nice like that, just two weeks to get out!
When the letter reached me I was in a reasonable degree of discomfort and more that 300
kilometres from home. I had a shop containing all my stock and almost 100 framed original cross-stitch
pieces - all of which were behind glass - in Cairns. I owned a beautiful three-bedroom, fully furnished
home, in which I knew it was impossible to store all the goods. I wasn’t feeling at all well and I was very,
very upset with the manager of the complex.
My first phone call was to my niece on the Gold Coast in the hope that she could assist with storage
space. Better still, she told me, the house two doors from hers had a ‘For Sale’ sign in the front garden.
“Buy it in my name!” I said.
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Bill - together with a few friends - was marvellous helping with all the packing of stock and shop
contents. Raymond arrived down from Papua New Guinea on his annual holidays and, although he was
utterly or - should that be in-utterly, un-utterly or, when he can’t utter a word just utterly - stressed out at
the thought of leaving Cairns, he threw his great weight into the task and helped with the packing of all our
personal possessions. I left the removal chap in charge of final packing - handed the house keys to the
Estate Agent who had sold the house for me - and at 11.30 a.m. on Monday, January 9, 1995, with an awful
dose of urinary tract infection, set off on southwards on the Bruce Highway for the 1,792-km (1,113 miles)
drive into the unknown life of the Gold Coast, still in the state of Queensland. I needed to get to our new
residence before the removal van did.
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THE SOUTH 1995

We followed the road that we had taken with Basil all those years back in 1982 … in the days when I was
indestructible and knew I would never age or become seriously ill. There was a time in my early twenties
when I determined that I was a re-born Dorian Gray; I drew a self-portrait that I felt would age with my
transgressions while I remained permanently young. In reality, however, the reverse happened and the
portrait remains as in days gone by, while I … well let’s not go into that! Just maybe my sins have been
insufficient to warrant recording in a portrait.
Now here we are driving southwards on the Bruce Highway in January of 1995. I considered
calling in to say “Hello!” to Marilyn and Noel, and Leonie and Bryan in Townsville, but reasoned that we
had a long journey ahead of us and had best keep moving. In the dark of early evening we came to Ayr and
found a motel where I had sufficient forethought to pay for the night in advance. With my bladder being as
it was, I awoke at 2 a.m. … the light disturbed Raymond so he got out of bed as well and wanted to know if
I was getting ready to hit the road again. Great idea, son!
It was a beautiful, balmy, summer’s morning as we followed the road south. We had not covered
much territory when the fairies of the night went bye-byes, taking their twinkling candles with them as the
sky began to yellow faintly in the east. I felt that we could have driven right out there along that
shimmering golden path that led directly into the great golden disc of the sun as it rose rapidly over the
Pacific Ocean. We snacked on mangoes at Bowen, and breakfasted at Mackay where Jim and Millie - of
our Scottish adventure - once lived. At Rockhampton we called in and had lunch at the club where Anne’s
son-in-law Anua worked. A little south of Rockhampton a sign pointing to the right indicated Mount
Morgan. Mount Morgan? Something flashed across the mirror of my sleep-deprived mind and I recalled
that Mount Morgan was where our friend - whose house had once been shot-up, and staff had arms broken
outside Port Moresby - had moved to. Like so many others, he had fled the crime of PNG and returned to
Australia. I thought he was the only person I knew who had settled in this tiny, out-of-the way historic
mining township. As it turned out, I was wrong. Without too much difficulty we located the rustic little
miner’s cottage where he lived and the two of us were invited to stay the night. Talk! My God we talked!
We were taken for a drive around the small township, and that was where another of those strange
and unexpected meetings came about. You remember me saying that a chap had disappeared from Port
Moresby at the time I was sent to Australia after being diagnosed as being ‘HIV’? … we came upon him,
living in Mount Morgan. I am sure he did not appreciate being recognised. We turned a blind eye and left
him to his isolation, and I believe he is still living there as a recluse.
Where there had once been an ironstone mountain there is now a vast open-cut mine over three
hundred metres deep. One of the biggest holes dug by man, its mind-boggling proportions dwarf the
township of Mount Morgan that was named after the Morgan brothers who discovered gold on the
mountain in 1882. With its many old buildings it is an extremely interesting little place to visit. But I had a
destination to reach in some sort of hurry … the next morning we said our farewells and steered southwards
once more.
After passing over the Dawes Range we stopped for a breath of fresh mountain air and something
to eat at a spot called Monto - a place I had never before heard of, although the district had been first settled
way back in the mid-nineteenth century. This is an area of magnificent countryside well known for its fine
herds of beef and dairy cattle. Mid afternoon we neared Kingaroy that I knew of only as the home of
Queensland’s long-serving premier, Sir Joh Bjelke-Petersen. Sir Joh’s wife, Lady Flo is famous throughout
Australia for her pumpkin scones, while Kingaroy’s other claim to fame is its peanuts.

I phoned Lady Flo one day in 2004, when I was having problems with a recipe in her terrific Classic
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Country Collection cookbook, that has so many of my favourite recipes from childhood and helpful hints
for an ageing bachelor in its pages … things such as Australian Meat Pies and Arthritis Rub; Banana
Cream Pie and Baby Powder; Lemon Delicious and Laxatives; Chicken Casserole and Chapped Hands …
sad to tell, Lady Flo told me that the ageing Sir Joe was confined to his bed at the time … he passed away
on April 23, 2005.

I had hoped to reach the Gold Coast on our third day but had not made allowances for the constant stops for
roadside wees and dosages of Ural to ease my problem, and Raymond’s constant craving for coffee. My
father’s main problem was that he could never pass a hotel - Raymond couldn’t pass a coffee shop - and, as
for me, I was currently having no problem whatsoever in passing water, on the contrary, I was a one-man
irrigation system for many of the roadside trees. We descended a long winding road to the reasonably large
garden city of Toowoomba that I decided to call ‘home’ for our third night on the road.
Toowoomba - with a population of approximately 76,000 - is perched high on the brow of the Great
Dividing Range, affording a magnificent view right out across the lowlands to the east, towards Brisbane.
Our future home was down there somewhere on the other side of those vast, fertile plains. Tomorrow,
hopefully, we would reach it.

Tomorrow morning dawned, and that particular tomorrow morning was a shocker … the heavens opened
and dumped their entire contents right on our car for the entire trip to the Gold Coast - it hung over us and
followed us all the way. With wipers on full speed - and our noses practically touching the windscreen, we
strained in our efforts to see the road ahead. Eventually, a little before noon, we turned into Tain Court
where Yolande lived and MY home for the next six years was next door all but one. I had taken no notice
of the house when we last visited Yolande and family - now it was mine. I thought it would be mine for the
rest of my life but, unfortunately, such was not to be.

Raymond and I found new joys in life with settling into our new three-bedroom home with its very
extensive gardens, buying new furnishings and making do with some of the old. In the front garden were
two huge jacaranda trees, one of which was the annual residence a friendly tawny frogmouth. Business
continued much the same as it had been in Cairns and a wonderful woman named Peg, who lived just up
the street a little, launched herself onto the scene as a valued friend and assistant, making up orders when I
was away doing shows interstate and helping me when I was home. Eddy would come north to the Coast
for a holiday and run the business as usual when I was overseas on long business trips.
Not only did I have to find time for monthly check-ups for the HIV, but now there were the
additional checks for the prostate cancer as well. My arms were becoming perforated from so many needle-
jabs due to the quantities of blood that had to be taken for analysis on a regular basis. Fortunately, blood
tests for both ailments were constantly being kept at the ‘undetectable’ level, as my health continued to
improve. My body was constantly being scanned and analysed for fat distribution, and regular bone density
scans were carried out. I had regular eye tests, liver tests, kidney tests and respiratory tests. I made myself
available as a guinea-pig for new trial drugs as they came on the market. And while I appeared to be
keeping rather good health, word came through that one of my workmates from Port Moresby - who was
currently living in northern New South Wales - was blind and seriously ill with the dreaded AIDS.
Basil came to visit and we both attended Kevin’s untimely funeral. Where and when was it ever
going to end?

For the first time in many years I thought I had a family again - not just Raymond and me. My niece lived
two doors away with her husband and two children - my nephew, Roger lived a few miles away with his
girlfriend as he and his wife had separated and Beverley - their mother - my friend from Her Majesty’s
Theatre days, lived at nearby Currumbin Beach with her second husband, who would be dead from prostate
cancer within twelve months. I had the feeling that we had become a very progressive 20th-Century style
family, with all the Hollywood style separations, divorces and diseases. Then - after just a few months -
Yolande and her husband - the other Graeme - busted up as well. Broken families always seem to breed
more broken families.

There was a time when Beverly suggested that she, Yolande, Roger and I make a foursome to go see the
legendary Carlotta and her bevy of Les Girls beauties performing at Tweed Heads on the border with New
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South Wales. This took me back quite a few years to when Robert and I had lived together in Port
Moresby, to a happier time when we used to have big, wonderful parties with up to 90 guests. There had
been one occasion when one of the guests brought along a ravishingly beautiful, redheaded, big-busted Rita
Hayworth look-alike by the name of Holly Brown. Holly was gorgeous, and I sensed a little jealousy from
the other female guests as they all looked so very dowdy in comparison. What they didn’t know was that
Holly wasn’t all she was made up to be. Holly was a transsexual who had appeared occasionally with
Carlotta and her Les Girls team at the Coolangatta Hotel where Beverley had once worked. Meanwhile,
back in Port Moresby, I was unaware of Holly’s background. Somehow it was arranged that about a dozen
of us would go out to dinner one evening at the highly acclaimed Islander Hotel where Holly was starring
as guest entertainer and George, who was a close friend of my dear friend Stephanie, was the manager.
When Holly asked me to dance I had no idea that it would blow up into a full-scale confrontation with the
manager throwing a tantrum because of me dancing with a ‘drag queen’. I was given the ultimatum, either
we stopped dancing together or he would leave the hotel. No one at our table was all that sorry to see him
go, as Holly and I waved him goodbye.
The story doesn’t end there either. A few years passed and I was walking towards my car one day
in suburban Port Moresby when I saw this incredibly beautiful woman crossing the street - coming towards
me with arms outstretched. My mind was racing like a computer as I tried to fathom who she was, feeling
that my floppy disc could flip. As she neared, she called that she was passing through the Port on a cruise
liner and - when she was still a few metres away, and just before our big public embrace in the street - I was
still unaware who she was … I called: “You’re looking wonderful!” “So I should be, darling,” she trilled,
“I’ve just had my cock cut off!” It was then that we kissed and cuddled - I wouldn’t dare to be seen kissing
and cuddling a man - well not in public! I never did see Holly again after that day.

Now, back on the Gold Coast - all this came to mind as I was talking with Beverley. I determined to visit
Carlotta before the show on the night of her performance to see what she could tell of my long-lost friend. I
was somewhat miffed when I was unable to go backstage to see her, but I was given pen and paper to write
a note.
The theatre at the Twin towns Leagues Club is very comfortable with much legroom between the
well-spaced rows of seats. The place was packed - the show excellent - and the costumes were strictly
Ziegfeld. There came a time in the performance when Carlotta came walking along our row, singing into a
hand-held microphone and, just as she reached me, she held the mike to one side, leaned low to my ear and
said, “We lost her three years ago! … AIDS!” Damn it all! That bloody disease, it has taken so many of
my friends!

I was not enjoying living on the Coast at all. It was a particularly shallow, false existence, where most of
the women were absolutely dripping in gold, some of which was genuine, but mostly faux. They were gold
from head to foot … gold bleached hair, gold necklaces and assorted items of gold jewellery - gold
handbags and the essential item for all Gold Coast women - gold shoes or sandals. Usually the fingernails
were overly long scarlet talons, and lips drooled like the blood-gorged mouths of the brides of Dracula.
Someone was surely running classes in accepted poses for successful social evenings on the Coast … you
were no one, dahling - no-one, that is - unless you held your left hand, fingers widely spread over the right
breast, in order to display the diamonds to full effect. I wondered if I was just a teeny bit jealous because I
didn’t have a millionaire for a husband? After all, you know what they say about diamonds …

With business going smoothly - Peg and Eddy on call to help when matters became too busy to handle - and
my niece constantly crying poor, I had her appointed a Director of the Company with full partnership.
Thinking this would be a wonderful surprise for her, I kept it quiet until all was finalised. Her response:
“I’m not in the least bit interested!”

I said: “I’m going on holidays!”

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 179

THE INDIAN PACIFIC RAILWAY 1997

When Raymond came down to Australia in December of 1996, he brought out his map of Australia on
which I had recorded every road we had travelled together, every flight we had made, and every train route
we had followed. I had news for him … our travels were just beginning to get interesting.

In January of 1997 we flew to Sydney where we were met by our good friend Eileen - with whom I had
travelled through Italy and Greece, twenty years earlier - and she accompanied us to Sydney’s Central
Station and saw us depart on another epic journey - right across Australia from East to West. I am not a
snob, but I do like comfort when it can be afforded and - knowing that the train would be our home for
three nights - I had booked a first class sleeping compartment with all facilities for two.
The Indian Pacific is magnificent … we could find no fault in the service, the meals, the comfort or
the facilities. In fact, I would give the dining car a five-star rating. Our twin-cabin had all the necessary
luxuries such as ensuite facilities with toilet, washbasin and shower.
We departed Sydney on a Wednesday and spent the afternoon exploring our surroundings - locating
the dining car which was the carriage next to ours, and the lounge - where we sat to enjoy the superb views
as we climbed and wound our way up and over the Great Dividing Range to Katoomba in the area of the
range known as the Blue Mountains - was next to the dining car. After crossing the range we made a
gradual descent to pass through Australia’s oldest inland settlement of Bathurst. Darkness had fallen and
an excellent four-course meal was enjoyed, after which we settled down in the lounge once again for
Raymond’s obligatory black coffee. He has to keep his colour up somehow!
By the time we returned to our cabin the porter had prepared both bunks and - as we then had
nowhere to sit because our lounge seat had been converted to the lower bunk for sleeping - we each had a
shower before settling down for the night. We crossed the wide, flat, dry, open Western Plains of New
South Wales under cover of darkness.
Early next morning we passed by a most pleasing sight, the expansive Menindee Lakes on the
Darling River - a water storage system that had been opened in the early 1960 - supplying water by pipeline
to Broken Hill some 100km away, and that’s when our cabin attendant arrived with my tea and Raymond’s
coffee and biscuits.
As neither of us had ever visited this area previously I had pre-booked an optional off-train
excursion that gave us a very hurried look at the city of Broken Hill and its huge open-cut mine. Broken
Hill is a mining town, particularly popular with artists - such as Pro Hart, who lived there - also known as
‘Silver City’ due to the enormous wealth of silver, lead and zinc that had been unearthed over the years.
Shortly after re-boarding, the train moved on once more … the call soon came to announce
breakfast was being served. My idea of the ultimate happiness is sitting in the dining car of a speeding train
- enjoying a good meal with excellent service - while watching the world go by.
When we returned to the cabin we found it had been restored to its former glory with beds folded
away and we had a comfortable 3-seater lounge where we could relax when not sitting in the lounge car.
Our next stop was to be Adelaide - but we didn’t get there. At a spot somewhere near Peterborough we
came to a very abrupt stop. A very abrupt stop! The mighty Indian Pacific had a particularly nasty
encounter with a utility vehicle at a level crossing. We learned later that the driver of the utility had been
killed. A fellow passenger told me later in the day that he had seen the ‘ute’ stationary on the Barrier
Highway, just short of the crossing and - as the train sped towards the crossing - the driver drove directly
into the path of the train. Whether this was a fact or not, I do not know. Eventually, we made our way
south a few kilometres towards Adelaide, but as much time had been lost, passengers who were due to be
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picked up at Adelaide were railed north on another train to meet us at a dual carriageway where a swap-
over of passengers was carried out. Although we were due to reach Port Augusta at 10.30 p.m., we were
much later because of the accident. With the miracle of flash photography, I managed a photograph of
Raymond standing on a deserted platform in absolute darkness … he very nearly blended into the
background.

Our second awakening came with a fascinating nothingness stretching out as far as the eye could see -
beyond the blue horizon on either side - there was nothing to see other than the vast red monotonous sandy
moonscape, without craters, of course. We were heading towards the Nullabor Plain and the longest
section of straight railway line in the world … approximately 497 kilometres (309 miles) without the
slightest bend. But with a daily routine of breakfast, morning tea, lunch, afternoon tea and then dinner at
night, the miles flew by very pleasantly and all-too quickly. We had one stop along this section, at a place
called Cook which - if I recall correctly - had a population of two. All passengers wishing to do so could
disembark at Cook for the sole purpose of being able to say they had done so and, in particular, have photos
taken beside a sign that read: DON’T GET CROOK IN COOK!
In April of 1942, approximately three hundred Italian prisoners of war had been put to work on the
Trans-Australian railway to expedite sleeper renewals. The men were placed at six locations where camps
had been prepared for them. A military camp was also established at Cook for the headquarters staff.
Nowadays Cook is merely a driver changeover point on the 4,353km run across Australia.

Shortly after leaving Cook we crossed the border from South Australia into Western Australia … this
really was Nullabor country. In the early part of the evening we reached Kalgoorlie-Boulder where, in
1893, three obviously Irish gentlemen named Thomas Flanagan, Dan Shea and Paddy Hannan had found
100 ounces of high-quality gold in a few days, starting the last and most significant gold rush in Australia’s
history. At one stage Kalgoorlie had a population of some 30,000 - and nearby Boulder had 6,000. About
the time the railway line came through in 1917 the two towns merged and between them there were more
than forty hotels, eight breweries and enough brothels to cater for the huge horde of horny males that made
up most of the population. We stopped with sufficient time to allow a quick evening tour of the wide
streets and historic buildings where I noticed the main street was blatantly ablaze with signs offering
pleasures of the flesh that a gentleman such as I dare not mention. Grandfather would not have liked it!
And being a Methodist lay-preacher, no doubt, Grandfather would never have got any, either. As is so
often said …a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there!
Despite the fact that we had not burned up any excess energy that day we both managed to sleep
well that night - our last night aboard that marvellous train - and awakened to find we were passing through
a hilly, forested area, portions of which showed signs of recent fires. We rolled quietly downhill to Perth,
arriving early on Saturday morning. The trip had taken about six hours short of three days. Buses awaited
for anyone who wished to take a tour of the city and - as I already knew that we could not check in until
about midday - we did the tour to get orientated and fill in time. At one stage we drove directly past the
hotel where we would be staying and I was able to get an idea of our bearings. The drive took us to the
very pleasant Kings Park - named after His Britannic Majesty King George IV, when a small band of
soldiers and civilians landed there in August of 1829 - which affords a wonderful view of the city. Time
was allowed for a morning-tea break and the driver later showed where some interesting restaurants were
located … that’s what we needed to know!

Our hotel was in a wonderful position on Murray Street - only one block from the city centre. The first
evening was spent quietly wandering in close proximity to the Swan River where outdoor restaurants were
in such abundance that it was difficult to make a choice of where and what to eat, but unfortunately, we
didn’t get a chance to decide due to constant badgering from drunken aborigines who wanted money and/or
cigarettes. We had no choice but to move to another, quieter area in the city centre.
There were several craft shops that I needed to call on in Perth and nearby towns, as I had been
having on-going problems with my distributor in Western Australia for quite some time. Next morning we
took a train to a southern suburb to visit one of my customers. With only four passengers in the carriage it
was very peaceful until, at one station, a rowdy group of seven or eight dark-complexioned youths - armed
with a carton of beer and carrying opened cans - rushed in, yelling and swearing. Although there were only
four seats occupied, they demanded that a young couple move, as that is where they wanted to sit. This was
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no time for bravado and I motioned to Raymond not to make eye contact with any of the gang. Reluctantly,
the young couple moved to other seats, accompanied with roars of laughter from the mob. Matters became
so bad that - as the train came to a halt at the next station - I quickly opened the door and dragged Raymond
out with me, hurrying to the Station Master’s office where I reported the matter. He phoned the next
station on the line as I was able to give a good description of the offending group. Raymond and I then
hailed a taxi to take us to our destination. When I arrived at the shop and told of the experience, I was still
visibly shaken. Our second day in Perth and our second encounter with drunken aborigines. That was
when I decided to hire a car for all future travels in the West.
I put a blanket ban on suburban travel by rail after that experience and so, the following morning,
we did a very pleasant river cruise that took us from the city out through The Narrows, with Kings Park on
our right. There was an excellent, unobtrusive commentary, on all major points of interest, one of which
was the multi-multi-million dollar mansion - the blatantly vulgar monstrosity that was Prix D’Amour - the
home of Rose Hancock that was demolished in 2006, looming high above the river. In trying to say
something nice about it, I guess it could have been described as a nouveau riche architectural landmark.
Nuff said!
We berthed alongside at Victoria Quay and - as it was approaching lunchtime - we made our way to
the downtown area of Fremantle, stopping for a meal in the vicinity of Kings Square. For anyone with time
to spare there is a wealth of interesting attractions and things to do in Fremantle. We chose to take life
leisurely bypassing anything and everything that appeared touristy.
We cruised again the following day, this time to Rottnest Island - I had always thought it was
Rottenest Island - and I wanted to discover for myself why the early settlers had found it so rotten How
wrong I was! When Commodore Willem de Vlamingh discovered the place in 1696 he referred to it at a
terrestrial paradise … it undoubtedly is! Set in the Indian Ocean - a mere eighteen kilometres from Perth -
it could quite easily be called Australia’s Cote d’Azure with its wonderful white sandy beaches, fine
restaurants, ample accommodation, no-cars-allowed policy, and Fremantle barely visible across the
beautiful blue ocean to the east. We disembarked at a place called Thomson Bay, a surprisingly bustling
settlement where I discovered that a 2-hour conducted bus tour of the island would be departing an hour
later.
Vlamingh had named the island Rottnest - which was Dutch for Rat’s Nest - due to the proliferation
of the island’s native marsupials - quokkas - that he had mistakenly thought to be rats. The 2-hour tour was
value for money with a capital ‘V’. I am sure we covered every road on the island, with the only other
traffic being pedal-power or pedestrian. It is a most fascinating little place - eleven kilometres long from
east to west and about five kilometres wide - with many small bays and coves and the most magnificent
turquoise waters.
While waiting for our return cruise we spent time sitting on a shady, grassy slope, where quokkas
scurried to and fro like squirrels, and we could keep an eye on our port of departure. To hell with the
indigenous youth of Perth … Rottnest is the place to be for peace and quiet.

The following morning, armed to the teeth with maps and cold water, we checked out of the hotel and
headed off in an airconditioned hire car bound for Albany - with an ‘Al’ as in Albert - not Allbany.
Boolah Arts and Crafts was easily found on York Street. After introductions and a little chit-chat I
mentioned that the first time I had ever heard of Albany was when I was rather young and a radio
announcer friend of my parents had moved there after leaving Ballarat back in the 1940’s. I learned that
Ted had long-since passed away and his widow, who I also remembered, had died only two months before
our visit.
We climbed and climbed and climbed up to the Anzac Light Horse Memorial and rested awhile
until I recuperated, allowing time to appreciate the spectacular view. I was puffed out and gasping for air.
We then took the South Coast Highway west to a spot where Raymond was dumbstruck on seeing
the ‘Welcome to Denmark’ sign - how could we be entering Denmark when we hadn’t left Australia? The
forests in this area are magnificent, with the tall, stately gums that I adore. Not only were the gums
magnificent - this was the area known as Walpole-Nornalup National Park, with an abundance of huge karri
trees and giant tingle trees - it is not known as The Valley of the Giants without good reason.
Well worth the stroll is the 400-metre long, elevated walk amongst the treetops of this famous
forest. There is no actual climbing to be done as the walk rises gently upwards until one is at home in the
world of the birds, high in the canopy of the colossal trees. This walk is of such sturdy construction that
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Raymond wasn’t overly affected by vertigo. I did advise him to hold onto the side railing when walking
between pylons and to look down only when he was on the pylon-supported rest areas.
The main road, now known as the South Western Highway, continued northwest - surrounded on
either side by those enormous trees - until, at Bridgetown, we turned to the left on the Brockman Highway
that would take us down to Augusta and - more-importantly still - to Cape Leeuwin and its very lovely,
very lonely lighthouse. I had read that in March of 1622, the Dutch ship ‘Leeuwin’ (the Lioness) had sailed
past this stretch of coast and the captain had named it ‘Landt van de Leeuwin’. This is the most
southwestern point on the Australian continent - the place where the mighty Southern and Indian Oceans
meet.

Unfortunately we were not here merely to enjoy the sights. I was making this a business trip and still had
some shops to visit before heading home again. I wish I had read more about the area before coming this
way as we drove straight through Margaret River and, I heard later, it is a very lovely, trendy little place in
which to spend time. I was aware that it was famous for its wines but I am not a wine drinker because
when I was young my parents had always referred to wine-drinkers by the derogatory term of plonkos.
That possibly put me off wine for life!
We stopped for an introductory chat with the owner of the ‘Blue Box’ at Busselton, a shop that had
been ordering from me since 1992. I think it was Busselton that had an extremely long jetty - Raymond
wanted to walk to the end of it, as I would have done at that age. With all the warnings a parent would
give, such as don’t go too close to the sides and don’t fall into the water, he set off alone, while I found a
nice shady place to sit and take in the view. I realised at last that I was beginning to show my age as I
watched until he had become lost in the crowd who were also walking to the end and back.

Forest fires were raging to the east and dense plumes of grey smoke billowed high into the air. I was
reluctant to drive inland and so stuck by the coast as I was anxious to keep moving and could allow only
one more sleep before reaching Perth. When we arrived at Mandurah we both agreed that was the place
where we wanted to overnight. Mandurah is another of those places that seafood lovers cannot afford to
miss, and there are lovely after-dinner walks that can be enjoyed at leisure in the cool of evening.
The next day we drove the short distance back to Perth, calling on another customer at East
Victoria Park on the way. As our hire car had to be left at the airport we then drove straight to the airport
and spent the night at a motel nearby before flying to Adelaide for a couple of nights and then returned
home.

Once back home and - after Raymond had returned to PNG - my oncologist discovered through a blood test
that my Prostate Specific Antigen (PSA) level - that indicates the degree of the cancer in the blood - had
risen somewhat and he asked if I would be interested in experimenting with Zoladex, a small, rice-grain
sized oestrogen - female hormone - deposit that could be implanted in the fatty tissue of the abdomen to
fight the cancer by shrinking the prostate gland. I agreed. No mention was made about possible side-
effects with hormonal problems…

Tests would be carried out three-monthly. Subsequent tests showed that the procedure was working as
anticipated, with the PSA reading decreasing following each implant.
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THE TRANS-MONGOLIAN EXPRESS 1998

Way, way back in the 1950’s, two of my very

dearest friends were Stan and Aunty Doll.
Doll was not only Stan’s aunt, she was Aunty to everyone, including my own mother. They had travelled
on the great Trans-Siberian Railway from Vladisvostok to St Petersburg. It was on that trip that Aunty Doll
celebrated her 80th birthday. She was a wonderful lady and, like my mother, was loved by everyone. Doll
loved to party - she was at her best with a house-full of friends, plenty of drinks, and particularly at her best
when she was the centre of attention. Although her facial skin resembled a graying sun-dried prune, she
had a zest for living and had the airs of a sophisticated German countess.
I recall one particularly cold Ballarat evening when Doll managed to silence the room and out of
the blue, she said: “It was so bloody cold one night last week that when Stan went out to the toilet, he pulled
out a hair by mistake and pissed down his leg!” I have quoted that statement so very often as I feel it
summed the woman up to perfection … although she was not prone to crudity, she had a quick sense of
humour and loved a good joke.
After their trip, Stan and Aunty did everything - everything but make me actually promise - to one
day follow in their tracks on the Trans-Siberian. In 1998, with so many little things going wrong with me, I
thought of that promise and that my years of playing roulette with the Devil had soon to come to an end. It
was then that I received an invitation to attend and demonstrate my designing skill at a needlecraft show in
the Netherlands. It seemed feasible that if I did the Trans-Siberian that terminated in St Petersburg, I would
be reasonably close to the Netherlands and could take a supply of colour catalogues of my cross-stitch
charts for my distributor.

Back to the travel agent once more after living a very dreary existence for a year or so. I found a brochure
that seemed even more interesting than the Trans-Siberian. There was a relatively new trip, the Trans-
Mongolian Express that linked up with the Trans-Siberian train at Irkutsk, in Siberia. I could do that trip
and still feel that I was keeping my promise to Aunt. It all sounded too good to be true. This turned out to
be the trip to end all trips - and it very nearly did. It was an experience I am so pleased to include in my
life, already so full of wonderful memories.
I paid the extra for twin-share accommodation on trains - and single occupancy in hotels. Oh yeah,
who was I kidding? I had no idea of the graft and corruption in that part of the world - I was beginning to
think that I am a slow learner - but I wouldn’t have missed it for quids! Quids, by the way, is Australian
slang in the old currency for ‘£ -pounds sterling’.

Hong Kong
On a bitterly cold, mid-winter’s day in July of 1998 I flew out from Sydney and - madly over-laden with
luggage that included one large suitcase full of catalogues - landed, on a scorching hot mid-summer’s day
in Hong Kong. This was my first visit to Hong Kong since the ex-British crown colony had been returned
to China on July 1, 1997. Anne’s son Paul met me at the airport and took me to his apartment - that he
shared with Lily, his non-English speaking girlfriend at the time - perched on the slopes in the Wan Chai
district of the island, with a sensational view of Victoria Harbour and Kowloon.
Paul had to dash back to the airport to meet another friend who was also arriving from Australia,
leaving me home alone with Lily. Conversation was out of the question, as the only Chinese I knew was
chow mein, flied lice, chop suey and sweet and sour - and a few other similar exotic dishes. Possibly to
ease my discomfort with the language situation, Lily switched on to the Discovery channel of TV where
they were running a programme about the Tianammen Square episode that we called a massacre ... in the
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English sub-titles the Chinese referred to it as being an ‘episode’. Unfortunately I could not understand a
word of what was spoken as the dialogue was Cantonese. I would have dearly liked to compare it with the
version we had been told in Australia and, although I made several efforts to determine Lily's reaction to
the matter, I could learn nothing. It appeared to be a highly sanitised version, ensuring the viewer that no
humans had been injured in the making of the programme. I learned more about the disaster a week or so
later.
Paul and Lily took me through the fascinating and bustling part of Kowloon to a restaurant of
Lily’s choosing, where Paul and I were the only Caucasians. Leaving the ordering to Lily allowed me to
experience a variety of food that I would otherwise never have dared try. Later, Paul took me by ferry
across to Lantau Island, where we visited the recently constructed, massive, 34-metre high, giant bronze
Buddha - the largest in the world - at the Po Lin Monastery. I climbed right to the top and promised myself
that one day I would take Raymond to see that Buddha.

On Tuesday August 4, 1998 Paul dropped me off at a little hotel, the façade of which was as bland as the
face of the Asian woman in the toilet at Jayapura airport. The hotel was situated way up in the northern
area of Kowloon where my itinerary advised I should meet with the tour guide at 5 that afternoon. I found
my room - I wasn’t directed to it - I found it all by myself without any help from anybody as the place
wasn’t sufficiently up-market to warrant a porter. Being mid-afternoon I went on a futile search for
sandals, or thongs or any similar kind of footwear that would suffice as slippers on the train, but could find
nothing other than two interesting-looking middle-aged women walking in the opposite direction. They
looked like travellers - well-seasoned travellers - who looked like the adventurous type whose company I
would enjoy - they had to be fellow passengers on the epic journey ... they were! I introduced myself and
learned that their names were Nannette and Judith - we clicked immediately!
As requested, at five that afternoon a small band of ill-assorted humanity gathered in what
represented the lounge of the one-star hotel and there we met with our guide of the next eight weeks,
Melissa. It was immediately obvious that she was not going to stand for any nonsense, and it soon became
more obvious still that she was most definitely unsuitable for such employment. After a brief meeting of
introduction - where we were made to feel like a group of feral schoolchildren - we were dismissed and told
to assemble again after breakfast the following morning. I was requested to leave my door unlocked, as my
roommate Bob - from New Zealand - would be arriving during the night. My room-mate? Great start … I
had paid for single accommodation! I mentioned the fact to Melissa - that was my first step in the wrong
direction - I was told that there was no single accommodation on this trip - and if I was dissatisfied - I
should take it up with my travel agent. As I was in Hong Kong and the agent was on the Gold Coast that
didn’t seem particularly feasible.
Bob made a very noisy entrance when he arrived a little before midnight and gave the distinct
impression that he had no idea where he was. Somehow, he had managed to get lost between the airport
and the hotel. He didn’t seem to realise he had left New Zealand and had no idea at all of how he got to the
room. I gave him a cold drink and, knowing that we had a big day ahead of us, I suggested he try to get
some sleep .
The following morning, an excited group of sixteen gathered on the footpath outside the hotel in
readiness for the bus to take us to the train at Guangzhou - formerly known as Canton. We had to complete
Customs formalities at the Chinese border, where I was worried sick that my cache of medication would be
discovered; it wasn’t, but I took the precaution of informing Melissa as I felt she might be able to act as my
mouthpiece if difficulties arose. I told her I did not have documentation from a doctor but didn’t say a
word about my HIV status. Had I been blood-tested, nothing would have shown as my level was so low it
was undetectable.
Guangzhou was a city teeming with life, where no-one in the group had any idea what was going
on - Melissa in particular. It seemed that we were supposed to have been met by a local Chinese guide who
was responsible for getting us to - and onto - the train. The bus dropped us off at what I discovered was a
hotel, on the opposite side of a very wide road that seemed to have something to do with a demolition
derby, as traffic appeared to be rushing madly in all directions with no regard for road rules of any kind.
Possibly there were no road rules in China.
Eventually the local guide - who had turned up at last - called: “Quick, follow me!” and everyone
grabbed their luggage … everyone tried to follow. The local guide, followed by Melissa, hurtled down a
stairway into an underpass that ran beneath the wide road but, for me with all my luggage, it was
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impossible to keep up with her. Melissa took off at a running pace, trying to follow the local guide,
followed by all the others, then me with my three heavy pieces of luggage straggling along at the rear.
There were thousands of people - shoulder to shoulder - battling their way through the crowded underpass .
We went up a flight of stairs, along a distance, down a flight, along a level stretch, then up another flight. A
youngish Caucasian male who I had not seen previously said, “I’ll help with those!” and, grabbing two
pieces of my luggage, set off ahead of me. I had no idea who he was or if I would ever see him or the
luggage again. As our official Chinese guide carried no identifying flag of any sort, no one knew where she
was as she had merged in with the surging throng of humanity. I was absolutely beside myself and on the
verge of collapse when we had to climb more stairs before emerging from the tunnel on the footpath, but
still outside the station. The railway station building was behind a high wrought-iron fence, with a gate that
opens to a width of something like eighteen inches or fifty centimeters. Through that narrow space
passengers had to squeeze - together with their luggage - whilst trying to show their credentials. There
were thousands struggling to get through! It was bedlam! Up another flight of stairs we went, then down
another until we found ourselves in a waiting room-of-sorts with hard wooden seats. There was no signage
that we could read or understand and we had no idea what was - or wasn’t - happening. Bear in mind that
this was an extremely hot summer’s day. We were hungry, thirsty, tired and confused. Her ladyship,
Melissa, made it apparent that she had had enough of me already. In fact matters got worse as the trip
progressed. At one stage she said she was sick of my constant complaining. I was unaware that I had
complained about anything other than mentioning about the twin-share hotel room, and all who had come
to know me told her they had never heard one word of complaint from me either. She needed a scapegoat
and, personally, I think she resented the fact that I had travelled far more extensively than she, and was not
accustomed to anyone making suggestions. We sat in that room, in prison-like conditions, for two or three
hours with nothing to eat or drink, and no-one to explain what we were supposed to be doing, other than sit
and not ask questions. This gave me time to begin to meet some of the others. I learned a little of the two
sisters: Nannette was a radiologist at the Katherine General Hospital in the Northern Territory; her sister,
Judith drove a school bus in Gympie. I already knew that Bob - my room-mate - was a retired farmer from
New Zealand, and the chap who had helped me with the luggage was John, a jovial, athletic young banker
from Melbourne, with a wonderful personality. Then there was an extremely rotund ball of fun named
Sharyn - a children’s nurse from Mount Isa, and a most attractive Chinese lass who worked in the medical
profession in Brisbane. We seven formed our own little clique. These are the only names I can recall from
the entire trip at present. There were others that I didn’t get to know very well - most pleasant enough - two
who were most unpleasant, including one chap who was shunned by everyone because of his unpleasant,
whingeing attitude, and perpetual boozing.

Time to board and, once again, it was sheer hell! All sixteen of us were to be in one carriage - four-to-a-
compartment - all of which was reserved for us. I dared not say a word about having paid for twin-berth
sleeping rail travel for fear that our already frazzled Melissa would freak out completely. We were advised
we might have to fight to retain our bunks as government officials could board at any time and dispossess
any civilian traveller of their seating and/or sleeping accommodation without notice. We all had to band
together and support one another under the leadership of the local Chinese regional guide.
Being younger, Judith and Nannette offered to take the upper berths - there were no ladders - while
Bob and I, the two oldies, would sleep in the lower. Bob turned out to be several years older than myself
… I didn’t need any convincing about that as he went through his days in a state of permanent confusion.
This stage of the trip would be two nights on the train to Xi’an - Sian - after which our sleeping
arrangements would be rearranged. After the first night, we four rebelled and refused to be split up as the
sisters, naturally, wanted to stay together and, by this time, Bob had appointed me as his carer.

If I had any preconceived ideas of travelling on something akin to the Orient Express, this was the time to
forget it. I learned that we were all travelling soft class - so named because the plastic-covered seats were
padded. The poor had to make do with wooden seating - that was hard class. “Thank God”, thought I, as
with my bony bum I wouldn’t have lasted an hour sitting and sleeping on wood.
Each soft class carriage had it’s own resident babushka who had either, I imagined, been in the Red
Guard or had done her training with the Gestapo. Even though none of us could understand her, her word
was law. Babushka - a Russian word - is derived from a woman’s headscarf that is often triangular, with the
ends tied either under the chin or at the nape of the neck. After a few days, had she been wearing a scarf, I
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could willingly have tied it tightly around her neck! She was never known to smile but she did issue us
with a thermos flask that she filled daily with hot water from a large samovar at one end of the carriage. At
the other end were the toilets … a western-style pedestal type one on the right hand side an Asian hole-in-
the-floor type on the left. In a few short hours the floors of each would be swimming with filth and the
stench would become almost unbearable in the heat.
Being mid-summer, the temperature outdoors was in the vicinity of 40 degrees Celcius - 104
degrees Fahrenheit. Indoors it was considerably warmer as there was no ventilation. The sounds of our
struggles to open a window brought our ‘friendly’ babushka running. We very quickly learned that the
windows were not to be - and could not be - opened, and the windows in the narrow corridor were
permanently sealed as well. There was no airconditioning. A futile attempt had been made to pretty the
windows up with strips of lace hanging at either side.
Not quickly enough for my liking, we left the suburbs of Guangzhou behind, heading northwards
through a region heavily cultivated with small farming settlements. Homes became hovels that seemed to
scream of hardship and hopelessness. The day continued until time to go to the dining car for a rather
pleasant and simple meal, after which we were all but eased out and had nowhere else to go, other than to
our cabins. For the rest of the trip, every evening that we spent on the train, our cabin was the in place to
be; the centre of all social activities. Out came playing cards, bottles of water, a great variety of nibbles,
and the sisters had a hoard of herbal tea bags that they were willing to share, but found few takers. This
meant three or four people sitting on each lower bunk and occasionally managing to squeeze other visitors
in as well. No sleep for the lower bunks until all guests had departed and returned to their own cabins.
Once the visitors had departed it was time for Judith and Nannette to climb to the upper bunks,
while Bob and I settled ourselves in the pre-warmed, padded seats of the lower. Each bed had its issue of
one sheet that resembled a large, coarsely woven tea-towel; a personal towel that really resembled a tea-
towel, slip-on slippers of a size suitable for an Asian child, and a pillow the size of a baby’s pillow and not
much thicker than one inch. As the seats were a very slippery green plastic it was impossible to keep the
‘bed linen’ from sliding to the floor and had to be reclaimed over and over all night.
It dawned on me that this was my first time to travel with mature-aged people and, if I was to fit in
with my companions, it was time for the peripatetic country lad to grow up and show some sign of
maturity.
Thank God for those slippers, although I would have preferred waterproof, ankle-high gumboots to
wear when visiting the toilet, as I could get only the front portion of my feet - from toes to instep - into
them, then walk more-or-less on tippy-toe, worried sick that I’d slide out of them onto that filthy floor.

Day dawned sleepily and the view outside was fascinating in its flatness. Clusters of communal housing
dotted the countryside, while the occasional peasants could be seen, toiling in their tiny gardens. We, the
‘ultra-wealthy’ soft class folk, had survived the night and awakened to our first Chinese morning without
loss of life - then came the horror of morning ablutions. There were no showers and it’s not at all easy
bathing in a hand-basin when standing on a filthy, slippery floor in a madly rocking train. The other
alternative was to dampen ones towel and give oneself an APC - an armpits-and-crotch job. Fortunately
we had all been pre-warned to take an ample supply of toilet paper, bottled water and dried fruit, all of
which added to the already over-abundance of things to be carried.
Breakfast invariably consisted of a slab of dry bread, one hard-fried egg, and a portion of chicken -
both of the latter accompanied by a plateful of nothing but the fat they had been fried in. One passenger
was already in tears and demanded vegan food. Full credit must be given to the Chinese railways, however,
as meals served on this part of the trip were far superior to anything that would be served after crossing the
border into Mongolia. From that border on, the only vegetable I recall seeing in any of our railway meals
had been potato. I do not remember seeing greens of any kind. Day one had begun with a vengeance!
Details of this incredible adventure will have to be abbreviated due to the vast expanse of Asia that
we covered, and there were so many fascinating and historic sites to see. Let’s concentrate on matters that
really grabbed the attention and made it a one-off, impossible-to-repeat, experience.

China fascinated me! So big … so many people! In my mind, I had imagined it to be an extremely
backward country of small villages. It was far from backward and now rates very highly on my list of ‘must
return to’ places. Most days during the eight weeks of the trip were spent in our cabins, getting to know
each other, enjoying the company, playing cards, or just resting in various states of undress due to the
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extreme heat. We spent nights in only two cities in China - Xi’an and Beijing - giving time to stretch the
legs so to speak, shower, sleep in a real bed, eat some respectable food, and stock up on provisions for the
next stage of the journey. Stock up or starve!

Xi’an (Sian)
The most memorable curiosity of Xi’an was visiting the
Museum of the Terracotta Warriors, a vast underground
tomb containing an army of some eight thousand life-size -
and larger-than-life - terracotta warriors, each with its own
individual uniform and features.
An interesting fact about the figures is that all the
statues are hollow, set upon solid legs. This kept the point
of gravity low and enabled them to be free-standing. The
hollow heads, arms and legs were made from coiled
terracotta, joined together with strips of clay to the legs.
After that, a fine layer of clay was added to the heads so
that details such as eyes, nose and mouth could be
The museum of the Terracotta Warriors, Xi’an, China
individually styled.
It is written that 700,000 forced labourers sacrificed their lives in the construction of the tomb of the
tyrannical Emperor Qinshihuang, who reigned between 221 and 207 BC. Before I experienced this mind-
boggling tomb, I knew little other than what I had seen in photographs and, to be honest, I thought the
figures were miniatures stored in a glass showcase. So you see … I can be wrong sometimes! In my own
defence I would say that I was more ignorant than wrong.
Accommodation for the three-night stay was in the impressive Xi’an Gardens Hotel that set a
precedent that was never to be equalled. The rooms were excellent, the meals were good and, in the
courtyard, there was a large attractive pool upon which ducks swam leisurely, even when the Chinese
houseguests performed their soothing Tai Chi in the early morning hours on the lawns around the pool.
More than just the great accommodation, Xi’an is a must-see destination!
As I was leaving the colossal building that is the Museum of the Terracotta Warriors I came across
a souvenir shop where I found a wonderful book of ancient Chinese art. I had to own it! I charged it to
Visa and had it mailed home, never imagining I would ever see it again. They did send it but the only
problem is, they sent me the Chinese version and I can’t read a word of it.

Emperor Qinshihuang was also responsible for starting the Great Wall project. He also standardised a
common script, established uniform measure, and did lots of other little things in his spare time. Xi’an is a
busy, bustling city with its very own city wall, that completely surrounds the old city. Outside the 13 km
long wall is a deep moat that is permanently filled with water and now, in many places, between the wall
and the moat there are delightful little parks and gardens. The wall itself is about 30 or 40 feet high and all
along the top is a ‘road’ that would be wide enough for three cars to drive on, side-by-side. We spent quite
some time wandering on the wall, admiring the marvellous views of the surrounding ‘new’ city that all but
disappeared in the blue haze of air pollution.
In ancient times Xi’an had been a capital of China and was a terminus on the Silk Road, where
travellers in days of old came from distant lands to the west, to trade their goods for the riches of China,
such as spices, jade and silks. Travel on the historic Silk Road seems to have begun somewhere about 123
years BC. It has been recorded that Marco Polo of Venice came to Xi’an via this road, more than a
thousand years ago.
During our stay in Xi’an we also visited a factory where the wonderful double-sided embroideries
are done - similar to those that were being worked in Brisbane during Expo. It was fascinating to watch
artists working on cloisonné - the skill of applying enamel to a base material, with the colours separated by
a thin filament of flattened wire, standing on edge. I bought a colourful pair of cranes that seem to have a
drinking problem, as they topple over at the drop of a hat.
We also went to a most interesting ceramic factory where artists hand-painted tiles, glazed them,
then fired them in kilns. I bought a set of seven featuring tigers that are supposed to tell a story, but if they
do, I can’t get the gist of it, but I had to own them. Out with the Visa again - mail them - and, you wouldn’t
believe it, they arrived safely as well as the book.
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We spent one very pleasant evening wandering, dining and having a few drinks in the Muslim
Quarter that reminded me very much of The Ramblas in Barcelona but nowhere near as wide.
There was more, much more to see and do in Xi’an that I am bypassing, otherwise this manuscript
will be far too long. Both our guide and the local guide took us out one evening for a sumptuous dinner and
to see a sub-standard range of cultural activities. This happened in every city we visited, as part of the
Trans-Mongolian experience.
We left Xi’an on a similar train that took us a short distance to where we crossed the mighty
Yellow River, then northwards through a rather arid stretch of country, to the city of Taiyuan, where we
had time to bargain with the locals on the platform for such delicacies as hard-boiled eggs and bottled water
- providing the tops had unbroken seals … nobody wanted gastro!. By this time we were passing through
the southeastern reaches of the Gobi Desert, en route to Datong. This is a sort-of point of no return. One
line goes north to Mongolia but we weren’t quite ready for that as yet. Our train turned sharply to the right,
with a steady descent down through the green hills to Beijing - Peking. I really expected Beijing to look
more-or-less exactly the same as depicted in the film ‘55 Days at Peking,’ during the time of the Boxer
Rising. They had done wonders with the place in the intervening ninety-eight years. We pulled into a very
long platform, much larger than I would have expected, to a clean railway station and, once outside, I was
amazed at the incredible modern architecture and the many high-rise buildings.

Beijing
The local lass who met us at Beijing station - an extremely attractive young thing - desperately wanted to
improve her English. We talked whenever possible. She openly admitted that most of her wages were
spent on beauty care and grooming. She took us by a 20-seater bus along and very wide street of something
like seven lanes - give or take a couple - that was absolutely crowded with thousands upon thousands of
bicycles, to our rather grand hotel within easy walking distance of the city centre and Tianammen Square.
The heat was in the extremely high 30’s and the humidity shocking. The bicycles on the busy
streets left little room for motorised traffic, yet the air had turned blue from the appalling pollution.
We spent considerable time at the Temple of Heavenly Peace and rested awhile beside the man-
made lake at the Emperor’s Summer Palace. On - or rather in - the lake was a double-decker boat, carved
entirely from marble. One wonders if the Emperor really thought it would float on command. Much time
was spent in the Forbidden City with the enormous forecourt that is Tianammen Square. The Chinese lass
who acted as our guide through these places told of the horror of the massacre - the horror that the masses
were unaware of - that had taken place in this very square in 1989.
After the mass of the demonstrators had been dispersed, rubble was
spread to cover where blood had been spilled and this rubble was
removed under cover of darkness, the paving then scrubbed, so
that when dawn broke there was not a trace of the blood that had
been shed the preceding day. For the Chinese - the Tianammen
Square massacre just did not happen - it’s all generally believed to
be Western propaganda! By this stage the heat and long distances
to be walked were becoming almost unbearable.

Possibly the highlight of all highlights was a visit to the Great Wall
… The Great Wall of China! A lifetime of reading and study had
not prepared me for actually experiencing the enormity of the
massive construction so large in fact - a fact that everyone must
surely be aware of - that it can be seen from the moon, and that
from ground level can be viewed only in small segments. Was I -
the lad who had always prided himself on his ability to race to the
top of everything - up to the challenge of climbing to the top of The
Wall? Unfortunately, the answer was ‘No’! I had come to realise
that since the kerfuffle at the Guangzhou railway station, I was no
longer up to such strenuous activities. It was somewhat distressing
to realise that age was beginning to catch up on the boy. Oh, my
God, I wanted so badly to make that climb! But I was not alone …
six of us went up by gondola. Even then, once atop the wall, there The Great Wall of China
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was a considerable amount of exhausting walking and very steep climbing to be done, in order to get from
one tower to the next.
The gigantic fortification had been built across northern China as protection from the nomadic
tribes of Manchuria and Mongolia. Wars are nothing new to China, and it was in the early 3rd century BC
that the first Qin emperor Shi Huangdi ordered that defensive walls - already built by frontier states - should
be joined together using forced labour. Work continued on and off until the 17th century. Thousands of
lives had been lost during construction. It is said that the bodies of workers who died were tossed between
the twin walls and used as fill. The wall wends its way up steep hillsides, dips down into hidden valleys
and re-emerges in its tortuous madness to be lost in the distant haze. It reminded me of a petrified Loch
Ness Monster, sometimes visible, sometimes not. The wall today is about 25 feet (8 metres) high and 12 ft
(4m) wide at the top.

On the outskirts of Beijing was a particularly pleasant stroll along a level pathway to the Ming Tombs. The
incredibly long walk was bordered with flowerbeds, stately willows and - for quite some distance - huge
sculptured creatures, some real, some mythological, lined the entire distance. What a welcome relief it was
to be able wander at a leisurely pace along such a pleasant shady area.
Something I had never previously heard of and, no doubt, would never have heard of had it not
been for our local guide who, before leaving us to wander at leisure one day, suggested we would possibly
find it interesting if we visited the practically unheard-of underground city. This is certainly not the most
interesting place I have visited but it does warrant mention because of its history and lack of fame.
Whatever you do, don’t ask a local how to find it, as most seem to be unaware of its existence. It can best
be found by wandering through the back streets, idly searching and, if you’re lucky you may find an
unobtrusive little sign that reads ‘Beijing Underground City’ painted on an unimposing wall.
This strange subterranean complex is a relic of the Cold War era, a time when Mao Zedong ordered
the construction of underground bomb shelters in the event of a Soviet attack. Special ventilation systems
had been installed as a protection against chemical warfare. It is claimed that the tunnels and rooms - ten
metres below ground - were constructed by 70,000 workers in the early 1970’s, the idea being that in the
event of attack, forty percent of the city’s population could live underground while the remainder move to
the neighbouring hills. The complex fell into disuse in the late 1970’s and had been reopened to the public
only recently. The vast 85-square-kilometre complex now houses backpacker type accommodation, a
shopping and business centre and, amongst other things, a wholesale market with approximately one
thousand stalls.
Beijing is a fascinating city to explore at night as well. Not once did I feel unsafe. We
experimented with all types of strange morsels, selecting from the pavement stalls as we wandered. But I
did do something I had never done before - had a few drinks at a karaoke bar, and danced.

As the heat was oppressive and my luggage extremely heavy, we decided as a group to post all winter
weight clothing, souvenirs and unnecessary items back to Australia. Finding the Post Office for overseas
mail was not at all easy as there are different mailing centres for various needs and, as nothing was written
in English, it was no easy matter. Once indoors, we found there was a different counter for each procedure;
one for having everything re-packed by a not-at-all-obliging woman; one for buying the wrapping; one for
weighing and another for paying - not necessarily in that order. The correct sequence of events could be
determined only by making errors. And the forms to be filled in were unbelievable. It was one awful
fiasco!

We left Beijing in the afternoon, at times travelling very close to The Wall and seeing it from an entirely
different aspect. In order to get to Mongolia we had to retrace our tracks to Dajong where we headed north
into the particularly remote area of Inner Mongolia. I awoke the next morning to see practically nothing
other than a vast wasteland of desert stretching to the horizon. Until being taken over by China, this land
had been part of Mongolia. The population is a mixture, as Chinese are being sent to the region to settle
and interbreed and lay claim to being part of China for once and for all.
Somewhere in this forbidding territory I felt an attack of Beijing Belly about to strike. Lurching
from side to side in the rocking train I made a dash up the corridor to the toilet, to be beaten to it by our
unsmiling babushka who had just locked the door as we were about to come to a station. I begged her to
unlock it. No way! I promised not to flush any water. No way! I pleaded with her … I was almost crying
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as there was nothing I could do other than stand there, with the fetid mess streaming down the legs of my
trousers and flooding onto the floor. I have recently learned that my good friend John Boyle had a similar
experience. There was no way I could return to the cabin … there was nothing I could do until the train
began to move once more and the harridan from hell came to unlock the door for me. I had to bathe and do
my laundry in the hand-basin, using my soiled trousers as a washcloth.
The next stop was a Customs and Immigration stop at a dot on the map known as Erenhot, just
south of the Mongolian border. It was here that I was singled out to have my luggage searched. Panic hit
me … I called for Melissa in case I needed help but, at the crucial moment, they stopped the search and I
was allowed to pass through. I tried desperately to control my trembling knees and have often wondered
why they discontinued their search. Possibly it was my feeble attempt to maintain a smile and my angelic
innocence that won their hearts.
Stopping at Erdene - a short distance north of the China/Mongolia border - we entered a huge shed
where the bogeys had to be changed as the rail in Mongolia is a different gauge to that of China. One by
one the carriages were individually raised and the entire undercarriage - the bogeys - complete with wheels,
were removed and replaced. Before doing so, however, passengers had been advised to either disembark
before their carriage was raised, or stay on board until it had been lowered again. This changeover process
took several hours.

Ulaanbaatar
We travelled through the night towards Ulaanbaatar, the capital city of
Mongolia, a country in which the world’s most friendly people live.
My initial feeling was that we had arrived in the midst of an enormous,
depressing field of huge and ugly, concrete building blocks. I could
only imagine that all - if ever there had been any - Mongolian
architects had been wiped out during the invasion. There is no apparent
architecture or design used in the buildings of Ulaanbaatar … it gave
the feeling that creatures from distant planets had descended to earth
and dropped the massive grey bunker-like slabs of concrete in some
sort of geometric pattern. It had what I considered to be a Soviet
feeling about it … big, strong, powerful, no-nonsense and dominating.
From the outside our great sprawling hotel was similar in style to all
Government buildings, offices, accommodation blocks and stores …
they all had a similar depressing appearance. We entered a vast and
barren foyer with the only relief being a large, raised, shallow,
rectangular pool. Maybe it had once been a fishpond but if so, the fish
had died.
I found Mongolia to be a sad country … delightful but sad.
Don’t get me wrong - the people are the delightful part, and are Three generations of one Mongolian family
amongst the most wonderful, friendliest people I have ever met. The sadness comes from the fact that they
have been robbed of their culture, their history and, in many instances, even their surnames have been
erased from memory as all records were destroyed during the Chinese occupation of early last century. The
general population nowadays knows nothing of their forebears, other than what has been passed by word of
mouth. All written historical records have been destroyed.
Moving as a group we walked to town to see the sights - not that there was much to see in
Ulaanbaatar at night - and enjoy a few drinks on our first evening in town … and then down came the
rain ... a torrential, tropical-type downpour! We found a rather noisy, crowded undercover area with seating
and tables where we could relax and have a few drinks, and still the rain continued. As taxis appeared to be
non-existent, it was decided that every man and woman had to fend for his-or-her self in finding ways to get
back to the hotel. A few of us walked!

Early the following morning we were collected by mini bus - with a most pleasant male Mongolian driver
who worked in the travel industry and spoke excellent English - that could take twenty passengers and
headed out of town across the barren steppes - the extensive, treeless plains that make up a great percentage
of this landlocked country. The rains of the previous night had turned many sections of the earthen road
into impassable quagmires; in some sections we encountered places one-to-two hundred metres wide of
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churned up mud, with vehicles bogged down to their axles.

In the whole day of travelling we came upon only one
‘service station’ that had one solitary petrol bowser outside
what could have been a one-roomed general store, that was
doing a roaring trade considering the extreme isolation.
Amongst the odd assortment of transport out front was a
truck, piled high with a family’s worldly possessions,
including the makings of a ger and several sheep. I was more
fascinated by the Mongolian horsemen who didn’t sit in the
saddle - they stood in the stirrups - looking so graceful as they
raced across the plains.
The only service station to be seen on the road be-
tween Ulaanbaatar and Karakorum, Mongolia We travelled on this bare-earth road all day; had we
continued we could have driven right through to Novosibirsk
in Russia. Late in the afternoon, however, we reached our accommodation for the night at a place called
Karakorum and this was something I had for years longed to experience - but never imagined I ever would
be fortunate enough to do so - sleeping in a ger. I have also heard gers being referred to as yerts - either
appears to be acceptable. They are the most incredibly sensible form of housing I have ever encountered,
consisting of a round wooden-framed felt or camel skin tent, covered in canvas. The ceiling gave the
appearance of being the underside of a large beach umbrella, with narrow beams radiating out from the
central opening, with a single rod as roof support.
We pulled in beside the settlement that consisted of 10-12 of these gers - so beautiful as they
gleamed white on the green plains. Our guide gave us only one warning … watch your head, as the
doorways are rather low. Everyone had been carefully
matched as to compatibility at this stage and once again I
found myself sharing with Bob - the elderly New Zealand
gentleman and John - my banker friend from Melbourne. Our
accommodation held four single beds, luxuriously comfortable
considering ... far more comfortable than the train, much better
than many of the hotels I have stayed in, and more than
adequate for a short stay. Floors were carpeted, with a raised
circular fireplace in the middle, above which was a circular
opening in the roof, with a cord with which to open and close
the hole for ventilation, as the heating stove was directly
below.
Only a few steps away were the cooking and dining Within minutes of arriving at Karakorum I was resting -
the heating stove is at the left
areas, and a reasonable distance further away was the ablution
block. Our evening meal was an absolute delight compared to that which we had been getting on the train
and everyone feasted well. We had been advised to keep an eye on the fire in our gers as there was an
ample supply of firewood on hand, but unfortunately ours went out during the night and we experienced
severe cold as no-one in our group smoked and we didn’t have any matches with which to re-light it. Our
own fault!
Next morning our driver took us to visit an active monastery that had a tragic past. It covered a
huge area that was completely surrounded by a high wall. During the period of Chinese occupation every
monk in this monastery had been slaughtered. We were able to wander through the temple - while monks
were droning and chanting their prayers - the room heavy with the smoke of incense. After a good lunch -
oddly enough we never were served Mongolian lamb - we went home to pack and move on to our next
accommodation.
Gers have been the traditional Mongolian dwelling for hundreds of years - ideally suited to the
Nomadic life and harsh weather. They can be collapsed and stacked on camels in an hour or so when it
becomes necessary to move to other grazing areas as the climate dictates.
The ger in which we spent our second night at Mongolia Els was a family business, similar in style
to the first night although these, instead of being on a wide open plain, were a semi permanent group at the
base of a high, rocky outcrop, with the dining area a little higher up and the ablution block about 100 metres
away down a reasonably steep incline through high grass with no path. John wanted me to climb the hill
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with him. Way down below on the flatland was our camp.
Sheep grazed down in the shallow valley beside the camp
and we were all invited to visit a ger for the equivalent of
afternoon tea. Now a ger can hold just so many guests at
any one time. This was where good manners on my part
paid off, as I held back and was able to see the others
coming out, trying not to spit, but screwing their faces up,
as all had been obliged to drink home-brewed, fermented
mare’s milk. Certainly not my cuppa! And not theirs
either, judging by the faces!
In the dead of the moonless and absolutely freezing
night, and in total blackness, I felt the creature from hell
John Boyle with Mongolian Els on the flatlands below stirring in my belly once more. Silently, I crept from my
bed and slipped into a pair of loose cotton bagwear trousers.
I stole out the door and headed off into the darkness through knee-length grass, down the long slope
towards the toilet block but - as fate would have it - I failed to make the distance. I left a deposit in the long
grass and had to remove my pants, as I had no toilet paper, nothing! Fortunately, however, I had earlier
taken mental note of where the ablution block was located and was able to make my way - bare-arsed in the
blackness - until I found it. Naturally there was no electricity in that part of the world. I must admit I was a
little afraid of tripping in the darkness of the ablution block as I could see nothing but the starry night sky,
and the even blacker silhouette of the nearby mountains outside. If there is one thing in the world that I
hate above all other, it is showering with cold water. This water wasn’t just cold - it was bloody freezing!
As best I could, I toweled myself dry using my pants and,
with no footwear, managed to make my way in a semi-
circular route back to the ger, as I didn’t wish to step in
anything nasty along the way. There’s a first time for
everything and this was a first for me, walking around on
a grassy hillside in Mongolia, in the dead of night, wet,
cold and naked. I never told a soul about that episode
and was only too happy to move on in case anyone put
two and two together and came up with me.
After a hearty breakfast of fried eggs and bread
that morning we visited the ruins of a smaller monastery
known as the Monastery on the Rocks. This one was a
short climb up a rough, secluded hillside track. The walls
were all dung-and-straw and heavily pocked with bullet A young Mongolian lad holds the reins of his pony while
John poses for the camera.
holes as the result of the massacre that had taken place in
the 1930’s when the Communists attacked. We were told that here, too, no-one lived through the invasion.
Oblivious to what had gone on in the past, children gathered camel dung and horse manure in the
surrounding countryside to be made into patties and sun-dried for the fires - for use as an excellent
mosquito repellant.
Before leaving home on this adventure we had all been requested to carry some small items to be
given away as gifts wherever and whenever they were warranted. On this day we all felt this was the time
to do so, as the children and the equestrian herdsmen were such delightful people that we felt like giving
something. Some gave small Australian flags; some gave sweets; the American couple gave chewing gum
that didn’t go down at all well as - even after being shown that the wrapper should be removed prior to
chewing - they didn’t seem to get the hang of it. I always travel overseas with a supply of those small,
furry, made-in-China souvenir koalas, that can be bought in duty free shops anywhere in Australia, the kind
that clip onto anything and no matter where I’ve travelled, they have always seemed to have been
appreciated. We all felt we would have liked to give more but it had been impossible to carry more than we
already had.
After returning to our hotel in Ulaanbaatar, we had time to shower and clean-up before visiting another
monastery - a very busy one - where I managed to spin a few prayer wheels. That evening we were treated
to a dinner out, and a cultural show as part of our Mongolian Express experience. I usually get thoroughly
bored with this type of entertainment but this show was excellent! Mongolia will live in my heart forever
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as one of my favourite places on earth.

As I wasn’t feeling very sure of my bowel habits, just short of the Mongolia-Siberia border, the train
stopped and rather than upset the Gestapo lady again, I chose to disembark and find a toilet on the platform.
It was so easy to find as it stank to high heaven. Now, in hindsight, this was funny - really funny! The
toilet was a long row of cubicles, the back wall of which faced the tracks; the front facing onto the platform
was entirely open to the world. There were no doors. Being an Asian toilet, I had to squat and - no sooner
had I done so - than a group of young boys came and stood side-by-side in a row on the platform, with
arms folded and just stared at me with blank, unsmiling faces. I kept
begging over and over to myself: “Please don’t laugh! Please don’t
laugh.” I’m pleased to say, they didn’t! No doubt they had seen it all
before and just wanted to check that the dangly bits of the ‘round eye’
measured up to those of their own race.
From the border, the train wound its way northward through most
unattractive undulating country, to the very sizeable city of Ulan-Ude,
where we were joined by the Trans-Siberian Railway that had crossed the
then Union of Soviet Socialist Republics from the coastal city of
Vladisvostok, on the Sea of Japan and from that day on we never could
come to an agreement if we were still on the Trans-Mongolian, or the
Trans-Siberian Express. This matter seemed to depend entirely upon which
travel agent one booked with in the first place. Whilst the two trains were
going through some sort of mating session, we had time for a break and
wander on the platform, trying to replenish our exhausted supplies of water
and essentials once more while, at the same time, our precious food was
being bartered by train staff for items they required. Honestly, the food on
board was little above starvation rations by this stage. With a few new faces
on board from the United States and Canada we were able to swap tales of Elderly Mongolian man with pipe
our adventures, but it became very obvious that we had the better of the
two trips. There had been little of interest to see or do between Vladisvostok and Ulan-Ude.

Irkutsk
Soon we came upon the world’s most incredible lake - Lake Baykal (Ozero Bajkal) - with small
communities along the southern shore. Baykal differs from other lakes due to its extreme depth and the
wonderful quality of its water. The lake is estimated to be between 20 and 30 million years old. It is
thought to be the oldest lake on Earth. Not so many years ago the Trans-Siberian railway ran across the
frozen surface of the lake, but in recent years it was deemed to be unsatisfactory due to the number of trains
crashing through the ice into the freezing depths below. The new route - the one on which we travelled -
followed the southern shore very closely as we swept around in the semi-circle to the lovely, very old city
of Irkutsk, where we were accommodated for three nights in the very pleasant, yet spartan, Intourist Hotel.
Hotels in this chain are Government owned and Government controlled and I had the feeling that we had
been put there under scrutiny: Bob and I, as usual, shared a room on the 3rd floor, overlooking the Angara
River with the older part of the city on the opposite banks. Dinner was served in a massive room - more
like Army barracks than a dining room - and, although the meal was excellent compared to what we had
been living on, the atmosphere of this huge room was about as cosy as an evening spent in Pentridge prison.
I was awakened from a very deep sleep by a barrage of extremely loud pom-pom-pom sounds and
found our room brightly illuminated by a wonderful display of pyrotechnics being set off on the opposite
side of the river. I sat on the windowsill - legs dangling outside - to admire the spectacle and enjoy the
mildly cordite-fresh, cool breeze that wafted in from the river. Next morning we learned that we had
arrived in Irkutsk on the very day of the 100th anniversary of the first Trans-Siberian crossing.

One of my greatest regrets was being unable to spend more time in Irkutsk as it is such an old and
fascinating city. I would dearly love to return but know I never will. After an early breakfast we were
driven to the Angara River where we boarded a hydrofoil for a leisurely cruise downstream and across the
lake and to a pretty little village on the opposite shore. It was here that Sharyn, our rotund bundle of joy
from Mt Isa, made us all very proud as she stripped off to a bathing suit and immersed herself in the crystal-
 194

clear, purest water on earth, albeit only a little above freezing.

It was in this village that I broke from the group for a short
time to wander alone, lost in my personal fantasies and I was
transported back to the beautiful little town of Oberammergau
in Bavaria. The pine-scented air smelled similar; there was a
similar little meandering stream; the houses in this little village
were quite similar inasmuch as all were grey-with-age, hand-
hewn timber, with a small rustic bridge spanning a tiny stream,
but here they appeared to be much, much older, some several
hundred years old. Many of these houses are beautifully
decorated with age-old, hand-carved wooden lace. I found an
A small rustic bridge at Lake Baykal, Siberia
ancient church and a peaceful little coffee house where I sat
alone, reflecting on time, life, and of how I came to be so far from home. Compared to the crowded
conditions on board the train, this was heaven! My version of heaven anyway!
We rejoined our vessel at a large port from where boats plied the waters of the lake, but not until
after I was physically molested by a pleasantly drunk Siberian blonde chap, who got a headlock on me and
would not let go, much to the amusement of my fellow travellers. He was trying to drag me along the street
and seemed determined to either take me home, to the nearest bar, or maybe he just wanted to keep me as a
pet. I imagine he was suffering some form of mental illness.

Back in Irkutsk our tripping continued as we were taken on a tour of the town by a young guide who gave a
very interesting commentary of aspects of this extremely remote area. We were shown the house in which
Nicholas and Alexandra and their children had been kept prisoner for some time before their untimely
execution. Never did I realise that that evening would be one of the most memorable experiences of my
entire life.
I think I may have said previously that I hope not to die with regrets at not having experienced just
about everything I wanted to do … one small happening that I did not see as it involved me was when, at a
flower stall, I had been admiring a magnificent, large, white chrysanthemum of a species I had never before
seen. The flower-seller gave me one. Although it wasn’t a pansy, I felt like one as I walked along the
footpath with my flower. I passed sellers who had cages of birds, kittens, puppies and newts, and water-
filled containers with frogs, eels, and disgusting slimy little things that defied description - all for sale - and
then I saw her … the most wonderful old woman, dressed in black, with head bowed low. I wondered if
she had anyone who loved her. I kowtowed slightly and, with one wide sweep of the hand, gave her my
treasured chrysanthemum, never once dreaming that anyone
would have seen me doing so. Friends later told of seeing a
very old lady, dressed entirely in black, wandering slowly on
her way with a shopping bag in one hand, a large, white
chrysanthemum in the other, and a tear in her eye. I do hope it
was a tear of joy!
In the meantime, we were given time off for personal
wanderings. John, Judith, Nanette, Sharyn and I went our own
way exploring the strange shops, and by ‘strange’ I mean that
very few had any form of windows. There were absolutely no
identifying marks outdoors to indicate what was on sale
indoors. To purchase an item was a very strange experience
Hand-carved wooden lace adorns the windows of
Lake Baykal and Irkutsk also. An unsmiling sales girl was positioned at every counter
where you could select your item She would give a chit that
then had to be presented to the checkout by the door. After payment, the chit would be exchanged for
another that would then be given to the customer. The customer would then have to take that one back and
give it to the sales girl, who would then wrap the goods and the transaction was then completed.

That day we stocked up on provisions once again as - on leaving Irkutsk - we would be embarking on the
longest unbroken stretch of the entire trip … three days of continuous travelling to Moscow! We deposited
our purchases back at the hotel and then did what most leisure-minded folk of Irkutsk do - we walked to the
riverbank where there were lawns, open-air bars and music. A wide sweep of steps led from street level,
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down to the river. We all got ourselves some cold drinks and sat on the steps, in the peace and cool of
the early evening air. The sun would soon hide its weary face below the horizon. Then I noticed it -
the piece de resistance of my visit to Siberia - resting on the placid waters of the Angara: a homemade
ultralite aircraft where a short queue was waiting! My companions urged me not to even think of it, as
it looked so flimsy, powered with what appeared to be nothing more than a lawnmower engine. I had
to do it! As I said at the time: “I don’t care if I die in the attempt … I’m going up!” After half an hour
or so the line had shortened to two … one very fat Asian man and me, the very last. The pilot
announced that this would be the last flight of the day but he could take only one. My heart sank! Fat
man clambered aboard and attempted to balance himself on the metal ‘plough’ seat behind the pilot.
The motor coughed to life, spluttered, coughed again, and died. Fat Man was too heavy for the craft to
lift off! There was only one other waiting in line in case some miracle happened - and that someone
was me, always lucky me!
As we took off into the balmy evening air I could scarcely believe that this quiet country boy
had - in his senior years managed the ultimate experience, to lift off into the heavens … and in Siberia
of all places.

The river dropped away below us as I was taken up and across and over the southern suburbs, then
some distance downstream. Off to the west the sun unleashed its grip on the edge of the world and
slipped from sight. Feeble lights were already twinkling as Irkutsk prepared itself for night. We
circled around over the city and, after only thirty minutes or so, we once again settled on the river.
This was something never to be forgotten, one more item to be crossed off my ever-shortening list of
things that had to be done before I die. Thank you Irkutsk! Thank you Pilot! And thanks to you too,
Angara River!

No words can tell what we did to while away the hours and days of the next portion of the trip. The
longest walk we could do was to the dining car - food was becoming desperately scarce and
unpalatable - but it filled in time. Of course there was the joy of visiting the toilets en route if one
desired, but due to the filth and stench, they were reserved for extreme emergencies only. Fortunately
the temperature was lowering somewhat. This was a time for getting to learn the more intimate side of
one’s travelling companions. It was a time for enjoying ourselves - no radios, no television, no
phones, nothing to read, and no contact with the world outside our rocking carriage. No doubt, if one
dared, we could have somehow made our way to a ‘hard class’ carriage for a look-see. There was still
the dreary round of medication to be taken on time two-or-three times daily. Trying to arrange those
to be taken after food was one problem … finding food to take it after was the bigger problem. The
basic elements of our compartment continued - much to our unsmiling guide’s annoyance - to be
Judith, Nannette, Bob and me. We shared intimate secrets, sweets
and any reading matter that became available. Everyone had his or
her own particularly varied occupation, as mentioned previously and
Amy - being highly qualified in the world of medicine - was our
resident nurse cum doctor. And of course there was yours truly, the
ex-teacher and present company director and designer. As I was
taking catalogues of my designs to a show in Amsterdam after the
trip, I brought one out for interest sake. It happened that one
passenger who we had nick-named Little John or John the
Unfashionable - who had absolutely no taste whatsoever in dress -
e.g. wide-stripe black and white shorts paired with a highly coloured
floral shirt, or a pink shirt with red, white and floral shorts, had
joined the group. He saw one of my cross-stitch designs titled
‘Snowy River Country’ of a rural country lane with a high
bougainvillea climbing a tree at the roadside. He said “My aunt and
uncle live up there!”…indicating a scarcely visible lane on the right-
hand side of the piece. I had taken a photograph - from which I
designed the piece - a few years previously when Raymond and I
were driving near Buchan, a part of Australia I had only visited once My cross-stitch design titled
before. Just a little trivia, but another of those amazing coincidences ‘Snowy River Country’
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that so often crop up.

After so long spent crossing unbroken plains, with little to see other than the occasional hut and
accompanying vegetable patch, John Boyle was rather interested in crossing the Ural Mountains and
passing through the city of Sverdlovsk. This was a non-event, as the mountains were so flat no-one knew
when we crossed them, but we did have time to get out for a walk on the platform. The Urals are a range
that separates western Russia from the main, larger portion of Russia. I was now aware of what it had
meant to be banished to Siberia, but I had not had to experience winter! That, to my way of thinking,
would be a death sentence in itself. It didn’t do much for Dr Zhivago, did it? Or Nicholas and Alexandra
and the children either. From this point on, right through to Moscow, it became more developed and
populated. Quite often we saw - in the remote distance - high fences and large extents of buildings that
could gave been army barracks, or gaols - miles from anywhere. We were told that such areas were out of
bounds to all but Russian military personnel.

Moscow (Moskva)
It was with some degree of excitement that we pulled in at an extremely long platform in Moscow. Much
of the excitement was the thought of getting decent food but, not having seen a newspaper or heard a radio
for so long, we were unaware of the frightful financial conditions Russia was experiencing, or what lay
ahead of us. The Russian economy had collapsed! We were taken directly to our Intourist Hotel, very
conveniently located and just half a block from Red Square.
Here we learned that the Intourist hotels were owned and operated by the Russian mafia - ex
members of the KGB. A string of gleaming, black limousines was constantly on stand-by in the street out
front of the hotel. These limos dropped off and picked up the mafia-managed prostitutes who plied their
trade in the hotels. These ladies were of exceptional beauty, always very well dressed, with black mini
skirts, showing gorgeous legs that went right up to you-know-where as they stood, leaning on the bar,
displaying their assets to all who happened to be sitting in the lounge. These ‘ladies’ were brazen enough
to join anyone sitting in the lounge, uninvited and, if there was a male, sit next to him, giving a run-down
on what services they provided and how much it would cost. Wives or girlfriends of the poor unfortunate
male were no deterrent. And they would phone almost hourly all night, every night!
The banks had closed their doors, public servants had not been paid for months and the general
population was near starvation. Beggars were a common sight on the streets. I guess the girls had to make
a living somehow. All transactions had to be paid in $US … Russian currency was not accepted. But as all
our travel had been pre-paid the unfortunate circumstances didn’t affect us unduly. Being overly hungry,
Bob and I could not wait for the others, so we made our way to the first corner we came to and what should
we find - a block or so from the Kremlin - a MacDonald’s! The only way it could be identified was by a
single yellow M above the doorway, with the word MACDONALDS in Cyrillic characters about nine
inches high beneath the single arch. Bob had never been in a MacDonald’s before and it became somewhat
of a joke that they had not yet reached New Zealand in 1998.

We awakened to find a morning with 100% cloud coverage, very pleasant for a day into the country with a
visit to the Monastery of Saint Cyril. It was this Cyril, together with his brother, who had introduced the
Cyrillic alphabet to Russia from Greece. I learned
this after inquiring how it was that I could read
some of the words and place-names when I had
never visited Russia before. It so happened that
the day we visited Saint Cyril’s was a very special
Holy Day with many VIP’s in attendance. I
managed to get a photo of Mrs Yeltsin, wife of the
then President. This was a particularly beautiful
monastery with whitewashed walls topped by
ornate blue cupolas with yellow stars, all capped
with gold trim.

Our travels in Moscow were extensive and covered

much of interest, amongst which was the highly
ornate - and frequently photographed Cathedral of Even on a cold and rainy day, St Basil’s was still beautiful
 197

St Basil in Red Square. I have no idea how long St Basil lived in that building, but the story is that he never
ever wore clothing of any sort. He managed to go through life stark naked and - in that climate - he must
have been stark mad as well. Close by our hotel, and beneath the Kremlin is a huge, multi-story shopping
centre that was damaged by terrorists shortly after our visit.
Quite nearby on Red Square is an enormous three-story building that had once been a palace, but
had long-since been converted into a government-owned department store - reputably the largest
department store in the world - the GUM. In this aspect Russia is similar to the United States as in both
countries, everything is the biggest, the largest, or the best.
On this day we experienced the first rain since Ulaanbataar. The leaden sky hung heavily as it
poured its contents on the unfortunate tourists below - clouds so low that they hid the tops of the taller
buildings. A ticket had to be paid for at the door of the Armory of the Kremlin before a camera could be
taken indoors - and a very prominent sticker was then stuck to the camera for all guards to see. The
Armory was money well spent - it is a magnificent display of history and wealth, with a treasure of gold,
silver, tapestries and a magnificent larger-than-life sized portrait of Catherine the Great in all her glory. I
should draw attention at this point to the fact that - although the Kremlin looks and sounds so daunting from
the outside - once inside the walls it takes on a completely different aspect. External walls of the buildings
are mostly virginal white, with a rich buttercup-yellow trim, while the many domes are either a beautiful
shade of blue or gleaming gold.

The Moscow Metro came as a complete surprise: Each subterranean station is uniquely decorated, each
with its own individual theme. Walls, ceilings and floors are adorned with beautiful paintings, statuary and
mosaics. There is no graffiti in Moscow! It is a very clean and interesting city. There came an evening
when our guide requested we all dress for the occasion as we were to attend a formal function - a
performance at the Bolshoi Theatre. Now I ask you, we had been on the road - so to speak - for six or
seven weeks, wearing the same clothing day and night for the entire time without laundry facilities of any
kind - and now we were expected to dress all formal-like for the ballet. Why on earth had I sent my warm
clothing back to Australia from Beijing? Although this was mid-summer, the nights in Moscow were rather
cold. I did have a suit and tie packed away for the trade show in the Netherlands, but thought I’d stand out
like the proverbial dog’s knackers if I wore that in the present company. We were all so very scruffy and
there was nothing that could be done about our attire and sip champers in the ornate upstairs foyer at
interval in the Bolshoi Theatre. I have always enjoyed a good ballet but when asked how I enjoyed that
evening’s performance, all I could say was: “Wuckin’ foeful!” It was particularly evident where the
leading male stored his socks during the performance. In keeping with the touch of distinction of the
evening, we all had to sit on upright wooden chairs for the grand performance of Tchaikovsky’s ‘Swan
Lake’.
That performance gave us something to discuss on the next and final section of the Trans
Mongolian experience. When the rail line was being constructed it seems that engineers had worked out a
route for the line, but the Tsar, during one of his penny-pinching periods, wanted it to go direct from
Moscow to St Petersburg - or Leningrad, or whatever. He called for a map of the area, grabbed a ruler and
drew a straight line from one city to the other and demanded that that was the route for the line. When he
said direct, he meant direct!
On arrival in St Petersburg - the most northern city to be visited during my life - Melissa, who had
not once given up on her persecution of me, passed out questionnaires to be filled in for forwarding to head
office in Melbourne, asking our opinions of the trip, accommodation, service etc, especially how we rated
our guide - all had to be signed and sealed on completion. This could have been my golden opportunity to
avenge myself, however I knew all too well that the confidentiality would be broken, and I knew that she
would open the envelopes herself and so, in order to embarrass her while she was still around, I chose
reverse psychology by giving her a glowing report. She came to me later that day to apologise for the way
she had treated me as she didn’t realise how highly I had regarded her. “Anything I can do to help in
future, Graeme, just ask me!”

St Petersburg
The monolithic Pribaltikasaya Hotel in St Petersburg had a wonderful outlook situated, as it was, just one
vacant allotment from the Gulf of Finland. Unfortunately however, it had its back turned to the view and
faced inland, overlooking the large car park instead. The frontal aspect gave the impression of being a
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great, predatory monster from a science fiction film. The entire building was thirteen-plus stories of grey
concrete that looked very dim and foreboding, with a wide central façade, and matching wings reaching
forward on either side that gave the impression of being two vast arms reaching out to envelop entering
guests.
After dinner in an enormous room, my roommate Bob left the table early, saying he was tired from
the long trip and wanted to get some well-earned sleep. For his age he had held up far better than
expected. When I eventually made it back to the room, I found it empty. The hotel was proportionate to
the dining room - it was a sprawling, massive building - similar to the Government architecture of
Mongolia. I soon had a search party organized and Bob was eventually located in the labyrinth of
corridors, completely lost!

Travellers, with whom I have recently spoken, talk of the grandeur of St Petersburg. Admittedly, it had
once been magnificent. Since the decline of the Soviet Union however, funds for upkeep and maintenance
seemed to have been channeled into the bank accounts of the already infamous mafia. Many of the
historic buildings were falling into a state of disrepair. I noticed a considerable amount of scaffolding
inside the beautiful Cathedral of St Peter and St Paul, where the earthly remains of the unfortunate
Romanov family had been re-interred only a few months before our visit, and I asked our Russian guide
how long artisans had been working on the restoration. She said that she had not seen any work being
done within the past two years. Despite the years of neglect, St Petersburg - often described as being one
of the most beautiful cities in the world - is still known as the Venice of the North as it has been built over
many islands and canals. Although 300 years old, the city - founded by Peter the Great in 1703 - is vibrant
and cosmopolitan with some of the most beautiful architecture in Europe.
Heading the list of must-see places is the incredibly beautiful green and white Winter Palace that is
located on the bank of the Neva River. Peter the Great had it built for Empress Elizabeth who died before
its completion. It then became the home of Catherine the Great and her successors, and from the 1760’s
onwards the Palace was the main residence of the Russian Tsars. It was a cosy little pad with some 1,057
lavishly decorated halls and rooms. This is also the home of the famed Heritage Museum, with an art
collection to rival that of the Vatican - or all the palaces in Italy combined. It was here that I had been
asked to buy a piece of jewellery for Mary, a very dear friend in Melbourne, the wife of my ex-boss
Graham. She had seen the piece during a recent visit and didn’t get around to buying it at the time. I
found what I thought it would be, and bought it. She was delighted!

One day, as a group, we sailed for a few minutes across the waters of the Gulf of Finland to Petrov -
known as the Summer Palace - the exquisite summer residence of the Russian Tsars. The day of our visit
just happened to be the reopening of the main central fountain, the largest of one hundred and fifty
operating fountains in the magnificently landscaped parks and grounds, all of which were adorned with
many gorgeous golden statues. In addition to the fountains there are five monumental glittering, sparkling
cascades that dazzled with the light from the summer sun. To create this grand complex, thousands of
labourers, soldiers, master carvers and painters had been employed on the project. A live band played on
the day of our visit, all members of which were dressed in splendid period costumes, as were many of the
officially invited guests and entertainers. It was a magical experience and the weather wonderful!
The very next day it took a turn for the worse; it was cold and beginning to become miserable with
an almost constant drizzle and the adventure of a lifetime had come to an end. I felt terribly sad and lonely
saying goodbye to each member of the group who had shared six weeks of my life - they departed that day
for many destinations - four were taking an inland waterways cruise, some went to Canada and the United
States, some to the great south land, Bob went back to New Zealand, Nanette and Judith were returning
across Asia via the Silk Road, while I - with my two pieces of personal luggage and one very heavy
suitcase of catalogues for my distributor in the Netherlands - was the last man standing. I had three days to
wait for my flight to Amsterdam. Melissa asked where I would be staying. Here was my golden
opportunity and I played the scene for all it was worth, pouring my heart out, not knowing anywhere
affordable to stay, and not knowing the language … I delivered an award-winning performance of despair.
She again thanked me for the nice things I had said about her in the questionnaire and told me not to worry
as she would make sure she found me somewhere comfortable to stay.

St Petersburg can be a very lonely place to be alone in. Out of the ‘kindness of her heart’, Melissa took me
 199

to the Oktrabaltikaskaya Hotel where she had made a

reservation for me. I had to make sure I didn’t have too
much to drink or get lost, as I would never have been
able to tell anyone where I was staying. The hotel was
huge, really huge, five stories of depressingly drab
masonry on a large corner block. Across from one
façade of the building was Moskva Railway Station -
across from the other façade was the suburban Metro.
Streets were broken, with potholes deep enough to bury
a body in. I saw instances of tramlines actually
suspended in mid-air over some of these holes. The
noise of these passing trams was horrendous and went
on well into the night. The conductor would have to
The streets of St Petersburg were broken and dilapidated -
alight at intersections and manually change the points. on the left is the Oktrabaltikaskaya Hotel where I stayed

Finding food was my next problem. I located the dining room on the 1st floor and was amazed at the
décor, or lack thereof. The street-side wall - the one shown in the photo on page 198 - was covered with a
green printed fabric in panels between the windows. All other walls were a delicate wood-grained laminex
and the floor appeared to be cork tiles. Each table had three plastic chairs and, at the end of the room, was
a servery with a few shelves that gave the resemblance of being either a bar or kitchenette. Behind this bar
was a selection of plates with what I thought were plastic representations of food. After indicating one
such plate, the attendant passed it to me, took my money, and it was then that I found the plastic wasn’t
what it appeared to be - it was actually food that I imagine had been cooked that morning and had been
allowed to go cold without refrigeration of any kind. I dined that evening on cold, hard-fried eggs, with
bread and unsweetened black tea.

A nocturnal activity that went on all night was the hourly phone-calls from the in-house whores offering
their services. Maybe they didn’t understand my “Nyet” as they would come knocking at the door at all
hours, possibly thinking they had misunderstood me. At the head of the stairs on each floor was an eagle-
eyed keeper who controlled room keys - it was impossible to get past the old harridan without
relinquishing your key and - I feel sure - it was that very same woman who tipped the entertainment
committee as to when a male guest had returned and taken up occupancy for the night. She would make a
big deal out of giving a key - she would fumble for ages amongst her many layers of clothing, find a key to
open a drawer, use that key to open another drawer and so on until there was only the one key and one
drawer left to open. The corridors were all rather scary as they vanished at a point where all four corners
met in perspective at the end of the vast, dimly lit passageway. I will admit to being somewhat nervous
walking along that corridor, particularly at night.
I spent the three days alone, not really talking to anyone, and never venturing far out of sight of the
street on which I lived. I tried a few different cafes but was not once sufficiently impressed to make a
second visit. I called in at each of the intriguing railway stations just to admire their artistry. The most
interesting thing I found was a Versace men’s wear shop that I simply had to visit. I was the only
‘customer’ at the time and even I didn’t - and couldn’t afford to - buy anything. But it was fun looking,
especially when I was dressed in my train-travel rags.

Then came the day to depart the old Soviet Union and head across the Baltic Sea to Amsterdam, where I
had to appear at the needlecraft show in a small village in the southern part of the Netherlands. It was on
that flight that I had an awful sinking feeling when the ‘plane dropped a few miles, an experience that
seemed to go on for ages and ages and ages. I had time to do quite a bit of thinking, the main part of
which was being thankful I had taken that flight in that ultralite contraption in Siberia. I checked my
seatbelt, closed my eyes, closed and laid my book on my knees, and waited for the final crash. What
would it feel like as we crashed into the ocean? I wondered. We lurched and bucked and things went all
over the place … there were screams as a few folk hit the ceiling and a considerable amount of food was
splattered everywhere. On landing in the Netherlands the crew lined up outside the ‘plane, giving out chits
for medical treatment, meals, laundry and the like. It appears we had entered the jet stream of another
aircraft ahead, and the thin hot air had caused the loss of altitude.
 200

The Netherlands
My Netherlands distributor met me in the arrivals area where I gathered up my three pieces of heavy
luggage. I told him that one was full of catalogues that I had carried all the way from Australia and -
instead of thanking me - he said he didn’t need them. He walked slightly ahead of me, jiggling his car keys,
while I straggled along behind as best I could, still manhandling all three pieces of luggage. I really had
expected something better as after all, he had invited me and asked me to attend the show on his display
stand. I could not believe the rudeness of it all, and then I realised where I was.
It was a long, long drive south to our destination with very little conversation as he spoke little
English and I spoke none of his. On reaching our motel I learned that the show was being held in a large
room in what appeared to be the basement. I took the catalogues downstairs and left them on a table near
where I was to work. They were not there the following morning! Feeling very dejected, I did a few hours
work, during which time I was introduced to family members but not to any customers. Honestly, I felt
humiliated, as at every show I had attended in Australia, England and the United States, I was always
treated like some sort of celebrity, with a constant stream of interested crafty folk lining up to ask questions,
be photographed with me, or have their charts autographed. Here, in the Netherlands, I met no-one!
Another thing that amazed me was that all and sundry brought their dogs indoors with them, and
were seldom without a cigarette hanging from the mouth. The air stank! I was only too pleased to get away
from that venue and was disgusted beyond belief at the way I had been treated. I declined any offer of help
to return to Amsterdam other than accept a lift to the railway station where I caught a train north to Utrecht.
It was there that I had to change trains for Amsterdam. The rain fell in a continuous, depressingly heavy
downpour. I could see little from the taxi and allowed the driver to take me to a motel of his choosing -
anything would have done as all I wanted to do was be alone with my thoughts for one night.
That wonderful trip from Hong Kong to Guangzhou, Xi’an and Beijing, across China to Mongolia,
thence to Siberia and the wonderful Irkutsk, across to Moscow and up to St Petersburg really warrants far
better treatment than I have given in these pages. It deserves to be a book in its own right. My main
problem is that I have never kept a diary or journal and have had to rely entirely on memory, passports,
photographs and letters from my cousin Beryl for this entire manuscript. I had time to reminisce during that
miserable night in Holland and wonder what I had done to deserve such ignorant treatment. And then I
realised I was in Holland!

And so began another boring flight to Heathrow where I never even bothered leaving the airport. I changed
‘planes, as all I wanted to do was get home amongst friends again. A stopover in Singapore warrants
mention, however, as after flying for such an immense distance I needed a little pampering and found a
masseur not far from my hotel. I located a masseur nearby with a rather pretty young lass who couldn’t do
enough for me. I was told to remove everything other than my briefs and lay on my back on the floor. This
surprised me as it was my back I wanted massaged. She began at the top, with knees on either side of my
head, then lifted her skirt and dropped it over my face. Uh, uh! God it was dark under there and, as there
was absolutely nothing of interest to see, I said nothing. I exaggerated everything from there on coughing,
spluttering, heaving, and loudly gasping for air. She changed position and then moved her hands down
towards the family jewels, I told her I could do that for myself if I wanted to, got dressed, gave her some
money and went back to the hotel. So much for a relaxing massage in Singapore!
 201

NEW YEAR IN PENANG 1998-1999

Late in 1998 I flew to Cairns to attend a wedding and, whilst there, caught up with Anne’s daughter Marcia,
who I had known since Port Moresby days. Marcia told of how the family would be spending New Year in
Penang and asked, “Why don’t you join us?” I told her that Raymond was coming down on holidays in
December and - well why not? Yes, we would contact them at their hotel when we got there. But first I had
to obtain another visa for Raymond as he would be leaving Australia for a few days and would require the
second visa for re-entry to Australia on our return. On arrival home I discussed the proposed trip with my
friend and neighbour Peg, who said she would willingly look after the business for me during our absence.
I had the feeling that I was making too much of a welter of asking assistance from Peg but she thoroughly
enjoyed the work and was always there - always a willing helper.
Raymond arrived down from Papua New Guinea early in December 1998 and informed me that his
name was now Arnold. I did my best to explain that we just cannot change our name at will, but he could
not see my reasoning and showed me his all-important birth certificate that - with the help of a considerable
amount of opaquing fluid - stated that his first name was now Arnold (Raymond obliterated), surname Ross
(Manasa obliterated), date of birth unchanged at May 5, 1962. His place of birth was now Ballarat instead
of the previously recorded Samarai, and his father’s name was Graeme Ross instead of Manasa Moses.
This caused problems with his passport that I had to have amended to read Raymond Arnold Manasa, but
his Birth Certificate is now completely invalid. After a considerable amount of arguing he agreed to
Raymond Arnold but when Christmas cards began arriving - sent to Graeme and Raymond he changed his
name to Arnold in all instances.
The travel agent booked the two of us on a flight from Brisbane to the new, magnificent, oversized
airport at Kuala Lumpur on December 29, 1998. We then had to change flights to Penang - not at all easy to
do in an airport of such massive proportions, and it was so new that directional notices had not as yet been
installed. We wandered, completely lost, through the star-like, Star Wars-type mirror maze interior and - at
one stage - found ourselves locked behind the counter in the departure area. Only then did someone come
to our aid and guide us to the monorail that would take us away from the International Arrivals airport, to
our departure area at the domestic terminal.
It was still broad daylight when we arrived at the very comfortable Paradise Sandy Bay Hotel, right
on the beach on the north coast of the island of Penang, where I had made reservations for ten nights. We
had a magnificent room on the 17th floor with a view, not only of Sandy Bay beach, but right along Batu
Ferringhi Road to the east as well.

One day Arnold and I hired a taxi to take us on a tour. It was then that I realised how large the island of
Penang was. Leaving the hotel we drove westwards along the north coast, to a spot that defied explanation
as far as Arnold was concerned. We came upon a weather-beaten shack, emblazoned with a large sign that
read ‘END OF THE WORLD - Ah Sim Seafood Restaurant’ - where we had a wonderful meal of noodles
with seafood for something like five Australian dollars for the three of us – our driver and the two of us. We
had time to wander along the rustic jetty that had been constructed from palm trunks, bamboo poles, and
assorted scraps of timber that served as a ‘port’ for several well-weathered fishing craft. After making
enquiries as to the name of the area I learned - and was able to explain to Arnold - that until the west coast
road had been completed, that spot had been the end of the road .
We turned south at this point, driving down the winding west coast road, where we found a world of
small villages that time seemed to have forgotten. At a roadside stall in a new development that was just
beginning to take shape, we bought a few pirate videos of quality so poor they had to be discarded when we
returned home. It was quite late in the afternoon when we approached the Georgetown airport - where we
had landed on arrival from Penang - then north again through the city and back to our hotel.
We dined in-house that evening - the Malaysian cuisine was superb and spicy and very, very tasty.
 202

The next morning I phoned Marcia to find out where she

Anne seemed to be saying
“Aren’t we cute?”
had made arrangements for all the family - with the now
Arnold and me being part of it - to meet for lunch. The
brasserie restaurant of the Shangri-la Penang Hotel was
excellent. After lunch Anne, Arnold and I, did a little
casual wandering and shopping during which time we went
up to the observation deck of the Komtar tower, from where
one could see the mighty bridge that ran from Penang to
Butterworth, on the mainland of Malaysia. The only
connection between the island and the mainland. I then
realised that on my previous visit I had crossed that stretch
of water by ferry, during that train trip from Kuala Lumpur
to Bangkok.

The extended family had grown to eight for the New Year’s Eve dinner at the hotel where Marcia had -
before leaving home - made reservations. She had booked us all in for the 9 p.m. session and, when we
arrived at 9, were advised that we would have to order quickly as the kitchen was about to close. It was a
particularly inferior meal with little in the way of variety so - after having little more than a very expensive
snack - we wandered the grounds trying to find a bar in which we could celebrate New Year. Without prior
reservations the other bars did not welcome extras and the one we had ‘dined’ in had already closed. We all
adjourned to Marcia and Mark’s apartment for a few drinks and to see the New Year in - with nothing other
than a few miserable sparklers - at midnight.

The next day Anne, Arnold and I found our way up to Penang Hill lookout, then spent some time
wandering down the leisurely walk to the Penang Botanical Gardens. The lad was not at all impressed when
one of the monkeys he was feeding attacked, snatching the bag of food from his hand. One dominate male
monkey held our attention as he hilariously showed his position of authority and social status by giving his
wife a really bad time, while simultaneously disciplining his howling infant. We later enjoyed a budget
meal in an area of small food stalls just outside the Snake Temple. Actually no-one - including Anne and I
- could get used to calling the lad Arnold but, as he couldn’t hear, it mattered little. I had to ensure,
however, that anything written was spelt A.R.N.O.L.D.

Some days we merely wandered at our own pace. On one of these treks I wanted to walk right into the
heart of the city, but after two or three miles of no pavement and increasing road traffic, we gave the idea
away and settled down for a few hours in a large airconditioned shopping complex. At one stage in our
walks we came to a large, fascinating mansion set well back from the
street in very extensive gardens, the driveway and paths of which were
lined with life size statues of nude figures, all of which faced towards the
house. I felt that the owner must have been some sort of pervert who
satisfied his sexual desires by gazing at the bodies, but learned that they
had previously faced the street, offending the neighbours and passers-by,
and the poor old sod had been compelled to have them re-settled with
their backs to the eyes of the public.
On January 1, 1999 we sat at a table for two at the wonderful
Paradise Sandy Bay Hotel where we had lunch on the last day of our
short holiday, then made our way back to the airport once again for our
flight to Kuala Lumpur’s glittering fantasyland that was the International
Airport. On television in 2005 I saw coverage, taken from that very same
hotel, of the tsunami that had raced ashore, killing thousands and
thousands of people in India, Thailand, Indonesia and Malaysia.

Just one lousy sparkler for New Year’s

Eve in Penang
 203

AN AUSTRALIAN WALKABOUT:
TWENTIETH CENTURY STYLE 1999-2000
After that son of mine - who I am still having difficulty calling Arnold - returned to Papua New Guinea in
March, I thought it about time I spent a little more time running the business and attending to personal affairs.
During all these absences on my part both Peg and Eddy had done wonders keeping the money flowing in, so
that I could enjoy myself by spending it. By this time my niece and her husband had parted and Lady Yolande
Chatterley had taken her gardener to her bosom - so to speak. Together with the two children, they bought a
home in the Gold Coast hinterland. As my one-and-only reason for moving to ‘The Coast’ had been to act as
grandfather to the children, I had little reason to stay longer in that false, pretentious, unfriendly environment,
and was seriously thinking of moving once again.

Whilst living in Cairns I had driven the Bruce Highway from Cairns to Brisbane a few times and - back in 1995
- had deviated inland from Rockhampton on the Burnett and New England Highways, down through Monto to
Toowoomba, on the way to the Gold Coast. I had become accustomed to frequently driving south to do Trade
Shows in Sydney and Melbourne, experimenting with every possible combination of Pacific, Hume and Newell
Highways, and associated east-west connections for the sake of variety. I love this wonderful country of mine -
I cannot experience enough of it.
And so, when Judith - with whom I had spent so much time on the Trans-Mongolian - invited me to
visit Gympie, a township that had been founded in 1867 after a massive gold discovery, to help celebrate the
birthday of her husband Jim early in 1999, my itchy feet felt the urge to get moving once more. Judith’s sister
Nanette would also be in Gympie and there was a spare bed for me. Sitting on the speed limit it takes roughly
three hours to drive north from the Gold Coast to the Sunshine Coast and that to me, by this stage, was more-or-
less equivalent to popping around to the corner store. The two ladies and I must have driven Jim to distraction
as we reminisced that evening about our marathon train journey.
The following morning Judith asked if I had ever been to Noosa: the answer was no! It was to Noosa
that my brother John had taken Beverley and the three children when they first left Ballarat and lived in a
caravan. I was living in Papua New Guinea at that time and have little knowledge of family matters so am not
sure if it was there that Beverley pulled the plug on the marriage or not. I had often wanted to see where Beve
had once been happy and I didn’t know anything about the area. It all boils down to the fact that I said I would
love to go for the drive and, for reasons unknown, popped my Visa card in my shirt pocket.

With Judith at the wheel we set off south to Cooroy, turned

left to Tewantin - a place I had not heard of previously due to
my long absence from Australia - where Judith suggested we
take a coffee break. This was where I met my soul mate!
Between the car and the coffee shop was a pet shop in the
window of which was a doggie, a tiny, eight-weeks old
Tenterfield terrier that looked at me with gorgeous little
brown eyes that said quite clearly, “Buy me, please! Please
take me home with you!” I didn’t even ask how much the
doggie in the window was - when it comes to love, money is
of no concern - we had to be family and that was that! I
flashed my Visa card and asked the sales lady to have him This photograph was not posed—
ready for collection when we called back after coffee. And so I found Jack in my slipper when I awoke one morning.
 204

Jack came into my life! Not Jack the Jack Russell, as so many bewildered folk think, but Jack the
Tenterfield terrier, of Peter Allen fame. Jack doesn’t realise it, but his great-grandfather may have had
connections with the Tenterfield Saddler. He slept the next two nights in a shoebox, beside my bed, where
he moaned, groaned and whimpered the nights away. Then he had his first long car ride down to the Gold
Coast, sleeping most of the way on the passenger seat. That was seven years ago and we are still practically
inseparable mates. When anyone mentions what a lovely nature he has, I can only reply: “He takes after
his father!” We attended Puppy School for six weeks and I must say, I learned a lot - well a lot more than
Jack did. To be perfectly honest, neither of us are particularly brilliant, just bright enough to confuse the
peasants! Before many months had passed, Jack had become quite an international celebrity after I
designed a cross-stitch chart of him, exactly as I found him one morning as he awakened from sleep, in my
slipper.

It was pre-dawn on the morning of my 67th birthday that I called on Peg and asked if she could look after
Jack for awhile - I had no idea for how long. An Asian friend, Victor, and Yolande each had their own idea
on how to help celebrate my birthday - neither could make up their mind as to when and how and, as I did
not want to upset either, I decided that Arnold and I would not be home when they did decide. I told
Arnold to throw a few essentials into his bag and - without further ado - took off on a beautifully clear
summer’s morning, with no idea of where we were going, or for how long. As Jack had his own kennel out
back, and a huge lawn to play in, he stayed home alone ... Peg visited him frequently and gave him dinner
each evening. He thoroughly enjoyed himself. After all, he was nine months old and considered himself to
be quite grown up.
Turning left a little short of Brisbane, we headed inland to the city of Toowoomba; where we had
stopped for a drink on our way down to settle on the Gold Coast. After a quick lunch we headed northwest
into regions unknown along the Warrego Highway. Places with vaguely familiar names such as Oakey,
Dalby and Chinchilla flew by in the opposite direction. Late in the afternoon we called in at a pleasant-
looking corner motel with a sign out front that read: ‘VACANCY’. We had reached Miles - originally
known as Dogwood Crossing - a name that is far more befitting than Miles would ever be. We summed up
our evening meal in that tiny country township in one word - Sensational! It was in Miles that we first
encountered the very peculiar Australian bottle tree known as baobab. I was tempted to try the hot springs
in Miles but - as neither had packed swimming trunks - and I had a yearning for the wind in my hair, we
decided to move on after breakfast the following morning for destinations unknown. It would be far more
honest to say that I made the decision - Arnold was always content to go along for the ride - whatever Dad
decided was the right decision! That’s why he’s such an ideal travelling companion.
We travelled north along the Leichhardt Highway until a joint decision had to be made when we
came to Blackall - north or northwest - or north by northwest? I chose to drive to Longreach, the home of
the recently established Stockman’s Hall of Fame that had become an icon on the Australian scene. I
thought this would be interesting for Arnold to see something of how I had grown up on the farm near
Ballarat, but it was just too much like our old farm, and held absolutely no interest for me as the Hall
contained little more that pieces of my childhood and Arnold, being very blasé about it all and desperate for
coffee, wanted out! The visit had taken no more than 30 minutes. We slept the night at Longreach before
heading off once again into the wilds of the vast, flat, arid, far west of Queensland.

The Barkly Highway took us northwest to Mount Isa - known affectionately as The Isa - where my nephew
Craig had once worked. At that time, I had been blissfully unaware of exactly where Mt Isa was and was
amazed that his parents had allowed him to travel to such a remote location. Known to me only as a large
mining operation, Mount Isa is huge: the city’s boundaries enclose the largest geographic area of any city
in the world. The city’s administrative area of 40,977 sq. kilometres is roughly the same size as
Switzerland and twice as big as Israel. Believe me - everything in outback Queensland is like Texas -
everything is larger than life! Although Mount Isa is the site of Australia’s largest underground silver-zinc-
lead-ore mine - and no doubt the mine was in operation - the day we arrived was Sunday and the city was
closed. We managed a cold drink then agreed to continue westwards towards the border with the Northern
Territory. The sky ahead was a broiling, ominous black - the monsoon season was heading towards us.
Way out on the open road - down came a deluge - so heavy, in fact, that we could not see the road
itself. The undulating landscape had been particularly impressive until that happened and I now had to
concentrate all my attention on what lay ahead. At one stage Arnold let out a loud; “Buh!” and gave me an
 205

almighty bash on the leg that scared the daylights out of me - he pointed to the left. I was driving at snail’s
pace at this stage and, through the grey downpour, thought I could see a building at the side of the road ...
slowly we came to a stop. It was then that I realised the building was a hotel and we had reached
Camooweal.
There is a delightful little country song on Australian radio called: ‘Take me back to Camooweal’
for which I now have a very soft spot in my heart. I am sure that Camooweal is the smallest place I have
ever been to in Australia: it has a hotel, a service station cum truck-stop and a tiny takeaway food place on
the corner opposite the hotel. Although we were able to get a room for the night, by 3 o’clock in the
afternoon the storm had cleared and driving conditions would have been fine, but the road ahead was long,
so I decided to rest up. Our room was in a line of four in the back yard of the hotel, and from our balcony
we had an excellent view of a steady stream of Aborigines, walking to and from the hotel with cartons of
beer. I thought we were in for a rowdy night but fortunately their camp seemed to have been some distance
away - out of sight and out of mind!. Dinner was a snack from the takeaway across the road. We
breakfasted at the service station where huge road-trains - three and four trailers long - were parked for
some distance along the roadside. We left as soon as we could bolt a meal down as I didn’t want to get
caught behind too many of those long, long trailers, and then again, I didn’t want them behind me either as
the road in this part was a narrow strip of bitumen, with soft red earth on either side. After the rains, much
of this earth had been churned up into slushy red mud by all the overtaking and passing vehicles. Believe
me, I don’t know which is scarier, having one ahead that needs to be passed, or having one behind that
would make mincemeat out of a Mitsubishi Lancer.

Before our departure from the Gold Coast I had no idea that we would ever be travelling so far from home
and - as we were not carrying any spare containers for fuel - I made it a practice to fill the tank at every
opportunity due to the long distances between service stations. The last thing we did before leaving
Camooweal was top up the tank and, just as we passed the last of the road trains parked at the roadside
outside township, I read a notice that stated NEXT FUEL 272 KM (169 miles). I had no idea how far a full
tank would take us and spent some time worrying unnecessarily, as the distances in this part of the country
are extreme. It was unfortunate that - not long before our departure - I had seen Stephen Spielberg’s film,
‘Duel’. Some distance out of town I noticed a great truck in the rear vision mirror, racing up behind us at
the speed of light. A sense of panic hit me when I realised that two people in a small car could disappear in
a matter of minutes in such an empty wasteland and, quite possibly, no trace would ever be found. I dared
not let Arnold sense my concern but I was definitely worried. Many overtook us, giving me the same fear
each time. It was more than fear - I had allowed it to become sheer terror!
I wasn’t concerned only about the trucks as I had also built up images in my mind of having our
path blocked by another car and the two of us being attacked and dumped in the desolation off the roadside.
Bodies, even the remains of a car, would be unlikely to ever be discovered. I worried unnecessarily!
Mention has previously been made about the lad’s modesty; this gave rise to one hilarious
happening that could never possibly be repeated. We were way out in the middle of nowhere when he let
me know that he wanted to go to the toilet - not for a big job fortunately - just to empty his bladder, a wee-
wee, in other words. I pulled to the roadside, he got out and asked where he could go. I told him to stand
behind a tree. He looked westwards along the road ahead, then north, around to the east and then south.
The look on his face was one of utter disgust as he drew circles at the side of his head, telling me that I was
mental, not him. Not only were there no trees in sight anywhere, there wasn’t even a blade of grass.
Nothing but hard, flat, red Australian-outback earth! Then, just as he plucked up courage to pee on the bare
earth beside the car, a massive truck came hurtling along the road towards us - I have never seen private
parts disappear as quickly. He was not a happy chappie!
In all the distance we had driven from Camooweal I don’t recall having seen one solitary building.
There were the occasional red tracks leading away to the left or right and I wondered where they could
possibly go to. Then, was it a mirage, or was it a building - way, way off, ahead on the left? – it was the
long-awaited Barkly Homestead Roadhouse: Fuel, Meals, Drinks and Accommodation! As tempting and
all as it was to stay the night, due to the early hour I fathomed it would be preferable to have lunch, fill the
tank and head off to Three Ways, where the Barkly Highway meets up with the Stuart Highway that runs
from Adelaide, right up through the centre of the continent to Darwin. Three Ways is not merely an
intersection as - for those with time to spare - there are a few points of interest: There’s the Three Ways
Roadhouse: the Devil’s Pebbles ... the Devil’s Marbles are further south; a John Flynn Memorial ... they’re
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everywhere in the inland - and the Tennant Creek Telegraph Station. It was a hive of activity at the time of
our stopping, meaning that we were the third car there. A big decision had to be made ... were we to turn
right and drive up north to Darwin - a distance of some 997km - or turn south to Tennant Creek, just a few
kilometres? I felt that I deserved a break from sitting at the wheel so we turned left and booked into a motel
at Tennant Creek for two nights.
I really wanted to go to Darwin to see friends but felt that 1,994km for the return trip was a long
way to drive and we had both visited the place on previous occasions. Words fail me in describing Tennant
Creek so I will fall back on The Reader’s Digest Guide to Australian Places that tells:

‘Tennant Creek, one of the largest, and also, one of the most isolated towns in the Northern
Territory, is not exactly on the creek which John McDouall Stuart described in glowing terms and
where the Tenant Creek Overland Telegraph Line Station was built, but on a waterless plain more
than ten kilometres distant.

According to local legend, the reason for this confusion was that a waggon (sic) load of beer and
building supplies for the construction and stocking of a hotel was destined for the telegraph station
and broke an axle here in 1933. To save further carting, the Tennant Creek Hotel was simply
erected on the spot, and a shantytown quickly grew up around it to meet the needs of the gold
miners who were then arriving in droves. The more likely but less lively explanation is that the
Overland Telegraph Station was on Government land, where private buildings were not allowed’.

That is the printed version; my view was not nearly as kind or romantic. I found it to be a rather dirty little
shanty town of mainly unemployed Aborigines, one trade store where we were able to buy swimming
trunks, and one very nice, very comfortable motel, with swimming pool that looked good enough for two
nights. The temperature was in the vicinity of 40 degrees Celcius (104F); that is why we booked in for the
two nights. We spent several hours of R & R poolside, just resting.

Back at Three Ways we had the choice of either north or south - there was also the choice of heading west
to Halls Creek, Broome and down the west coast to Perth - but when the decision had to be made, I decided
to leave that for a later trip which, due to unforeseen circumstances, never came to be.
Two hundred and forty kilometres south of Tennant Creek we passed through a tiny place that was
to become internationally famous in 2001, when a British tourist, Peter Falconio, and his girlfriend, Joanne
Lees, were driving north and stopped to give assistance to a motorist who - it was later alleged - shot and
killed Peter and abducted Joanne. A drug-runner - Bradley John Murdoch - was eventually tracked down
and charged and, after a trial lasting nine weeks was, on December 13, 2005, found guilty and sentenced to
life imprisonment. I know only too well how easy it would be to dispose of a body in that inhospitable
terrain. Although there had been doubters, I had always believed Miss Lee’s story to be true, and I can
imagine only too well her terror on that awful night. My fears on the road between Camooweal and Three
Ways had not been mere hysteria. Not knowing it would one day become famous, we stopped at the
Barrow Creek Hotel for a cold drink before heading further south.

Just a short distance down the road we came to Ti Tree. What can I say about Ti Tree other than it remains
a mystery for me? The only buildings there were a service station/food stop and a small house nearby that
was an art gallery of sorts. Many of the paintings were signed with various first names only, each with a
common surname - Ross. When I asked the owner of the gallery how it was that there were so many artists
by the name of Ross in the area - he told me that they were all daughters of one person, an Aborigine
named Sandy Ross. Strange, thought I - as I have a fictional book written by a cousin of my father titled
‘Spell of the Inland’ in which the author, the Rev. John Armour, tells of his experiences as a missionary in
central Australia. The Reverend Armour had a penchant for naming characters in his writings after actual
family members and I wondered at the possibility that maybe he had given the name ‘Sandy’ to one of his
parishioners. At the time of publication of ‘Spell of the Inland’ my father, Alexander Ross - who went by
the abbreviated name of Sandy - would have been twenty-three years of age - one year before he married.
Strange coincidence? Very strange! On arrival home from this trip I wrote to the gallery owner to see if he
could give me any further information on the local Sandy Ross. Unfortunately my letter was never
answered, and so the mystery remains unsolved. I would like to go back to Ti Tree but it’s a very long way
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from anywhere.
We stayed in Alice Springs for two nights as the heat had become almost unbearable. When I say in Alice
Springs, I actually mean at a motel just south - through Heavitree Gap - that also had a pool. As we had
both visited The Alice previously and would again in future, we did little other than relax and go into town
for the occasional meal.
If the road hadn’t been very exciting up north, it was to become even less so down south. But
oddly enough, no matter where in Australia I drive, I can always find something interesting to see: I love
my sunburned country and I love the grassy plains; I love the shrubs and foliage and the way they glisten
when it rains. I love the road that narrows and disappears into infinity on the straight sections, the mystery
of where side roads go intrigues me, and I like the occasional glimpse of a railway line. Vapour trails
overhead are always good for some thought - with nobody to talk to, I do a lot of thinking - where is the
‘plane coming from? And where is it going? But most of all, I keep my eyes glued on approaching traffic,
expecting each and every one to come veering across into my path. As you know, Arnold doesn’t talk and I
never use the radio or taped music in the car. I enjoy the silence that comes with the open road. But okay,
the road does get rather boring in some sections of northern South Australia and then, around about 150 km
south of the border, we came upon the fabulous, the incredible, the fascinating underground opal-mining
town of Coober Pedy. This place had to be good for another two nights!
The summer heat of Coober Pedy can reach 50 degrees Celsius (F120) and so - like creatures of the
desert, long adapted to the region’s harsh environment - the residents of Coober Pedy retreat into dugouts
that are unique to the town, where the underground temperature remains a constant 24 deg Celcius all year
‘round. Ventilation shafts supply fresh air and occasionally some light to the shops, churches, and even our
hotel - all of which had been burrowed from the red earth. The funny thing about this was that as we
checked in, Arnold failed to notice that the front door was at the foot of a ‘cliff’. We entered into a very
pleasant moderate temperature, into a corridor where a receptionist stood at the desk. She signed us in,
took us to our room and departed. The lad was weary and wanted a rest! I seemed to have just dozed off
when I was awakened by considerable shaking and inaudible mumblings - he had opened the curtains to
find a blank wall of earth where the window should have been. I find it difficult to imagine what must have
gone on inside his mind at that time. I took him out into the corridor and explained that the corridors had
been used to connect one mine-shaft to another - the excavation marks were clearly visible - and then we
went outdoors to see the low hill that was where the roof should have been.
It would be easy to imagine going back in time and walking the streets of Laredo - such was the
atmosphere of the place. We visited every little shop where magnificent opals were on display; saw how
the opals were refined and polished, and bought a few souvenirs. We ate in every solitary eating place in
town - there weren’t many - and thoroughly enjoyed the unique experience. After two nights of that we hit
the road and headed south once again, allowing a few minutes to deviate to see Woomera, home of the
historic rocket range. If God had forsaken any part of the world, Woomera and its surroundings was it. It is
so completely barren, boring and bloody uninteresting!

Next stop - Port Augusta - a place from where I had been taken in the black of night, to Quorn, back in
1953 for a boozy evening out with two of the crew of the coastal vessel on which I was a passenger at the
time. Talk about memories - I was told the next morning that they had taken me out to get me drunk but, as
it turned out - I drank them both under the table and finished up having to drive them, in their own car, back
to the boat. Whilst in Port Augusta I phoned Graeme - the ex-husband of my niece - to let him know that
we would be arriving in Adelaide the following day. I knew their two children - Mischa and Tosca - were
holidaying with him at the time; he invited us to stay in the Stamford Grand Hotel where he was manager.
The landscape south of Port Augusta had cloaked itself in a more pleasing mantle as it became an
area of rolling green hills, dotted with vineyards. The soil is fertile and the vegetation lush and green. We
passed through the sleepy little township of Snowtown (pop. 500-600), completely unaware that on the 20th
of May of that year a frightful discovery had been made. In a vault of an unoccupied bank that we had
driven past, police had discovered six barrels containing the remains of eight victims, disintegrating in acid.
The case was to become known as the worst serial killings in Australian history. It was a truly shocking
scenario involving perverted sex, drugs and torture, apparently to get hold of the victims’ welfare cheques.
On arrival in Adelaide we spent several hours at the hotel waiting for Graeme to appear, as various
staff members paged him to tell of our arrival. Some said they had recently seen him walking in the hotel,
others said he was at the Stamford Plaza, he was at the bar, he was in his room, in the lounge and - although
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we waited until late afternoon - we never did see him. It seemed perfectly obvious that, for some unknown
reason, he didn’t want to see us. We booked in at a nearby el cheapo motel and left early the following
morning bound for Kangaroo Island, both disgusted and disappointed. I received a Christmas card from
Graeme that year - signed by his secretary - but have neither seen nor heard of him since.

The country south of Adelaide was incredibly beautiful as we followed the coastal road, from which there
are wonderful views from places on the Fleurieu Peninsula out across Gulf St Vincent. At a glorious little
spot known as Second Valley we both agreed to stay a night in a small cottage-style bed and breakfast place
- very old-English gardenish - with an old bluestone mill across the road that had been converted into a very
trendy, up-market restaurant. There is something magical about the flowers in temperate zones that we do
not find in the tropics - flowers such as those that I knew as a boy - the perfume instantly brought back
memories of grandfather’s place. We took a leisurely stroll a short distance along the road before dinner,
finding pleasure in watching the cattle grazing and geese feeding in the lush, green fields, then we dined in
style at the wonderful old mill across the road. After learning that accommodation on Kangaroo Island was
very heavily booked at that time of year, before leaving Second valley I made a phone reservation at a home
stay on the island for that night. It was the only vacancy we could find on the island. This was the pre-
Christmas season and accommodation was extremely scarce everywhere!
Directly after breakfast we headed off on the very short drive down to Cape Jervis, so-named by the
explorer Matthew Flinders way, way back in about the year 1800. He had previously named the Gulf after
the family of the Earl of St Vincent, a Lord Commissioner of the Admiralty. Although Cape Jervis is the
point of departure to Kangaroo Island it still retains its quiet fishing village atmosphere.
The Sealink Ferry crosses from Cape Jervis to Penneshaw on Kangaroo Island - $74.00 return for
each adult and $148.00 return for the car - pay it or swim, or don’t go!

On arrival at Penneshaw - near the eastern tip of the north coast of Kangaroo Island - we drove ashore and
the first ‘attraction’ that I found was a tea-tree distillery. I’m a great believer in the healing powers of tea-
tree oil, eucalyptus oil, and aloe vera - and always have some of each on hand at home. This was my
opportunity to show Arnold where tea-tree oil came from - or so I thought. After some time knocking on
the door of the only house without success, we then went to the factory - a galvanized iron shack - and then
we kept our distance when we saw an assorted group having what must have been their pre-Christmas
drinks, beneath an iron roof. They were very obviously pissed to the eyeballs and the business seemed to
be closed for the day. Nobody showed any sign of having seen us.
I warn all drivers - if you have any respect for your car DO NOT take it to Kangaroo Island; about
90% of the roads are unsealed red dust and have a heavily corrugated, bone-shattering washboard surface.
We made it to Seal Cove on the south coast and, despite the road, it was well worth the visit. If ever I
return, I will take a hire car. This conservation park appears to be very well cared for - the steps leading
down to the beach are well constructed and maintained and there is good, clear signage. Visitors are
warned not to get too close to the gigantic seals, especially the males. For an instant I neglected my
parental duty and turned away, when I looked back I saw Arnold walking towards a huge male seal, with
hand outstretched, obviously wanting to pat it. Forgetting myself for a moment, I tried calling him … silly
me! As quickly as I could, I ran around to the other side of the beast, where I managed to attract the lad’s
attention and was able to wave him away. That was the end of our seal watching!
Extreme care had to be taken at all times when driving due to the prevalence of badly brought-up
echidnas who have no road sense and wander onto the roads without looking left or right. I find nothing
attractive in a flat echidna … they’re spiky and squishy! A little further along we came to a sign indicating
a road where I knew - from studying the map - our accommodation was. Had I not been aware of the
scarcity of accommodation, when I saw the farmhouse and surroundings, I would have turned back. Dogs,
geese and chickens ran rampant; the yard was deep in cow-shit and the gate in the garden fence was
practically off its hinges. I really wondered what we were going to find indoors but what a surprise - it was
immaculate! We each had our own room. ‘Attarak’ was a husband and wife run affair and absolutely
spotless. I could see why the outdoors had been so neglected - the poor woman’s entire time must have
gone into cooking and housework.
The four of us sat to a superb meal of homemade soup, roast lamb with all the vegies and mint
sauce, homemade desert, followed by tea and coffee. We both declined the offer of alcoholic drinks.
I found our hosts to be a very interesting couple whose farming history almost paralleled that of my
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own family. I regretted the decision I had made on first sight but - as I had not mentioned it to them - I had
no need to apologise to anyone other than myself. I dreaded the return drive on those awful roads and,
when I mentioned it to our hosts at breakfast the following morning, they advised me to drive north on the
present road, then we would come to a crossroad - the Playford Highway - that was sealed all the way to the
main settlement of Kingscote, where we stopped only for coffee and a snack.
I was surprised to learn that Kangaroo Island is the third largest island in Australia - smaller only
than Tasmania and Melville Island. It has a surface area of 4,350 square kilometres. Until it was found that
the soil lacked cobalt and copper, it was not possible for sheep or cattle to exist. This has since been
rectified with the introduction of the necessary trace elements.
After arriving back on the mainland at Cape Jervis, the most important thing in life was to find a
carwash - one with full detailing facilities. The entire car, both inside and out, had a thick coating of fine,
red dust that had managed to permeate every solitary nook and cranny in the vehicle. Despite all efforts on
the spot, it was many months before the vehicle could in any way be considered clean.

With a gleaming new car, we then took off on the road east to Victor Harbour where Arnold - despite the
fact that we had just finished breakfast - insisted on the obligatory coffee break. We then continued around
until somewhere in the vicinity of Lake Alexandrina where I learned it was Christmas Day. We pulled in at
a take-away service station, bought our Christmas dinner, and found a peaceful spot on the roadside where
we could dine in peace. Not what one would call a sumptuous meal, although we both enjoyed it - Arnold
had a hamburger and I a hot dog with tomato sauce. The world was our oyster - we had each other - and
this was Christmas 1999. “Merry Christmas, son!”
After linking up with the Princes Highway we took a southerly route beside the Southern Ocean
around to Mount Gambier, famous for its Blue Lake, the largest of four such crater lakes in the area.
Mount Gambier is a rather interesting place but - as I had visited the area previously when Uncle Bob and
Aunty Ivy had taken me on a round-Victoria holiday just after I first got my driving license - we didn’t
spend much time sight-seeing, other than to find a good restaurant for lunch. Apart from the food, Mount
Gambier is also famous for being the birthplace of the world-renowned Australian ballet dancer, actor and
choreographer, Robert Helpmann.
Just after departing the Mount, on the next stage of the journey to end all journeys, another big
decision had to be made when we reached the point where the Glenelg Highway to Ballarat branched off to
the left, while the Princes Highway continued straight ahead to Portland, where most of my ancestors had
disembarked when they first arrived in Australia in the latter half of the 19th century. Although my choice
of route is usually the one we follow, at this stage I gave the lad the opportunity to decide - off to the left to
Ballarat where he had previously visited, or straight ahead on the Great Ocean Road and destinations
unknown. He chose the latter!

Portland - Victoria’s first European settlement - was named by Lieutenant James Grant after George
Betinck, Duke of Portland and Secretary of State for the Colonies, and had been established as a sealing and
whaling station in the early 1800’s. Nowadays ships from more than fifty countries use the port as it is the
only deep-water port between Melbourne and Adelaide, and it is well worth a visit if only for the superb,
fresh seafood.
Further around the coast we came to Port Fairy where we called in to see a friend who we had first
met during our European bus tour, before continuing onwards through Warrnambool to the ‘awesome and
dangerous’ coastline that is The Great Ocean Road. Not knowing what to expect of the road ahead I
decided on a night of rest as I will admit to having a touch of jitters at the thought of tackling the unfamiliar
stretch of road that lay ahead, a road that I had heard so much of way back in my childhood days. My
father had often talked of how, during the Great Depression, many unemployed and desperate men had
been paid to do the heavy manual work in constructing this now world-renowned stretch of road.
All the way along this section of the coast we had been experiencing difficulty in finding
accommodation. The annual Christmas holiday rush was on - something I had not taken into consideration
when leaving home - but then I had no idea we would be away for so long. I was also experiencing spasms
of anxiety as my supply of medications was rapidly being depleted. It had been quite a problem keeping
everything cool in the hot areas we had been driving in. Fortunately, a small ‘esky’ with two freezer blocks
and ice cubes being topped up every night did the trick - so far! We were still a long way from home.
We managed to find accommodation at Peterborough, just short of the ‘awesome and dangerous’
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portion of the road and there, after a feast of fresh seafood, we rested for the night. Up until now, I had
always thought that the scenery of the Great Ocean Road could be experienced from the car, but such is not
the case. Almost always, a narrow unsealed track would have to be taken in order to drive to a parking bay,
and the rest of the distance would be on foot. We did not allow sufficient time to really appreciate the
magnificent scenery, or study up on this historic area, that had been named by nineteenth-century mariners
as the ‘shipwreck coast’. We made our way to a huge cave at the head of an almost land-locked inlet,
where survivors of an early shipwreck had spent time until they discovered a way to climb the steep cliffs.
There are so many places to experience, but each and every one necessitates leaving the main road and
heading to a parking lot - then walking. Most famous of all the landmarks on this coast are the incredible
formations known as the Twelve Apostles - now known merely as the Apostles, since one recently crashed
to its death in the mighty ocean at its feet.
The furthermost west I had ever previously travelled by road had been to Lorne. This was a
sentimental return. The sentiment came about from an evening when I was holidaying in Lorne after a
nervous breakdown at age twenty-one, I had somehow got myself into a torrid little affair of the ‘From
Here to Eternity’ type one night with a married woman. I said torrid - but I meant horrid, as sand gets into
the most uncomfortable places and I just wasn’t up to it. I did so desperately want to get my rocks off that
night! I didn’t know then what I know now. I am now considerably more mature, street-wise and worldly
than I was in 1954.

Airey’s Inlet, Anglesea, Bells Beach, Torquay and Barwon Heads - all bring back memories of my twenties
when, come summer, the gang would head to the beach. Unfortunately for me I was - and still am - a
shocking sun-burner and would inevitably return to Ballarat red-raw and in agony. As I had relations living
at Ocean Grove we called on them on this trip, unannounced, and caught up on quite a bit of our respective
pasts. Then to Queenscliff in time to catch the car ferry across The Heads - of Port Phillip Bay - to
Sorrento and Portsea on the Mornington Peninsula. That was my intention - the queue of cars waiting for
the crossing was almost as long as a Parliamentarian’s speech and, when we were three cars short of the
barrier, the FULL sign went up. It was very late in the afternoon and - thank God for inventing small cars -
my little Mitsubishi did a quick U-turn and had us back at the nearest and - as it turned out - the most
expensive hotel in town, in minutes. We managed to get the last available room, at an exorbitant rate that
nobody in their right mind would pay, but we had travelled a long, long way through trials and tribulations
that defy description - and I thought, We deserve the best! As I couldn’t afford it, I charged it to Visa.

We were almost first in line the following morning and spent much of the crossing as close as possible to
the bows, watching the dolphins at play as they danced at almost arms length ... I was able to show Arnold
approximately where the shipwreck had been at the entrance to the bay - quite a tourist attraction it had
been - until, in an act of vandalism from the hierarchy, it was allowed to be destroyed as it would have
spoiled the final scene of the film ‘On The Beach’ with Gregory Peck and Ava Gardner, so they blew it up!
(1959).
Around on the eastern shores of the Mornington Peninsular is Crib Point and the Flinders Naval
Depot where I had done most of my National Service training in 1951. Arnold had always been fascinated
with photographs of me in my navy uniform and - as we were in the area - I wanted to show him where it
had all happened more than fifty years ago. The area had grown in those fifty years and I could not even
find the Main Gate where I used to wait for weekend visitors. My only visitors I ever had were my two
Melbourne aunts and Uncle Bob. The parade ground was still in existence, but the assembly hall - where I
had spent my Sunday mornings sitting through church service while the Catholics were picking up litter,
and then sitting through another boring session while the other Denominations did their chores - was gone.
That’s another good thing about not having a religion! I’m adaptabubble!
We drove in to Hastings looking for the general store where Aunty Irene and her husband Herbert
Knox, had once lived, but I believe it had gone to meet its maker over sixty years previously. I was
beginning to realise that I had never been this old before. How dare they destroy my childhood! But, thank
heavens, no-one can take the memories away.
Not at all sure where we were going at this stage, we drove around the head of Western Port Bay
and down the Bass Highway, then turned right at Anderson to cross the bridge to Phillip Island. I had been
over this bridge only once in my life, during a school holiday in Melbourne with my Aunty Alice and her
bank manager husband, Lewis Holt. I remembered when Uncle Lewis would fuss for hours getting his
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little green car roadworthy for Sunday drives - moody old bugger he was! Being twenty years Aunt’s
senior, he had passed his use-by date very early in my life. We lunched at Cowes, did a lap of the Indy
track and drove to the point where all the Fairy Penguins had left for their afternoon swimming lessons.
Sort of flippers for Nippers, eh? They were all out fishing … nobody was home! I was pleased I hadn’t
told the lad about them in advance.

Who should we find working on the checkout counter of the supermarket in Wonthaggi? My dear friend
and workmate Anne, ex-Port Moresby. Good luck would have it that Anne had her daughter, Marcia, and
her two children, Corinne and Paul staying with her. That made for a wonderful dinner out with six old
friends from Port Moresby - in that god-forsaken little place - with the awfully ugly name of Wonthaggi. I
had taken a dislike to that place when I was about ten years old when - with Aunty Alice and Mum - I was
doing my first-ever bus tour of Gippsland. My first-ever bus tour of anywhere actually! It was on that tour
that I recall either Mum or Aunty Alice asking the bus-driver why our accommodation was called a Motel -
a word we had never encountered before - a motor/hotel, he explained.
That all came back to mind as we were checking into our motel on this trip. I was able to explain
the difference between motel and hotel to Raymond. He was getting a far better education than I ever had
at that age! After two nights there, with what I always refer to these days as my extended family, we set off
for a quick drive down to the end of the road at Tidal River in the very rugged Wilsons Promontory
National Park. The promontory is the most southerly point of the mainland of Australia. This was another
place that I had visited only once in my life - also when I was ten. At that time it was an absolute
wilderness and I don’t recall seeing signs of any kind of development. On this second visit - in the last few
days of the 20th Century - it was bustling with traffic. A web of tracks linked parking areas and related
tourist infrastructure! We spent less than an hour - and only that long because I wanted the lad to
experience what I had thought to be quicksand when I was young. There are still portions of Tidal River
where I again experienced a slow, sinking sensation when walking in, or near, the shallow water. This is on
the side of the promontory where the wild westerly winds blow in, while on the eastern side there are
magnificent sandy beaches. A warning for hikers, the place is so popular nowadays, that bookings must be
made well in advance, even for hiking.

We headed northeast to catch up with my old National Service friend Lawrie Woof, who lived in Traralgon
- a friend with whom I had all but lost contact with over the years. In the short time we could spend with
Laurie and his wife he told of how they had also been unable to find the main gate at the naval depot. That
at least made me realise that I really didn’t need to be put away and taken off the roads. One possibility -
the gate had been done away with in the course of progress.
Then - as this was New Years Eve 1999 - I decided to go inland to the big smoke of Bairnsdale
where Arnold would be able to enjoy the celebrations. We found an excellent motel right in town - if you
could call Bairnsdale a ‘town’ - and found that this was one place in Australia that had changed little in the
past sixty years. After dinner I was desperately tired and - as Arnold wanted to see the fireworks at
midnight - I told him to awaken me beforehand. A little after twelve he shook my shoulder to arouse me
and signed Where? … where were the fireworks? I dressed, and out we went walking on that hot
summer’s night to find that Bairnsdale had apparently never heard of New Year; it just didn’t exist on their
social calendar. Back to bed for both of us!
Little more than a hop, step and a jump later we arrived at Lakes Entrance where, I had been told,
an elderly cousin of mine had been placed in a nursing home and wasn’t expected to last much longer. We
found the home and were told that she had been moved to another home in Bairnsdale - where we had left
only that morning. Time did not allow for backtracking and, as we had never met, I decided it was not of
any great importance that we meet at that stage. When we arrived home I received word that she had died
in the nursing home in Lakes Entrance! She must have been living in that home when we visited.
Once again, on the trail that Aunty Alice, Mum and I had travelled when I first entered double
figures, I decided to take the lad to see Buchan Caves, where I had first seen stalactites and stalagmites and
we had been told how to remember which was which - ‘When the tights come down, the mites grow up’. At
that age I wasn’t too sure what was meant by those words but it made a lasting impression. Buchan is
pronounced Buckin’ and reminds me of something, but I can’t for the life of me think what.
It was with some concern that I drove northwards after turning off from the Princes Highway, and
found the sky ahead to be a billowing mass of smoke from forest fires that were raging somewhere in the
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heavily forested Snowy River National Park area - up near the New South Wales border. At one stage I had
given some thought to driving up and over that range of mountains into NSW but, after seeing that smoke,
decided against it.
We found a nice, restful little place to stay, right in Buchan - a village that sits right on the Buchan
River - with a room that was more than adequate for our needs. Our door opened onto a large area of what,
until the drought struck, had once been lawns. The grass was little more than brownish-yellow stubble that
crackled crisply as we walked. Right in the middle of this lawn area was a garden tap that had purposely
been left dripping, and all around it were many wild kangaroos that had gathered to drink. After checking
in we drove the short distance to the Caves entrance and were fortunate to find a guided tour that was about
to start. It was so delightfully cool underground.
It has been found that some 300-400 million years ago, an ocean teeming with shellfish and coral
covered this part of east Gippsland. As the water receded, their remains formed limestone deposits. Later,
underground rivers had carved out chambers before diverting to alternative courses. Over the years an
infinite number of tiny calcite-bearing droplets formed in the caves with the hanging stalactites, upright
stalagmites and many more fascinating formations. Bones of extinct animals have been unearthed and there
is evidence of people having lived there long ago - tools 17,000 years old - and rock engravings even older.
The tremendous periods of time were completely lost on Raymond but he was able to grasp something of
the history and of how the formations came to be.

The following morning we took a winding, hilly, gravel track southwards, roughly following what had once
been the mighty Snowy River, now reduced to a mere trickle due to the great amount of water that was
being diverted for the generation of electricity at the huge Snowy Mountains Hydro-electric scheme. The
pathetic dribble of water that remains in these lower reaches of the Snowy would be little more than the
tears shed by ‘The Man from Snowy River’ had he lived to see what man has done. It was on the lower
reaches of this road that I thought I had just seen something very beautiful but - concentrating on the road -
I hadn’t fully appreciated what I had seen. I reversed to the spot where I had caught a glimpse of whatever
it had been, and had to get out with the camera to take a photo that eventually became my ‘Snowy River
Country’ design, that sold in the thousands and had been alluded to on the Trans-Mongolian train by Little
John, who had said, “My aunt and uncle live up there!”

We reached the Princes Highway once more, near the prosperous farming community of Orbost but we
didn’t spend any time there as I was anxious to get to Cann River, as for many miles on this section of the
road there was nothing but dense forest on either side and the fires to the north seemed to be getting a little
too close for comfort - they seemed to be raging worse than ever. We stopped at a small roadhouse to
refuel, use the toilets, have a bite to eat, and check with the locals as to how dangerous the situation was.
We were advised to make a run for it and head towards Bega, as spot fires were springing up all around the
area. My heart was literally in my mouth as we raced onwards through the forest and across the border into
New South Wales.

Our next stop was Eden - on Twofold Bay - into which I had first sailed on the frigate, HMAS Culgoa
during my National Service days in 1951. Eden is the main port for the southern coast of New South Wales
and has one of the most strategically placed harbours on the east coast of Australia. With a population of a
little over 3,000 it has a quiet village atmosphere and was full of old memories for me, and a coffee stop
for Arnold. The main thing right now, was the realisation that we had left the fires behind us. I now
needed to visit Merimbula, where I had a vague business appointment with the owner of a needlecraft shop
on the Sapphire Coast. This lovely lady - Juleen High - and her husband had a holiday resort with log
cabins and a golf course, and the wonderful Mandeni Needlecraft shop on site. I had been to stay once
previously, where I enjoyed a wonderful week, being pampered with fine foods of an evening, in return for
spending the days designing on the premises. Mandeni - set right in the forest - is home to a great deal of
wild life, including the delightful Australian bellbird.
Before calling at the shop we checked into accommodation right in the heart of Merimbula, where
Arnold could spend his leisure time wandering around the shops and the marina. We were invited to dinner
at Mandeni that evening, arriving in time to witness the early arrival of the many forms of bird-life that
came to feed in the grounds - rainbow lorikeets, several species of parrot, and many other smaller avian
family members. Juleen and her husband had named the resort Mandeni after a shrub that grew in the
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region of their previous home in Africa. During the course

of dinner she suggested we visit the famous cheese factory
at Bega - a few kilometres north - on our way to Sydney.
That was our planned next stop. But with me, quite often,
plans made are made to be broken!

We headed north - still on the Princes Highway; we called

in at the cheese factory however, due to my high
cholesterol I had to say “No!” to sampling anything more
than one tiny, little, teeny morsel. A beautiful tasty cheese
it was but I had to be sensible! A short distance out of
town I saw a road sign with an arrow pointing to the left,
with the words Snowy Mountains Highway. As it was
overly warm on the coast, I decided to take the long way My cross-stitch design of the Snowy Mountains Highway
home on a road that had never before been included in any of my travels. I felt sure that it would be cooler
in the high country. I was so wrong - so very wrong! It was on that road that I stopped to take a
photograph that would one day become another of my cross-stitch designs titled ‘Snowy Mountains
Highway’.

We stopped for lunch at Cooma and where - without Arnold being aware of it - I had one big argument with
myself; should we drive south to see Thredbo Village where, on July 31 three years previously, 3,500
tonnes of debris had come crashing down a slope, wiping out two ski lodges and killing eighteen people. I
decided that there had been quite enough disasters in my life already and did not need another - and it
would have taken far too much valuable time and trouble to translate the story in sign language. I ended up
winning - as I told myself he was better off staying blissfully unaware of other people’s troubles.
The Snowy Mountains - The High Country - had for years held me in awe. It conjured up images
of Banjo Patterson and that Man and his awesome ride, but in actuality - in summer - it was depressingly
uninteresting. And it was as hot as hell! To make matters worse, the airconditioning in the car broke
down! I was angry with myself for coming this way. The country boy had done his dash this time!

In the Kosciusko National Park I changed my tune as the area became more like the Australia I loved. The
mountains became green but - green and all as they were - I knew I could never visit the area in winter.
Nice Aussie place-names - Kiandra, Yarrangobilly, Talbingo - that I would never see, or possibly never
hear again - but I was pleased that I had allowed myself the time to experience the region. We didn’t bother
calling in at any of the power stations in the area as I had seen quite enough of power stations when
working with Elcom in Papua New Guinea.
Leaving the Snowy Mountains Highway at Tumut, we turned off on a short cut to Gundagai, where
that legendary dog still sits on the tucker box - or his replica does. No-one in Gundagai could do anything
to repair the airconditioning so we drove on to Yass, then made a monumental decision - with no arguments
from Arnold - to head south to the National Capital of Canberra to visit David, the son of my recently
deceased cousin Dorothy.

After finding suitable accommodation very close to the city centre, I phoned David to let him know we
were in the area. David had been born on April 5, 1947 - on the same day that uncle Bob and Aunty Ivy
came to Ballarat to show off their very new, first edition, FJ Holden. It was so up-market, so new and so
obviously Australian and - at close to £1,000.00 - it was the affordable people’s car! It was in that car that
Ivy, Bob and I had done our epic around Victoria trip after I first obtained my driving licence. David said
he would call for us and take us to his home for dinner that evening - his cooking put me to shame. For the
first time in yonks, Raymond and I sat down to a magnificent home-cooked three-course roast dinner. I was
able to tell David during that evening that we had only recently been to Hastings where his Grandparents
had their little store and it was there, in Hastings that his mother had been born.
An interesting digression at this point - David’s eldest son had been christened Mitchell. He grew
up to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps by joining the Army and, on completion of training, was
promoted to the rank of Major. For those unaware of Australian bird life, the Major Mitchell is a well-
recognised red and black cockatoo. I bet he got hell from his fellow men! In the very early 2000’s, Major
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Mitchell Kent would receive a citation from the United States government for meritorious conduct in the
very unpopular USA-led Iraq war.
Never have I heard of anyone who has driven to Canberra and not managed to at some stage get
lost as the city is more-or-less divided into two almost identical portions as far as roads are concerned - the
northern part is built around a hexagon or octagon, and the southern part is circular - for all the world like
two gigantic roundabouts, with all roads in both section radiating out from the central core. It is extremely
difficult for visitors to know which street is which, and where to turn.

After leaving Canberra, we drove up the Federal Highway, with Lake George - showing a very low water
level - on our right, meeting up with the Hume Highway at Goulburn where - not very far north - some of
the prettiest, most beautiful and just plain damned gorgeous countryside in New South Wales. On the
eastern side of the highway are delightful little places with names such as Berrima, Bong Bong, Burradoo
and Bowral - enough to make one think that all the B places in NSW are concentrated in this one area.
There’s also the very lovely Moss Vale - the name alone, speaks wonders. And of course there is the
delightful little hamlet of Mittagong where - in recent years - I had spent many happy days stitching and
designing at Victoria House. Raymond was thrilled at being able to show me around Mittagong, especially
the lake where he spent so many days with a loaf of bread, feeding the swans while I tried to earn some
money by designing and demonstrating. The tables had been turned - he was now showing me his places of
interest.
Unfortunately, all this beauty is deceptive, as on the western side of the highway is situated the
terrible Belanglo State forest where, in the 1990’s, a shocking secret had been uncovered with the discovery
of the frightfully mutilated bodies of seven missing backpackers. Less than six years before our visit, a
road construction worker by the name of Ivan Milat, who frequently drove the Hume Highway south of
Sydney, had been charged with the seven murders and the attempted murder of a young chap who managed
to escape. Ivan Milat was later sentenced to life imprisonment - and has gone down in the history books as
Australia’s worst serial killer.

This was my first time to visit the area in summer. I had been here before - during the exotic floral festival
time of spring - but most of my working time had been in the bleak and freezing days of winter. I would
walk to work each morning, clad in all the winter clothes I had bought at Fort William in Scotland - the cap,
the fleecy-lined gloves and the pure wool socks - all topped off with a more recently purchased grey leather
jacket, inside of which I had plastic bags packed against my chest to keep the ghastly cold winds that swept
in from the south at bay. A very pretty place, Mittagong, but I could never live there.
It was in Mittagong that I realised that something strange was happening with my hormones. We
were given a room with queen-size bed that I had to refuse as I couldn’t bear the thought of sharing a bed
with a male, in particular my own ward. Fortunately we were able to change to twin-singles.
At this stage it was becoming increasingly important to get home as my medication was getting
desperately low and the airconditioning in the car really needed attention. We spent very little time
investigating and enjoying places on the rest of the trip homewards. Driving through Sydney was an
absolute nightmare and - at one stage - we got completely lost, resulting in a form of panic on my behalf. I
swung into the parking area of a large suburban shopping centre to rest awhile, have a snack, and read the
map. This enabled us to make our way through the northern suburbs - out along the Freeway - and head off
up the Pacific Highway to the Gold Coast.
During the thirty-three days away from home, we had covered nearly 10,000 kilometres (6,000
miles), and slept in seventeen different hotel/motel rooms.
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MEDITERRANEAN CRUISE 2000

With the very long drive around half of Australia

behind me and, as we entered the new millennium, my feet began to itch once more … I had to get moving
again. There was no real escape from the constant and savagely boring medical check-ups, blood tests,
bone density scans, CAT scans, and everything else that goes with increasing age and a combination of
medical problems. Arnold was at home with his parents in Papua New Guinea - I was a free agent for the
time being and, although the business had to continue operating, I felt the need to get away from it all for a
few weeks. Back to my trusty travel agent once again and - while waiting to be attended to - a brochure
titled ‘Royal Olympic Cruises’ caught my attention. I flicked through the pages and by the time the agent
could see me, my mind had been made up - a Mediterranean cruise was just what I needed; something more
restful, with less worry, where I would have no problems keeping my medication in cool storage. So, in
July of the year 2000 I flew to Paris.

My itinerary informed me that after landing at Charles de Gaulle airport I was to make my way to the Gare
du Nord railway station - catch a train to the port of Le Havre - from where my ship the ‘World
Renaissance’ would be sailing at 5 p.m. All very simple on paper, but this was France, and the people
employed at the airport were all French. After clearing Customs and Immigration - and eventually finding
my way out of the main airport building - I tried for a taxi to take me to the railway station, but with all the
hustle, the bustle, and the jostling of so many French folk who spoke the language, one pathetic, ageing
Australian didn’t amount to much. What I am getting at is that I could not make it known that I wanted a
taxi! And, if the message did get through, nobody seemed at all interested. Outside the main terminal
building, the very busy section where all buses stopped, looked promising. From studying a map I knew
that Gare du Nord was on a street straight off to the right from the Arc de Triumphe. That, of course, was if
I approached it from the gigantic roundabout at Place de la Concorde - a little to the southeast where, in
1793, the life of Louis XVI and the Revolution had ended at the guillotine. But - as fate would have it - the
bus took me through streets I had never seen before and, when it reached the Arch, I was told in no
uncertain terms that I was to disembark quickly and make sure I took my luggage, then off it raced and left
me standing, jet-lagged and bewildered on the roadside. I had just begun to walk when a taxi came along
… I told the driver I wanted to go to Gare du Nord and expected to be taken in a direct line along the street
where I knew the station was. He must have thought I was a tourist as he took me down to the Seine, past
the high Ferris wheel that stands on the bank of the river, a block or so from the Louvre, near where I had
previously stayed with Lynly, around past the Paris Opera House, and then we came to a screaming halt at
the station. “Merci monsieur!”...“Grazie!”…“Gracias!”…“Thank you!” I couldn’t wait to get out of that
taxi before he ran any more francs up on the meter - God, where was I? I was so agitated and confused, I
was stammering every word I could think of - to hell with which language - while fumbling to make sense
of the few French banknotes I had managed to acquire before leaving home. I was hoping I wasn’t over
tipping.
It was still only mid-morning when I entered the e-bloody-normous station where I saw, on the
departures board, that a train would be departing for Le Havre from such-and-such a platform at 11 a.m..
Time, I felt, for a croissant and un café noir, s’il vous plait! At a few minutes before departure time - and
after checking and rechecking several times to make sure I was on the correct platform - I boarded the train
and found a forward facing window seat. I knew that the trip to the coast was a journey of about two hours,
and I was tired - frightfully tired - I had been awake since leaving the Gold Coast. I sat - and immediately
dozed off. When I awakened only a few minutes later, I looked out the window and saw nothing familiar -
wondering: Where am I? … Where in the hell am I?
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The Renaissance king Francois 1st founded Le Havre - the second-most important port of France - in the
year 1517. I was unaware of my exact location at the time but quickly learned that I was at the mouth of
the Seine - some 200 km from Paris - on the English Channel. Typically, I was hungry, and as the ship was
not sailing until 5 p.m. I headed for the first little café I came across and ordered a small lunch. It might
have been a short lunch, but it was the longest hot dog I had ever seen. After that I took a taxi to the wharf
where the ‘World Renaissance’ was berthed and waiting for me. I was greeted by one of the ship’s
Officers, gave my name, and was advised to head to the dining saloon as lunch was being served for early
arrivals. Damn it all! ... I had just paid good hard-earned cash for that dog in town!
The first port of call on boarding was the Purser’s Office, where all passengers registered, made
their choice of which dinner seating they required - early or late dinner – 6 or 9 p.m.. I was very tempted to
take the late seating as I felt it would be a good lead in to the evening’s entertainment but, at the last
minute, changed my mind to the early seating as I am always ravenous by late afternoon.
My cabin was larger than I really needed but I was not going to argue about that. Being determined
not to be duped again after paying the supplement for single occupancy, this time I agreed to share, and just
hoped that no-one else would book the other half. When I did the Spencer Gulf cruise in Australia many,
many years ago, I tipped the steward who took me to the cabin - and never saw him again. This chappie
didn’t get a tip.

I could tell from the slope of the bulkhead that I was way up near the bow, and this slope made it difficult to
get close enough for a good look through the porthole. It was sufficient to enable me to see distant sights,
however, prevent any feeling of claustrophobia, and see what the weather was like in the world outside.
There were two beds - not hammocks like when I was in National Service - and a small fridge where I
quickly stored my medications and then, knowing that I had three weeks to spare, I unpacked. Only then
did I venture out so as to get my bearings and inspect the surroundings. I located the bar and lounge on the
same deck as my cabin, where sensational entertainment would take place from 9 p.m. onwards each
evening … not in my cabin. Those days had long since passed - thanks to the prostate cancer, subsequent
radiation and three-monthly oestrogen implants. Very conveniently located on the deck below was the
dining saloon. At the stern on this same deck was an open sided casual dining area that was excellent for
breakfast, and morning and afternoon teas were served for those who did not feel like dressing up.
I had made a wise choice by taking the early seating for the evening meal, because as soon as the
early diners finished their meal and adjourned to the lounge and bar - and that’s when the entertainment
began - really fabulous performances each evening, with a ’resident’ band, and a world-class cabaret act
with a sole leading male and a bevy of beautiful young ladies. Well, they all looked beautiful under the
spotlights, but in the cold hard light of morning - without make-up - they were very ordinary. Seating for
breakfast and lunch was free choice. At dinner each evening I was seated at a table set for six, however
there were only five of us, all very compatible, and interesting conversation flowed readily. On my
immediate left was a vacant chair where a different Officer would sit most evenings; next was a most
interesting couple from Rhodesia - of about my own age - and the two to my right were a married couple, a
Professor of English at the University of Istanbul, and his Italian-born wife.
I relished the opportunity of travelling alone and, by doing so, met and talked with practically every solitary
passenger on board. I was constantly being asked how it was that everyone knew my name, and vice versa
… this was only because every time I went to the lounge I would settle myself down with a book, each time
in a different location and, when not actually reading, I could peruse the other passengers so as to make my
own selection as to who I thought would be the more interesting company for the evening, or part thereof. I
was a free agent! Although these were the early days of my non-drinking, I felt it unwise to say that I was a
teetotaler - that’s a real put-off - and would settle myself down with a Campari on the rocks to be slowly
sipped, not shaken, and definitely not stirred. Each evening I would enjoy anywhere from one to three
Camparis on ice, depending on the company and the entertainment.
Most days were port stops with an optional excursion; these - although always interesting and
enjoyable - would take an entire chapter of their own if I were to go into great detail. Enough to tell that
our first port of call and onshore excursion was Guernsey, a British crown dependency in the English
Channel - just off the coast of Normandy. We berthed at the Capital of St Peter Port, and from there on it
was a day of driving and sight-seeing, interest and fascination … a truly beautiful island with magnificent
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scenery, turbulent history, lovely serene gardens, wonderful food and good shopping. A familiar name
amongst the residents was Victor Hugo who once called Guernsey home.
Many children had been evacuated to England before the occupation of the island by German
troops in World War II - some traces of this occupation remain to this day. This is another place in the
world that I would dearly love to revisit, but next time I would like to stay a week or so.
When I returned to the cabin I fully expected to find the other bed had been taken, but no … I was
lucky!

In the lounge one evening a Japanese lady asked if I would invite her to my table for dinner the following
evening as she was travelling with a group of Japanese and wanted to stir them up a little. I did - she took
the spare seat beside mine - and after a few drinks in the lounge asked me to escort her to her cabin as she
wanted to start some gossip amongst her group; acting with discretion - and not wanting to get into an
awkward situation, I escorted her to her door and thanked her for her company. The following morning we
met again and she couldn’t thank me enough … our little ruse had apparently worked and tongues were
wagging.

The weather throughout was perfect - the ocean as calm as the proverbial
millpond - the food, entertainment and company brilliant! After Guernsey
came the lengthy crossing of the Bay of Biscay ... for much of the time out
of sight of land. Our second port of call was La Coruna in the province of
Galacia, right up near the northwestern corner of Spain. Passengers who
wished could take the overland day trip to Santiago de Compostela - the
historic capital of Galacia. Together with others, I joined a coach at this
point, while the remainder stayed on board. My choice to do the
excursion was something I will never regret as - although I had never
previously heard of the place - both the city and its 12th century Cathedral
are a la magnifique! And remembering the name of Santiago de
Compostela is good mental therapy! I managed time alone to wander the
narrow streets - some of which are actually lengthy flights of very steep
steps - where no cars could possibly pass. The entire group enjoyed a
wonderful sit-down luncheon in a grand old hotel.
Despite the fact that we had been given an inflexible departure
time as we had to rejoin our vessel at the port of Vigo - some distance to I managed time alone to wander the
the south - when it came time to gather for our departure, a most streets of Santiago de Compostela
embarrassing young Australian honeymoon couple, who should have
auditioned for roles in ‘On Our Selection’, were missing. We very obedient passengers, who didn’t want to
miss the boat, were asked to fan out through the CBD in search of them, but not a trace could be found. We
felt pity for the driver and guide as they felt so guilty as we drove off, leaving the hapless pair behind, but
the ship had to sail on the late afternoon tide.

When we reached Vigo the ‘World Renaissance’ was a mile or so off-shore, giving me time to do a
disappearing act of my own, during which time I discovered
the handiest, most useful shoulder bag - with pockets for
everything - that I still carry with me wherever I go. For a
pitiful twenty-six Australian dollars the bag was mine!
While I was shopping all other passengers had kept vigil,
looking for the two constantly bewildered Australians and,
just as we were called for boarding, a taxi came to a
screaming halt, with the pair of them bemoaning the high
fare they had to pay for their joyride of between 100 and 200
km. They were furious with the driver, the guide, and all
passengers for leaving them behind and - for much of the
remainder of the trip - they were ignored by nearly everyone
on board because of their constant immaturity and stupidity.
With guide Rosa in Lisbon, Portugal
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As honeymooners … they would have been better off staying

in bed!
We spent a day in Lisbon - Lisboa - the capital of
Portugal, on our way southwards down the coast towards
Cadiz. Lisbon, Portugal’s main seaport, is particularly
interesting to enter as it appeared that the ship had to sail up a
river, which in actuality is the opening to the lake-like
harbour. The two main places of interest to visit, in my
opinion, were the Tower of Belem and the particularly
interesting maritime museum where, nearby, a few friends
joined me for lunch.
Disembarking at Cadiz in my “I haven’t got anything
Our next port of call was Tangier - Tanger - set in a bay at decent to wear” outfit.
the very northwestern tip of Morocco, where I had once
found that wonderful little restaurant, La Grenouille Verte. I couldn’t find it this time around, and have
often wondered why it has stayed in my mind all these years - the food must have been good!
My initial thought was to remain on board that day and spend a little time relaxing, but when my
Rhodesian friends heard that I had been there previously they asked if they could go ashore with me to
show the way around. I did not want one of those constantly pestering guides, and was constantly saying
‘piss off’ out the corner of my mouth, trying to get rid of the pests but the Rhodesians, not wishing to
offend, agreed to take one of them from the streets of Morocco for the time being. They felt we were
upsetting one particularly feral animal who was making a nuisance of himself and agreed - against my
better judgment - to take him as a guide just to keep him quiet. I tried to hold my ground as I felt that I
knew my way around sufficiently to spend a few hours without him and, as I told them quite loudly - loudly
enough for the guide to hear - these guides are nothing more than a bunch of crooks. Then he amused me
to such a degree that we had to accept his offer when he replied: Me a crook, yes! But me an honest crook!
Then we couldn’t get the bugger out of our sight until the Rhodesians paid him off, and only then did we
again find peace.
After a reasonable walk around the old Roman town that - during World War II - had been under
Spanish occupation until Morocco gained independence in 1956 and, after a cool drink, it was mutually
agreed that we make our way back on board.

Back across the Strait of Gibraltar to the Rock, that is not a rock at all but a 427 metre (1400ft) high mount
of limestone that is riddled with numerous caverns and galleries. Gibraltar had been settled by the Moors in
711 AD - taken by Castile in 1462 - and captured by the British in 1713. The border between Gibraltar and
Spain had been closed from 1969 to 1985, so I guess we were lucky to have been able to cross into Spain
for no other reason other than to say we had done so. Gibraltar is more than just a ‘rock’ … it is a
fascinating place to visit with every amenity of any small town. The rock itself is infested with the well-
known Barbary Apes that originated in Northern Africa and are as cheeky as all hell. We had problems
with one that happened to find its way through an open window into our bus, causing moments of
pandemonium amongst the passengers.
We had now passed from the Atlantic Ocean, through the Straight of Gibraltar, and entered the
Alboran Sea, en route to the Mediterranean. The word that this ship, the ‘World Renaissance’, was a sister
ship of the ‘Achilles Lauro’ began to spread. I had heard the name before - but it didn’t register to any
degree. I would learn much more, later in the cruise.

Two days of sailing took us on a Northeast course to the Balearic Islands, of which Majorca - Mallorca - is
the largest. It was here that a famous - infamously famous - Australian had taken refuge after getting away
with millions of dollars after the collapse of his various enterprises in Australia. One of these was the
magnificent Sheraton Mirage at Port Douglas where I used to go for breakfast after settling at Trinity Beach
in 1988. His humble hideaway in Majorca, a double-storey stone villa surrounded with bougainvillea -
where he lived in luxury with wife Pixie - was pointed out to anyone interested. Nobody, other than the
few Australians amongst of us had ever heard the name of Christopher Skase.
This very good looking man had worked as a journalist in Melbourne before entering the world of
business, forming a company known as Qintex in 1975. Qintex went on to control Australia’s Channel 7
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television network, and later developed not only the Sheraton Mirage but the majestic Mirage Resort on the
Gold Coast as well. His empire grew when - in 1987 - he acquired 50% of Rupert Murdoch’s film and
video production house known as Crawfords. And so the empire grew, acquiring additional assets along
the way until in 1989 the balloon burst, and Christopher fled Australia, leaving behind personal debts of
around $177 million. On August 6, 2001, Australia learned that Christopher Skase had died in Majorca at
about 10 p.m. the previous evening, Spanish time.

Only a few hours sailing northwest across the waters of the Mediterranean we berthed at Barcelona. Much
of this city has previously been covered in my recollections of the 1978 visit when I met with my artist
friend Glenys. (See chapter Return to Asia). Despite the fact that I had visited Spain’s second-largest city -
and largest port earlier - I decided to do the optional tour arranged by the cruise company. This was by far
the more informative way to travel. We drove along the Ramblas in airconditioned comfort instead of
suffering the summer heat, and I learned much more of the history and architecture. Once again I saw the
many of the fine museums and buildings, and re-visited Antonio Gaudi’s Art Nouveau, Sagrada Familia
church with its appalling spires - and I do mean ‘appalling’ - not appealing. We were also taken to the site
of the 1992 Olympic Games of the XXV Olympiad and - while others were visiting the great cathedral - I
took time for a far more interesting pursuit, like shopping for stamps to add to my collection.

I had been anxiously awaiting our visit to Nice as my good friend Julia (who was having an extended
holiday from Cairns while doing a bit of work on cruise boats in the area) who had said she would be
waiting for me on my arrival. As I had previously been to Nice, and was looking forward to catching up
with the girl again, I declined to do the optional excursion, choosing instead to wait and see if Julia had
made any plans for the day. She was not on the wharf as I would have expected and - despite the fact that I
ventured little from the ship’s rail or the wharf area all day, watching every solitary person who came and
went until about 5 p.m. - eventually I gave up waiting and went for a walk by myself. When passing a
newsagent I noticed a front page that screamed: TRAGEDIE DE CONCORDE! Although I don’t speak or
read French, that banner heading was easily understood when combined with an accompanying photograph;
it told all that I needed to know for the time being. On board ship that evening, the daily news told that the
world’s largest aircraft - the mighty Concord - had crashed on take-off from Charles de Gaulle airport in
Paris where I had landed only a few days earlier, killing 113 people. It was the world’s worst disaster
involving a supersonic aircraft.
Julia didn’t show at all … some women are so damned inconsiderate! Maybe that’s why I’m still
single?

We cruised down the coast of Italy into the Tyrrhenian Sea and berthed at Civitavecchia - the nearest port to
Rome. By this time I had lost count on how many times I had been to the Eternal City and decided not to
do the tour. I chose instead to spend the day by myself exploring the small port city. We berthed very near
the 16th-century Fort Michelangelo, around one side of which one has to walk to get to the city into which
we had sailed. There are the old city walls that had been built under Pope Urban VIII, as well as a fountain
designed by Vanvitelli. I passed by the fish market and ended up at what is known as the ‘Roman Harbour’
where a fine fishing fleet lay at anchor. In the Mediaeval part of town I came to the Piazza Leandre where
there was another attractive fountain. There was much of interest to see in Civitavecchia and I took my
time leisurely, enjoying lunch at a small café, then made my way back to the ship in order to take a rest
before dinner and the evening’s entertainment. Those who had gone on the excursion to Rome were almost
frantic when they arrived back right on re-boarding time … they had been held up by an accident that has
closed the main freeway out of Rome.
We sailed very close by Stromboli … so close, in fact, that anyone with a canoe could have paddled
ashore. It was on the Isle of Stromboli - while making a film of the same name - that my dear Ingrid
Bergman fell pregnant after a bit of hokey pokey with the film’s producer, Roberto Rossellini. As she was
married at the time this was the ultimate sin that killed her American career.
A few hours later we passed through the entrance to the Strait of Messina and berthed alongside at
the city of Messina at the eastern end of Sicily, where tourist buses awaited all who wished to visit the most
incredible aerie in the world … Taormina!
After a couple of hours driving on the particularly picturesque road south, we stopped outside the lower
gate of the city, at a point where large vehicles could go no further. No-one told us of what lay ahead - one
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hellishly long climb up a very steep hill … a very steep hill! Images of Guangzhou came to mind as I
couldn’t keep up with the group and had to repeatedly ask the guide to slow down for me. Me - infallible
me - who had always been first to the top of anything that could be climbed was having a serious encounter
with stress. Something, I knew, was amiss - but at this stage I had no idea what it was. I did know,
however, that I felt decidedly unwell but was not prepared to pull the plug at this stage.

The recorded history of Taormina goes back to 736 BC - the first year of the eleventh Olympic Games.
The conquest of Sicily was the first move by the Romans outside Italian territory. During the Middle Ages,
Taormina had the same fate as the rest of Byzantine Sicily and suffered attack after attack by the Moslem
army. By the end of the 9th century Taormina was regarded as being the capital of Byzantine Sicily.
From high up in the ruins of an ancient fort - through a smoky haze at the highest point of the city -
Etna volcano could be seen sending up a column of steam from its crater. Across in the opposite direction
the toe of Italy was merely a short leap for mankind across the Strait. I recalled my mother’s words when I
was a youngster: Long legged Italy kicked poor Sicily, right into the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. This
was a day I will forever be grateful that I was able to experience … what an incredibly beautiful place
Taormina is!

As we headed out to the east - into the Ionian Sea - I heard the rest of the story of our sister ship, the
‘Archille Lauro’ She had been sailing a little further to the east, not far off the coast of Egypt when, on
October 7, 1985, four members of the Palestinian Liberation Organisation hijacked the ship and, during
their reign of terror, shot one elderly wheelchair-bound passenger and pushed him overboard. I didn’t need
to hear that at this stage, when we were so very close to the exact same area.

The cruise was about to come to an end and great clouds of dense grey smoke from raging fires filled the
eastern sky, it was then that we berthed at Piraeus, the port for Athens. Greece was having nasty seasonal
fires.
I spent a few nights in Athens, reacquainting myself with memories of the past, and the wonderful
times I had spent with Theo … dreams, all dreams ... wonderful dreams of times gone by. I wondered at
how my life had changed in the intervening years, then flew to Bangkok in order to be measured for some
shirts and trousers to be made before returning home.

Arriving home I found an invitation to the wedding of my young blonde friend Nicola, who I had first met
at the Pier - I couldn’t possibly refuse. I asked Anne if I could stay a few nights with her … better still, she
booked me in to a luxurious apartment in the same complex where she lived on the Esplanade in Cairns …
a short walk from where the wedding reception was to be held.
On the night of the wedding something went wrong - I have no memory of the ceremony at all -
and I left the reception without any farewells. I couldn’t find my way to my accommodation, and curled up
in a gateway where I slept for a few hours on the footpath.
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TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING 2001

By late 2000, my afternoon walks with Jack had become almost negligible; we would take a very short
daily strolls close to home as I was having shortness of breath when walking. We went out one sunny
afternoon and I didn’t get home again until two days later. I recall feeling strange pains in my arms and
armpits, and an unpleasant throbbing in the neck - as if someone was standing on my chest. These
combined feelings were somewhat familiar. I had similar feelings in both Guangzhou and Taormina ...
strange sensations drifting through my head, and a weird, woozy, weak feeling. I had a vague recollection
of slumping onto the grass. When I opened my eyes I found myself in airconditioned comfort in a very
sterile-smelling room with wires all over the place and a constant beeping beside the bed. Comme ci,
comme ca! I knew where I was and had a rough idea of what had happened. After a lot of questioning,
doctors soon worked out that it was at Guangzhou that I had my first heart attack, and possibly a second on
the climb up to the peak to Taormina. Fortunately I was unaware of the fact at the time - no way on earth
would I have let a small matter like a heart attack interfere with my pleasures! I realised that over the years
I had been enjoying too much of a good thing, for far too long. Arnold arrived down in December and
found himself with a job - taking a tiny brown and white dog for his daily walk. Jack discovered he had an
uncle!
All through the rest of 2000 and into 2001, I continued to be monitored for the prostate cancer.
Indications were that the Zoladex implants were working wonders, and both my PSA level and the HIV
reading were down to ‘undetectable’. During these tests I was found to have osteoporosis in the right leg as
a result of the accident in 1969. Minor problems! Now a new problem entered my life … cardiovascular
troubles and blocked arteries. “Yes”, I told the doctors, “I had smoked for something like forty-seven
years, anything up to fifty a day - not a solitary one since giving up in 1994, though!”

For quite some time one of my National Service mates and I had been researching and planning a reunion
in 2001 to mark the 50th Anniversary of our period in the RAN (Royal Australian Navy). A date was set
for the reunion - December 11 - my birthday; that date was chosen for no reason other than I would be
unlikely to forget it. I had booked and pre-paid for Raymond to fly Port Moresby to Brisbane on December
1 - with a return flight on March 1 - and further bookings for the two us to fly to Melbourne for the reunion,
followed by a flight to Launceston for a week, taking in a seven-day fly-drive holiday in Tasmania.

Since my cardiologist was not at all impressed with the distress messages being sent out by my heart he
sent me for an angiogram, an ultrasound, a respiratory test and a host of other examinations that enlarged
my vocabulary considerably. Surprise! Surprise! My condition was found to be critical and I needed open-
heart surgery as a matter of urgency. This couldn’t be happening to me, surely it couldn’t be happening to
me! I was indestructible! I have always felt fully confident about being in control of my life - suddenly I
had lost all control and I did not like it. A cardiovascular surgeon was found to perform the operation and -
when I told him of my HIV status - he refused to operate, claiming that I would be putting the lives of
hospital staff at risk. I hurriedly contacted my doctor at the Sexual Health Clinic who threatened the
surgeon with discrimination, saying that legal action would be taken if he failed to meet his obligations
under the terms of the Hippocratic Oath. It seemed there was still discrimination and ignorance in regard to
HIV, even in some sections of the medical profession. Specialists seem to know little outside their own
sphere of practice. In next to no time I was booked in at a hospital for surgery on October 11, 2001 - one
month to the day after the World Trade Centre disaster - but a week or so beforehand the surgeon told me
he would not be able to go ahead with the operation unless I personally paid for a second surgeon, of his
choosing, to be on hand. I had to agree. I had no choice. I was given a 60% chance of survival - not bad
odds, I thought! If the operation was necessary, I wanted it done as soon as possible rather than be
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spending time worrying about it. I told the surgeon I had to be sufficiently recovered to go to the reunion in
December.
Wondering what the future held for me, I called an estate agent and asked how much he thought I
would get for the house if I sold it. I wanted to know if I could afford the cost of moving back to Cairns
where I had friends. The agent asked if I would mind if he put a FOR SALE sign in the front garden to
gauge public feeling of housing values in the area. Okay with me! That he did, phoning less than an hour
later, asking my approval to show a prospective client through the house. Before the afternoon was
through, I had been offered far more than I asked and the deal was done. I had six weeks to vacate the
premises!

I went ahead and had the operation and - on awakening in my hospital bed - was horrified to see wires
attached to various locations on my chest, but worse still was seeing tubes and wires coming out through
my chest and abdomen. I tried to talk but couldn’t utter a sound. A nursing sister told me that I had tubes
down the throat to suck out fluids. It was getting worse by the minute - I hadn’t expected that sort of thing,
but I was in no pain at all. A doctor came on the scene and went into a graphic description of how I had
been opened by having a circular saw run down the length of my chest, from the sternum to a few inches
above the navel. Too much information - I didn’t need to know anything about it - and he was damned
lucky I didn’t vomit all over him. I was sickened to the stomach to realise that someone had actually
handled my heart - such thoughts had never entered my mind previously. I felt that my body had been
violated. He went on to tell that a fourth artery needed replacing and, in addition, a leaking heart valve also
needed replacing - but not to worry - all that could be taken care of during the next operation! After the
tubes had been removed from my throat I made a feeble attempt at humour, telling the doctor, “There ain’t
gonna be no next operation.”
I have no recollection of how long I was kept in Intensive Care. I know I was in there but have
little recall. I do remember that early one morning I felt the need to go to the bathroom - I called it a
bathroom because that’s where the toilet was - and somehow made my way out of bed, wheeling my
intravenous drip gadget with me. As I neared the toilet door I was brought to a sudden stop by a peculiar
tug on the taddy - nobody had told me that I had a catheter inserted in a very private place. I had reached
the end of my tether, so to speak! I recall the thrill of being able to walk short distances, and greater still
when I could climb up one step, then one step down again, and return to bed.
This continued on a daily basis, adding two or three steps up and down each day until I could
manage the entire flight, but daily came the dreaded physiotherapist, with her annoying exercises, who I
ordered not to come near me. She continued to visit … and wouldn’t take “No!” for an answer. Far worse
than the operation itself, was when a Philippino nurse came with wire cutters and forceps and began to
remove the staples that ran right down the centre of my chest. She told me she had never removed staples
before - I realised that - and it did little to increase my confidence in her. After a few unsuccessful attempts
and a brief period of sheer agony, I requested a different, more experienced nurse. I was released from
hospital thirteen days after the surgery in which three arteries had been by-passed, using veins from my
legs. I had an awful lot of healing to do.

It seems that the anaesthetic had caused a mild form of amnesia. I had very little recall of having any
visitors and became rather aggressive towards friends who, I claimed, had not been to see me during my
period of hospitalisation. Doctors told me that this was a familiar reaction following major surgery - my
memory was extremely vague and, with every passing day, it became worse. Yolande, my niece, visited
one day and took me to our local shopping centre for coffee. My favourite waitress expressed surprise at
how ill I looked. Yolande told her not to worry about me as I was just getting back what I deserved for the
life I had lived. She then told me that I would have to think of what I was going to do about the future as
she would not be able to look after me if I was ill. This resulted in me phoning the Cairns Craft Centre to
see if Peter, the owner, would be interested in buying the business. Unfortunately, due to recent expansion,
he could not afford to buy but he did offer to store all my stock in return for a nominal rental for space. He
asked where I intended living - something I hadn’t had time to even consider - and he recommended a
retirement village where his mother had been living until only recently. Friends in Cairns took time to
inspect the village and gave glowing reports - all three agreed that I would love the place. How right they
were!
But then came the realisation that I had bookings made for Arnold to fly to Brisbane in December,
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and also bookings for the two of us from Brisbane to Melbourne for the reunion, then on to Launceston
where we had to collect the car for the Tasmanian holiday. All flights had to be changed to read Cairns
instead of Brisbane. I had advised my Nasho (National Service) mates that I was no longer in a position to
help with planning of the reunion but I had no intention of missing out on it after waiting fifty years.
Meanwhile, my condition was deteriorating rapidly. I felt that my sternum was either being torn
apart by the wiring that held both sides of my chest together, or the wires were cutting into the flesh. Any
movement was extremely painful. I needed help to sit up, or get out of bed, and had furniture moved to
provide handholds so that I could get myself to the bathroom. Peg was wonderful - she couldn’t do enough
to help me. Eventually the Sexual Health clinic care group organised volunteers to provide a carer to call
daily and help me shower, while another would come and do essential chores around the house, and
shopping as required. Without those good people I don’t know how I would have ever got through that
awful period. The time was drawing nearer for me to evacuate the premises so I phoned management at
the Parks Retirement Village in suburban Cairns and found that they had a brand new two-bedroom, two-
bathroom residence available, with large lounge, good kitchen space, an office and indoor garage that had
never been occupied. I bought it sight unseen! From my bed I arranged for a removalist to pack and
transport my worldly possessions back to Cairns. Coming down to the Gold Coast and returning to Cairns
had cost thousands of dollars - money I could not really afford - but a future without someone to help me
seemed to be a very bleak proposition indeed. I had no choice other than to move.
I managed to put all my vinyl records in piles to be given away, and sorted out my extensive book
collection into groups of ‘give-aways’ and ‘keeps’. Being unable to do much to help myself, I called the
volunteer organisation that had done so much for me, also a person from Animal Welfare, telling them to
come and take whatever they could use. Bob - ex-Elcom - and Aisi drove down from Cairns to assist with
packing. My friend Bryan - also ex-Elcom - offered to fly down from Townsville and drive my car - with
Jack and my prized one-hundred–and-thirty-nine year old clock - back to Cairns for me. Yolande helped by
emptying the contents of several suitcases that contained nothing other than many years of photographic
memories into wheelie bins. I told her I did not want see any of the photos as I would only want to keep
them. I find it terribly difficult to discard personal items from the past, putting one lot aside to be discarded,
then sorting through them little by little, reclaiming most pieces again, just in case. I could not afford to do
that this time as the new house in Cairns would be much smaller than the beautiful 3-bedroom, twin-garage
place that I was about to leave. I was taking only the necessities of life. There were to be three days
between when my possessions were leaving for the long drive north and when my flight would depart. It
was suggested I stay with Yolande for that short period.

With the huge removals van in the front driveway, and all my possessions being loaded on board, Bryan
arrived from Townsville to drive Jack and the car to Cairns. Bob and Aisi had already returned to Cairns
leaving Peg, Yolande and me in a very sad situation, in a rapidly emptying house. The phone rang! My
solicitor needed me to urgently sign my recently updated will before I left. The removals van departed, Peg
went home, and Yolande drove me to the solicitor. I signed the necessary papers and then he realised that
he needed an independent witness to also sign. Yolande piped up: “ I can do that!” The solicitor told her
she couldn’t sign as she was mentioned in the will. “Don’t get too excited Yo, you’re only getting the
family clock!” I told her. Quite coincidentally, she then suggested that it would possibly be better if I
stayed with her mother as I would find the children too noisy in my present condition. So considerate and
always thinking of the welfare of others, that’s Yolande! She phoned Beverley, her mother, to see if it
would satisfactory for me to stay with her, and then phoned a taxi to take me to her mother’s home at
Currumbin. I walked out of my home of the past six years carrying no more than a small overnight bag and
a baby’s pillow that the doctor had suggested I hold close to my chest on the flight during take-off and
landing. Goodbye, Gold Coast! I had no regrets at leaving. It was just six weeks since I had been
discharged from hospital.

After three very pleasant, relaxing nights at Currumbin, Beverley drove me to the Nerang station where I
caught the train to the airport. Suddenly I was lonely, a feeling I had very seldom experienced. I had no
home, no possessions other than one small bag, and I had no idea how I was going to cope in my new
surroundings. Bob met me at Cairns airport and drove me to his home as I was unable to collect the keys to
my new place until further paperwork was signed, sealed and approved. I could not believe my luck when I
eventually received the keys, turned one in the front door and saw the interior - it was magnificent, so much
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larger than I had expected - and most of the heavy furniture had been set in positions that have remained
unaltered to this day. I moved in on November 30, 2001. Arnold was due to arrive the following day but,
as usual, problems had occurred with his entry visa to Australia and he did not arrive until two days later.
Bob met Arnold - who didn’t know I had left the Gold Coast - at the airport and didn’t tell him to where he
was being taken. He then drove to the retirement village where Arnold was completely bewildered at
finding me living back in Cairns again. A few days later the two of us flew to Melbourne where we stayed
for three nights at the Ibis, so as to attend the reunion and catch up with ex-Ballarat friends with whom I
had worked at Myer.
All this was followed by seven wonderful days driving around Tasmania. I wanted to show the lad
various places I had previously visited, and places where my grandparents had lived in the latter part of the
1800’s. We spent the first two nights in Launceston and the first thing we did was visit the Cataract Gorge.
He was not at all keen on the chairlift that is believed to be the longest single span chairlift in the world.
Being a few years older, I felt he would have outgrown his vertigo but I was wrong once more.
After his terrifying crossing of the River Esk, we lunched in an exotic setting were peacocks
roamed at leisure on the lawns. No way would Arnold return across the gorge by the chairlift, so we had to
take the long walk to the beautiful Alexandra Bridge that spans the river in order to return to the car. I had
to take the walk very slowly and very carefully as I was only seven weeks out of hospital. We drove the
Bass Highway northwest to Devonport where we saw the Spirit of Tasmania - the car-ferry that crosses
Bass Strait between Devonport and Melbourne - at rest on the Mersey River. On that day I vowed that one
day I would take the lad on a cruise and just hoped I would stay well enough to do so. Continuing on our
way along the north coast we next stopped at Somerset where I had previously made reservations. After
checking in at the motel, we then proceeded further west to Stanley, as we both wanted to get a closer look
at the very prominent formation known as The Nut, that dominated the horizon. That interesting formation
is an exposed lava plus more than ten million years old. Curiosity satisfied, we retuned to Somerset for the
night.

With grandfather’s old haunt of Queenstown in mind, we drove southwards on the Murchison Highway,
through the magnificent forest of the Hellyer Gorge State Reserve. Sometime in the early 1800’s
grandfather and Grandmother had traversed this part of Tasmania by bullock-dawn wagon along a road, the
surface of which was formed partly by felled saplings laid across the worst muddy sections. We passed
through Tullah, founded for lead extraction at about the time of the grandparents departure from Creswick
with their first-born daughter, two-year-old Irene Lillian. I can only imagine they came for the mining as
both Grandfather and his brother ,Jim, had been miners in the Creswick Area. Grandfather and ‘Uncle’ Jim
had been presented with bravery awards for the part they both played in saving many lives during the
Australasian Mines disaster near Creswick.

Grandma and Grandpa had settled in Zeehan, and it was there that their first
son, William Samuel Cassell, was both in 1893. Conditions must have been
frightfully harsh and it is little wonder that the child died the following year.
One can imagine Grandmother’s anguish and sadness, losing her first-born
son in such an isolated, rugged and hostile environment, so far from
everything she had ever known. As best I could, I tried to explain some of
this part of my family history to Arnold but, as he has absolutely no
comprehension of time, I can only hope he understood something of what I
had told him.
When I was a child many were the evening I spent sitting on
Grandfather’s knee as he told me tales of his early years, but throughout my
life I could never understand how a man from the gold-mining village of
Creswick could have such a knowledge of theatre. It was during our visit to
Zeehan that I learned that in the 1800’s there had been a large theatre there,
known as The Gaiety, that could seat audiences of 1,000 or more. Artists
who had appeared at the theatre that Grandfather had told me of were Dame
Nellie Melba, Enrico Caruso and Harry Houdini, to name a few.
Grandfather often talked about Sarah Bernhardt as well, but I have been
Raymond Arnold Manasa and
unable to find any record of her having appeared at The Gaiety. The Murchison, Zeehan
 225

Arnold was more interested in things mechanical and wanted his photo taken with the beautifully
restored steam engine, The Murchison, as a memento of his visit to the West Coast Pioneers’ Memorial
Museum.

Although I had been to Queenstown many years previously, the initial sight of the town, surrounded by a
moonscape of bare hills, came as a particularly unpleasant surprise. The hills encircling the town had been
completely denuded of vegetation to feed the copper smelters and then - to complete the devastation - the
noxious sulphur fumes from the smelters had wiped out the remaining foliage.
We left Queenstown the following morning, driving up the long, steep and winding Lyell Highway on our
way to Hobart but I had not had time to do my homework very well, and had certainly hadn’t planned on
doing a 260km drive on those winding roads in one day. The entire distance was heavily forested with few
rest stops. At one stage I noticed a small babbling stream dancing its way down through rocks and reeds at
the roadside and - as I was almost out of my mind with thirst - I stopped the car, walked to the stream and
lay face down to drink from the cool, clear, crystalline waters. Nowhere had we been able to find anywhere
to buy a drink of any sort, so this stream was a particularly welcome discovery.
Although this was summer and we were in Tasmania, I was surprised that we could drive so far
with the windows down, wearing little more than T-shirts and trousers. After we arrived in Hobart that
attire had to be packed away for the future. Cold, wet and blustery Hobart is the southernmost and second
oldest capital city in Australia. The entire region reeks of history. On a clear day the majestic snow-capped
Mount Wellington is visible from town, while at other times it is shrouded in mist or rain. When we arrived
it was completely shrouded in a swirling mist.
We were fortunate to find a motel almost in the heart of town and within easy walking distance of
the historic Victoria Dock area. We walked there to check out the fabulous variety of food - especially
seafood - and work out where to dine that evening. A wild wind began to blow in from the south and we
had to don everything we could find in the way of warm clothing.

The very next morning we set off southwards to Southport, for two reasons - the main one being that
neither of us had ever been there before - and then, of course, it was the farthest point south that I could
possibly drive on a sealed road in Australia. We found a quiet, dreamy little resort town that was a haven
for holidaymakers, and felt the drive had been well worth the effort. In the old, old days Admiral
D’Entrecasteaux had named the spot Baie des Moules which, with my limited range of the French language,
seemed to indicate that he had found edible mussels in the bay there. Monsieur D’Entrecasteaux must have
been a well-travelled lad as he also gets a mention in the islands of the Milne Bay province of Papua New
Guinea. With all that wealth of information stored away, we turned around and returned to Hobart for more
delicious seafood … I love seafood!
We awoke the next morning to find the skies to the south a very ominous shade of burnished steel -
darker even than Dracula’s castle. One of my main reasons for coming on this trip was to let Arnold see the
ruins of Port Arthur and, along the way, we drove through a very interesting little place called Sorell - one
of the very first settlements in Australia. I considered turning back as conditions ahead looked decidedly
nasty, but I am a very determined chappie and I hadn’t driven this far for the lad to not see the historic
penal colony. In the meanwhile, the weather held off long enough for us to spend time walking around and
seeing some of nature’s masterpieces such as the Tessellated Pavement, the Blowhole and Tasman’s Arch -
three dramatically impressive rock formations; Arnold had already seen the Devil’s Pebbles and the Devil’s
Marbles in Central Australia. In amongst this devilish trifecta was a roadside mobile unit that sold fresh
strawberries, with masses of pure, unadulterated, direct-from-the-cow cream ... and ice-cream - and there
was me, trying to recover from a triple bypass operation, knowing that my cholesterol level was already far
too high. So, I sacrificed the fresh cream!

We drove in to the grounds at Port Arthur in the most disgusting storm that Tasmania could possibly hurl at
us. Fortunately, I had bought plastic raincoats and, at a vantage point through the pouring rain, we could
vaguely discern portions of the ruins. The rain was too heavy for either of us to get out of the car. Arnold
had at least seen something of our most historic penal colony, opened in 1830, where prisoners had lived
and slaved in the most inhumane conditions imaginable under the viciously cruel and watchful eyes of
Governor George Arthur, who had decreed that his prisoners ‘[s]hould undertake the most unceasing
labour with the most harassing vigilence, in silence, from dawn to dusk’.
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And so my son has been to Port Arthur but, unfortunately, didn’t actually see anything of the
beauty of the place. As we were leaving the weather cleared slightly and I was able to get a photograph of
him, shrouded in a hooded, plastic raincoat, with some of the ruins in the background. He did not see the
spot where the Broad Arrow Café had once stood - a café known to all who visited the historic site.
Unfortunate, too, is the fact that just after midday, less that five years before our visit, a gunman had
opened fire on the diners in the Broad Arrow Café at Port Arthur and in less than 20 minutes had - in the
immediate vicinity - killed thirty-five people and injured twenty-two. In November of 1996 a young local
lad was charged with the killings and later sentenced to life imprisonment.
Shortly after leaving Port Arthur out came the sunshine and a beautiful day presented itself. I
considered returning to the ruins but time was against us. To save time we bypassed Hobart, choosing
instead to take the Tasman Highway up the east coast. A little to the north of Swansea a minor road runs
off to the left, inland through fertile plains to Ross. Although I had visited this little town previously - so
steeped in colonial history - I wanted Arnold to see the
place that had been named, in 1821, by Governor
Lachlan Macquarie after the Scottish home of a friend of
his … not me!

After leaving Ross and with no particular destination in

mind we returned to drive up the coast until we came to
Scamander … that was it! There we found a motel,
sufficiently elevated above sea level to give a wonderful
view eastwards across the Tasman Sea. The next
landfall would be New Zealand and, beyond that again,
the South American country of Chile, in the vicinity of
Valparaiso. But I dream … a visit to Scamander is
Naturally, Arnold wanted his photograph taken at Ross enough to make anyone want to relax and dream awhile.
This delightful place became popular with tourists in
1896 - way back before tourism was even invented - and is now a very popular holiday resort. Taking
advantage of the long, late summer evening, we walked to the beach, north to the rather wide mouth of
Scamander River, then back south, but we couldn’t find the path up to the main road again and had to take a
longer, much more interesting walk around until we came upon the main strip once again. We were
awakened early next morning by the great, golden sun rising from the depths of the ocean, streaming in
through our window and, after a hearty breakfast, we hit the road once more. Time was running short as we
had to be back in Launceston to catch our flight home the following day.
Continuing on the Tasman Highway we wound our way up into higher country to Scottsdale, the
centre of the region’s pine-forest industry. This is a great, fertile area - with a heaven-sent rainfall - where
much of the state’s vegetables are grown. This was the ideal place for our last lunch in Tasmania - a hearty
meal of roast lamb with mint sauce and lots of fresh greens. Our last night was spent where it had all begun
… Launceston.

On departing Tasmania I recalled an event from when I was a child and Mum and Aunty Ivy had gone to
Tasmania for a holiday at Sandy Bay. I remember the day when we - Dad, John and I - received a cryptic
message that said: Don’t worry - we are alright! Of course those words meant little at the time, but that
very same evening on the radio came the news that a plane had crashed after takeoff from Hobart airport,
with total loss of life. When dear old Mum arrived home she told how - when she and Ivy arrived at the
airport - they learned that there had been a double booking. Two young ladies had also been booked and,
fortunately, Mum and Ivy had surrendered their seats for the young ones. I have flown out of that airport
on a couple of occasions since, each time thinking of Mum telling me that when she and Ivy were
departing, the plane had to climb steeply over a narrow coastal strip of pine trees, swing around to the left
and below, on a beach, was the wreckage of their intended flight.

Arnold had by now experienced every state in Australia … quite an achievement for someone who had
been brought up to believe he was the village idiot. I have often wondered what goes on in the mind of one
so afflicted, with such an incredible wealth of knowledge and - being unable to write or talk - cannot relate
to friends what he has seen and done.
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A NEW LOOK AT HONG KONG 2002

Sometime in the latter half of 2002 I received an invitation to attend the wedding of Anne’s son Paul, who
still lived in Hong Kong but no longer with Lily who I had previously met. Grace, his wife-to-be was a
very successful Chinese businesswoman, with a grown son who was studying at the University in Darwin.
I e-mailed my acceptance to the invitation, telling Paul I would definitely be there and, on his request, later
advised the time and date of my intended arrival. He e-mailed a reply to tell that he had made reservations
for me at the Wesley Hotel on Hennessy Road. As Arnold was due down in the first week of December, I
could attend the wedding with only one ticket to be paid for, and be back in Cairns to meet him on his
arrival.
I phoned Anne in the hope of the two of us flying together but she had already made her
reservations as she was meeting up with two of her sisters, their husbands, and a cousin of Paul’s, some of
whom were staying in Paul’s apartment that he had temporarily made available, while the remainder were
in a hotel at the eastern end of Hong Kong island in the Chai Wan (not to be confused with Wan Chai).
On November 12, I flew to Sydney to catch a connecting flight to Hong Kong. Paul was waiting
for me at the new airport on Lan Tau island. We drove to Hong Kong, calling in at a small, very trendy
little Internet-type coffee shop to catch up on recent affairs. As it was so close to my hotel, I left Paul and
walked to the Wesley, right in the middle of the busy and exciting Wan Chai area within easy walking
distance of the exclusive Marriot Oriental Hong Kong Hotel where the reception was to be held. This was
also very close to where Diana had been living on Hennessy Road when I first visited the island all those
years back. The hotel in which Paul had booked me for seven nights - the Wesley - was excellent, with
very comfortable accommodation.
Many changes had been made since I was last in Hong Kong. I fully expected it to show a more
Chinese influence but traces of the British occupation - and that of other foreign nationalities - was still
very much in evidence. On my first morning I felt it wise to re-educate myself to this new Hong Kong,
firstly by locating the hotel where the reception was to be held that afternoon. On the way I came to a huge
multi-storey, rather exclusive shopping complex - Pacific Place - that was considered to be one of the
world’s glitziest malls and was part of the foundations of the luxurious Marriot Oriental, Conrad and Island
Shangri-La hotels. I knew that one day I had to take Arnold to see this vast complex, with its incredible
range of restaurants, casual dining and food halls. While Wan Chai remains very much as in days gone by,
this complex held mainly imported, designer-label goods from all the well-known European fashion houses
- Prada, Hermes, Chanel, Versace et al. It was amazing to see such a vast number of Caucasian women -
many Australian - going about their affairs as if the place was still British.
Close by the theatres a street led uphill and around to a huge semi-circular area where the
previously mentioned hotels were located. That was where the reception was to be held that afternoon - a
very short walk from the Wesley. Fortunately for me, Paul had mentioned that the wedding was a formal
affair and I had brought my dinner suit for the occasion. I returned to the hotel where I phoned for
housekeeping to iron my dress shirt. Honestly, I felt like a complete dork being dressed up so formally in
daylight, so I called a taxi to take me the short distance to be dropped off right at the front entrance. A large
notice in the foyer read: GRACE & PAUL!
As usual for me - and fortunately for Paul - I was early, the first guest to arrive, and found Paul
having difficulties tying his do-it-yourself bow tie; a thing I cannot do for myself ; mine was a clip-on but
having been a window dresser, I was accustomed to dressing window models and was able to get Paul
organised before further guests arrived. It was a big, lavish affair with twelve circular tables, each seating
an average of twelve guests. Being the only person at the table who did not have a mobile phone I was able
to observe how the young local Asiatics carried on at a formal affair in this modern age … phones rang
constantly throughout the entire reception. It seems that in Asia this is not a serious breach of etiquette.
The wedding ‘breakfast’ was a banquet of major proportions, with many of the courses being traditional
 228

Chinese cuisine. Even though I have been accustomed to Chinese food for a lifetime, several were different
to anything I had ever previously encountered.
Grace used the occasion as a fashion parade, and I learned on that day that a Chinese wedding is a
great opportunity to display to friends just how many changes of costume it is possible to display in a few
hours. She was forever darting out of the room, re-entering shortly afterwards in an even more elegant
outfit than the one before. That was when I learned that she owned a fashion boutique and this was her
chance to advertise.
Although it was a wedding, there was no actual ceremony, as custom had it that they had to wait
until a more propitious date has been agreed to by the spirits-or-whatever. Although more than four years
have passed by, the event has still not been formalised.

Shortly before midnight, Paul took all his friends and family to a nightclub cum bar that he frequented,
where he had booked half the establishment exclusively for our use, and for the next hour or so, most of the
younger generation proceeded to drink themselves into oblivion. When everyone was sufficiently
saturated, we moved to another frightfully crowded venue for more drinks, with disco lighting and dancing.
In the wee small hours of the morning I was beyond caring but I did apologise to Paul that I had to go to
bed and was about to walk back to my hotel. Not allowed! He hailed a taxi and took me to my door. Next
morning I realised why - as in daylight I found it to be a very seedy area - the gritty neighbourhood made
famous by the 1960 film The World Of Suzie Wong.
For the guests of Paul, luncheon next day was another multi-course feast at a Floating Restaurant -
a different one to that which Diana had shown me all those years back, where we both agreed we couldn’t
possibly afford to eat there. How times change, and how time flies when you’re having fun! Paul, one of
his friends and I, went off on our own for a quiet harbour cruise on a sampan. I was amazed at his
command of the language, as he was able to bargain and negotiate a good price with the owner, a very
ancient woman, who stood at the helm at the helm.
The shoreline of Kowloon was entirely different to anything I had previously known, as the entire
waterfront area had been reclaimed from the harbour and built over with huge, modern buildings. There
were now three tunnels for traffic beneath the harbour, connecting Kowloon with the island of Hong Kong.
When I was there with Diana, they were just starting the
first.
Most from Paul’s side of the guest list were leaving
the following day and so Anne asked if I would like to
accompany her, and two of her sisters, on a last-minute
shopping spree in Kowloon, which is the mainland part of
Hong Kong. We crossed by ferry, had lunch at Sha Tin,
hustled and bustled our way up and down the very busy
Nathan Road, and then the girls - Paul’s aunts - realised they
had to make a quick dash back to their accommodations to
collect their luggage and head to the airport. With me
straggling along behind, unable to keep up the pace, I called
I promised myself that one day I would bring Raymond to Anne to leave me as I was nothing more than a
Arnold to see this lovely area known as Hong Kong Park. hindrance.

Anne called at the Wesley next day to collect me and took me to where she was staying alone at an
all-female hostel in what had once been a ‘mansion’, close to the lower Peak station. Her accommodation
was very selective and - in a very colonial fashion - we were served sandwiches and tea at a private table.
After lunch we took the Peak Tram 373 metres (about 1,200 feet) up to the lookout at the top of The Peak.
The view from up there is incredible! One looks out over a spectacular view of the surrounding city
skyline, the world-famous Victoria Harbour and Kowloon, towering skyscrapers, interspersed with peaceful
green parks and gardens. Back on ground level, Anne introduced me to something I had never imagined in
such a crowded, bustling metropolis - an oasis of green set right in the very heart of all the skyscrapers -
called Hong Kong Park. In the midst of all those millions of people was that magnificent refuge, a
meandering stream with fish and turtles, a restaurant and the largest aviary I have even seen. How I wished
Arnold could be there to experience it with me! Since arriving, I had been mentally translating and
explaining everything to Arnold in sign language, and with every day that passed, and with every new sight
I saw, I was promising myself that one day I would bring him to Hong Kong to see it all for himself.
 229

SEVEN NIGHTS ON THE GREAT BARRIER REEF 2003

During conversation with folk in Cairns one day I learned that my old Port Moresby doctor, Doctor Stephen
Webb, was in private practice on the Atherton Tablelands. When I phoned him and explained who was
calling, he said: “You’re supposed to be dead!” He knew it, I knew it, but much as I hate clichés, I
thought; Only the good die young!’ I drove up to Atherton to have lunch with the Doc and the new Mrs
Webb. We gossiped the time away but all-too-quickly our free time was over and he had to go back to
work.
Despite the fact that I was having a ball living in the Retirement Village, I needed time off and
decided to do a small cruise. As I was still running the business without help, I couldn’t stay away for long
and didn’t want to distance myself too far from doctors, and needed something without stress; I chose an
easy solution - SEVEN NIGHTS ON THE GREAT BARRIER REEF!
One quick phone call to the local office of Captain Cook Cruises in Cairns, and the following day I
had their brochure with the captivating headline: “Beautiful Beyond Belief”. They had cruises of three
nights, four nights, or seven nights sailing out of - and back to Cairns. I booked sole occupancy on the 7-
night Ultimate Great Barrier Reef Cruise. I was previously unaware that Queensland had it so good … this
was going to be excellent!
Initially - on boarding the M.V. Reef Endeavour - I was rather disappointed at the size of the
piddling little lounge area but found it to be quite adequate, as the maximum number of passengers that
could be carried was one hundred and fifty and not all congregated in the lounge at the one time. On our
sailing there was nowhere near that number, and crowding was the least of my worries as most of the older
folk usually retired early after dinner.
Once again I had a cabin all to myself. I had paid for sole occupancy and got it. Everything about
this vessel seemed so small compared to the World Renaissance but whatever it lacked in size, it made up
for when mealtimes came around - the food was out of this world! Two of the five nights were seafood
spectaculars - I didn’t have the heart to tell my cardiologist how many prawns and oysters I ate on that trip.
We sailed from Cairns early on a Friday afternoon and a little over an hour later we anchored
offshore at Fitzroy Island. For passengers from interstate or overseas, that island is a tropical paradise but -
for those of us who are fortunate enough to live in the area - it is just another tropical island to which we
can sail at any time for a day trip, or to stay a few nights at the resort. The Endeavour has its own
motorised craft for passengers wishing to go ashore but for me, as I was in familiar territory and only a few
miles from home, I chose to stay on board and await the call to pre-dinner drinks in the lounge. My cabin
was on the same deck as the dining saloon, and only about ten metres from the bow.
We had allocated seating for dinner each
evening, eight to a table. It was an interesting miss-
match of humanity. Apart from myself, at our table
there were five other Australians, plus a highly
temperamental expatriate Australian author by the
name of Catherine Gaskin who thought she was God’s
gift to the world of literature, and her older sister - a
delightfully tolerant old soul. That poor, misguided
wench of an author had been born in Ireland, came to
Australia as a baby and, in the late forties returned to
England. She had only recently returned to Australia
where she suffered from delusions of grandeur, and
seemed to be having difficulty settling in with the
lowly commoners of Australian society. Although
Never did a dream that I would ever be an author myself as I sat
supposedly famous for her books, I had never heard diagonally opposite Catherine Gaskin that evening
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of the woman and, when she told me the titles of some the ones she had written, I apologised that I had
never read, or even heard of any of them. At dinner on every night she was on board, she would open
conversation, centered entirely on herself and, when anyone happened to change the topic or interrupt she
would inevitably fall silent, bite her trembling lower lip, rise, and make her way slowly to her cabin without
saying another word. Her poor sister would apologise each evening, saying that she was always the same if
she was not the centre of attention. Thank heavens she was aboard for only three nights!

A day was spent at Hedley Reef - off the coast in the Cardwell area - midway between Cairns and
Townsville. As I neither snorkel or dive, I was content to remain on board and leave such pleasures to the
young and the restless, the active and sun-tanned. Others returned to the ship with glowing reports of the
wonders they had seen … beautiful masses of corals and exotic fish in a vast range of species and colours.
The M.V. Endeavour carries its own glass bottom boat and Marine Naturalist to give passengers a detailed
commentary on the wonders of the reef. It was there, at Hedley Reef, that we lay at anchor for our second
night.

Although parts of the Hinchinbrook Passage can be

seen from the Bruce Highway when driving south
from Cairns, nothing could equal the beauty of the
majestically rugged island on our port side - left-hand
side for land-lubbers - the glassy mirror surface of the
channel’s waters directly ahead, and the canopies of
mangroves along the coast of the mainland. This area
is a veritable haven for native birds, dolphins, dugongs
and migrating whales.
The rugged Hinchinbrook Island is Australia’s
largest island national park, dominated by a rugged
range of jagged peaks. It has a resort, nestled out of
sight in the thick vegetation and is a Mecca for
adventurous trekkers. However, not all who are put Incredibly serenity whilst cruising in the Hinchinbrook Passage
ashore on the island make it off again, . It is a well-
known fact that there have been occasions when a person fails to show at the pick-up point, never to be
seen or heard of again.
After turning around at the southern end of the channel, we made our way back to Dunk Island -
another tropical paradise - the resort of which is open to passengers of the Endeavour who wish to make
use of the facilities. As I had visited Dunk on several previous occasions, for me it was an ideal time to sit
poolside and watch the resort’s sun-bronzed guests at play. Then back on board again for yet another
banquet of goodies and, in the evening, a ‘let’s go tropical’ fancy dress event. Our third night was spent
resting on an incredibly still surface of pure mother-of-pearl; then next morning we ‘set sail’ for the return
to Cairns where passengers of the three-night cruise departed, and stores for the four-night group came on
board.

That afternoon we returned to anchor off Fitzroy Island again, giving the newcomers an opportunity to go
ashore during the afternoon if they wished. I was aboard to relax, and that’s what I mainly did. I realised
that age was beginning to creep up on me - I was content to wile away the time with reading, feasting, and
idle chatter.
The skipper received word on the ship’s radio that some nasty weather was heading our way from
the north and so, instead of sailing direct to Cooktown as scheduled, we sailed further north to rest in the
tranquil waters in the lee of ‘the jewel of the Reef’, Lizard Island. There the ship’s boat was lowered for all
and sundry to go ashore and flounder in the warm ocean. I had been interested in visiting this island, as its
resort is a hide-away for the holidaying rich and famous, in the line of film stars and royalty. Unfortunately
the resort was out of bounds to we passengers, protected from the outside world by a rocky outcrop that
dropped to the ocean. Our tropical playground was a flat, sandy beach with one solitary palm tree to give
the only shade.
More of interest to me was the remains of a small stone cottage, long since deserted and, on
returning to the ship, I learned that it had been home to a young woman named Mary Watson. The matter
 231

interested me, and further research showed that she had married at the age of twenty-one and later settled on
the island with her husband Captain Robert Watson, their four-month old son, and two Chinese employees.
They must have been crazy as there was no fresh water on the tiny island, and the soil so arid that nothing
edible could be grown there.
While the husband was away at another island - where he hoped to build a smokehouse - aborigines
attacked and killed one of the Chinese. Fearing another attack Mary, and the remaining Chinaman, pushed
a cut-down ship’s water tank - in which they normally boiled their catch of Beche-de-mer - into the water.
Mary, her baby and the Chinaman climbed into the tank and drifted out to sea and safety - or so they
thought.
Their remains were discovered on nearby Howick Island on January 18 of the following year. She
had with her a diary, with a final entry that read: ...no water nearly dead with thirst. The skeletal remains
of Ah Sam the Chinaman lay in the shade of a mangrove tree. The remains of Mary and baby were still in
the water tank.
Mary’s diary showed that they left Lizard Island on September 29, 1881. What an agonizing death,
in that heat, with no shade and no water!

We lay at anchor that night in the lee of Lizard Island and, with the bad weather approaching, early next
day we headed for the shelter of Cooktown, just as Captain James Cook had done in June of 1770, after
holing his ship The Endeavour, on the reef. Of course it wasn’t known as Cooktown at the time - that came
sometime later.
I first visited Cooktown when holidaying in Cairns, during my tenure in Papua New Guinea, and
had flown up to stay overnight in a vain attempt to buy a block of land, as I was interested in living there.
Such was not to be, as no estate agents were interested in selling. All were holding on, waiting for the
expected boom time ... but that time never did come for Cooktown.

On this visit I took time to visit the historic cemetery and pay homage at the grave of Mary Watson. I
learned that some 18,000 Chinese had flocked to the Cooktown area during the horrific days of the gold
rush at Palmer River in 1873.

We sheltered for the night, quite close to where Capt. Cook and his crew had carried out repairs to their
Endeavour way, way back in 1770.
The storm struck shortly after we left Cooktown the following morning, making our trip very
rough and interesting. Although a mere seven nights at sea, it had been a most enjoyable few days and I
was quite content to return home to my baby dog Jack, once more.
 232

This solitary palm offers the only shade on the beach at Lizard Island.
 233

BACK TO THE OLD STOMPING GROUND 2004

My trusty cardiologist was concerned … a major valve in my heart - the one that was to have been repaired
in 2001 but couldn’t be done on account of too much surgery at the one time - was failing, and could not be
expected to last much longer. He was keeping a close eye on the situation. That and a few other matters
had slowed the old boy down considerably. When Arnold arrived down on his annual holidays I told him
that this year we would be having a much slower-paced vacation. My travels were being kept closer to
home and doctors. The country boy had quietened down considerably!
The very idea of the holiday I chose to take the lad on seemed absolutely absurd as it was a six-day,
five-night tour for the over-forties, with the home base being at the company’s own motel at Wakerley, a
southeastern suburb of Brisbane, about one hour from where I had lived on the Gold Coast for six years.
The attraction was that we would be sleeping in the same room each night - which meant no daily packing
and unpacking - with all meals taken care of, and each day we would be taken on a bus tour - each day to a
different area. Surely, I thought, we would be taken to some places we hadn’t seen previously … we were!
In January of 2004 we flew to Brisbane where we were picked up at the airport by the bus of the
Koala Resort Motel that did a run-around of Brisbane, picking up guests at various locations. We were then
taken to the motel where we were given time to unpack, have a nice homely lunch and a rest before being
taken out tripping around the south-eastern suburbs for the afternoon. Sounds mundane, but it was really
very pleasant, rather relaxing, and gave everyone an opportunity to get to know each other. Dinner at night
- as every night - was back at the motel for a wonderful home cooked, three-course meal in the resort’s very
homely dining room.

Next day we drove north on the Bruce Highway, crossed the Gateway Bridge, north past the airport, and
headed up to the huge pillars - the eroded remnants of slow lava flows which solidified in the throats of
ancient volcanoes millions of years ago - that are the Glass House Mountains, named so by our old friend
Capt. James Cook when he sailed that way in 1770. We stopped at The Big Pineapple, a fifteen-metre high
fiberglass pineapple - with a very popular eatery that specialised in seafood and locally grown fruit - for
lunch. At Cooroy we turned right to Tewantin - where Jack the Dog was born - had a wander around
Noosa, then drove south to Maroochydore for a roadside catered morning tea that would become a regular
event, with all necessities being carried in the bus. The only unfortunate thing about these bus trips was
that the driver - the son of the company’s owner - just loved the sound of his own voice. All day, every
day, he droned on and on with a particularly uninteresting dialogue - giving the full history of the family,
his wife, his education status and, in general, a full run-down on how good he was and what he had
achieved in life. After all, he was the bus-driver, and the son of the owner! But if - in your mind - you
could switch off the sound of his voice it was excellent. It was here at Maroochydore that Arnold
developed a very painful earache and, although I found a local doctor, he could not be attended to in the
short time the tour allowed. I bought some painkillers that saw him through the night.
With no early morning complaints of pain from the lad, everyone boarded the bus after breakfast
for a morning on North Stradbroke Island … somewhere I had never been before. Departing from
Cleveland on a vehicular ferry, the bus and all passengers crossed Moreton Bay to the island, with time to
enjoy a morning tea en route. It was on this crossing that I looked down towards the bows, directly onto the
roof of the bus where - in very large block lettering - RECYCLED TEENAGERS had been professionally
sign-written along the full length of the bus. Recycled teenagers - yep! That summed us up perfectly, as all
were in their senior years, and most still had a passionate zest for living.
Landing at Amity Point - right at the top end of the island - the bus rolled ashore and we headed off
for a very interesting, albeit short drive, around to Point Lookout at the northeastern tip of the island. We
stopped at a point where the bus could be parked and the driver recommended a lengthy walk - much of it a
boardwalk - but warned that some of it could be a bit too strenuous for the elderly or walking impaired.
 234

But, he added, it was a wonderful, extremely scenic, and interesting walk for anyone but the semi-disabled.
Where did that leave me? Should I try it, or should I not? My triple-bypass was a little over two years
behind me and all I had to lose was self-esteem or my life. The decision was made … I’d make the attempt
and, if it got too much for me, Arnold would get me back to the bus somehow.
The views were spectacular … the walk itself was the eighth wonder of the world as far as
construction was concerned … excellent five-star material with, at times, very long, steep stairways. At
one point we gazed down upon a giant sea turtle swimming lazily, way down below us, in a marine heaven
of crystal-clear turquoise. With no bravado on my part, I was able to complete the circuit with no ill effects
whatsoever; in fact, not only did it do the heart good, it was marvellous for the ego.
The two islands, North and South Stradbroke had - until a severe storm battered the area in 1896 -
been one. During that storm, savage waves cleared a channel right through the island, dividing it in two.
The bus had reached the departure point and all were ready to re-board the ferry, when Arnold told
me that the pain in his ear was excruciating. Our driver told me that there was a pharmacy in the small
settlement of Amity Point, about one hundred metres back up the hill where we had just driven through. I
really didn’t think I was going to make the grade, racing up that hill but I did, and was able to buy some
ineffective eardrops. When we could see the bus still waiting to re-board the ferry, we found a shady tree
under which we sat and I administered the drops. I felt so sorry for the lad as he had no words with which
to describe his pain.

Back on the mainland once again, we headed south, down the Pacific Highway to Helensvale, where we
branched off on the Gold Coast Highway to our old stomping ground of the Gold Coast. For me, this place
was bad memories; Arnold adored the place - and tourists love it. Anyone on a first visit is utterly gob-
smacked by the bustling, glittering strip of real estate that covers forty-two kilometres of beachfront, from
South Stradbroke Island to the New South Wales border. I quote from ‘Australian Places’ : ‘Visitors and
neighbours either envy or despise its sometimes-brittle raciness, depending on their personal taste and
attitudes’. So I am not entirely alone in my views.
We hit the coast proper at Southport, then followed the road down through the wall-to-wall
skyscrapers of hotels and holiday apartments to Surfers Paradise. At this point we were less than five
kilometres from my old home, and we knew the area too much to be tourists. A great temptation for many
was calling in at Jupiter’s Casino for a ‘wee’ stop but, fortunately, time was not allowed for any gambling.
Southwards once more to Burleigh Heads where we found a pleasant park at which we stopped and
all passengers helped unload folding chairs, eskies etc, for a picnic lunch that was enjoyed, practically on
the beach. We were a little over walking distance from Beverley’s magnificent home at Currumbin.
The earache had reached crisis point … our driver told me that on arrival at the huge new shopping
centre at Robina, where we were due for a one-hour afternoon break, we should make our way as quickly as
possible to a doctor where his mother had made a booking. How lucky we were that we had so frequently
shopped at this centre and knew it well … we found the surgery and were admitted immediately on arrival.
The Doc gave a script for prescription drops that we had to collect from a pharmacy - that we were also
familiar with - and from there on, with constant monitoring, there wasn’t another mention of pain. Puffing
and panting we reached the bus as all passengers were geared up for departure. The entire episode had
taken exactly one hour of hectic rushing.
That night, after dinner at the resort, we had our one-and-only night out. Those who wished to go
were driven to a local Club where I lost on the pokies, and Arnold - as usual - did alright for himself. Our
bus took others to the club on the following evening, but thanks to a little deafness, the lad didn’t know; we
stayed ‘home’ and I didn’t lose any more money.
On our last full day of the tour we were taken to a wonderful spot in the Gold Coast hinterland
known as Mount Tamborine. This is one of the places in the coastal area that I will never tire of … the
ruggedly mountainous Lamington National Park holds treasures such as Springbrook, Binna Burra and
O’Reilly’s - each of the three at the end of a road - and the sensational Mount Tamborine, where I had so
often driven for meals, nights away with an Asian friend, visiting other friends who lived in the area, and
enjoying the cool, clear mountain air. On this day, however, the clouds hung so low that we drove right up
into them, and the fog became so dense that none of the spectacular scenery could be enjoyed.
Down came the rain … a deluge only too familiar in the Southeastern corner of Queensland.
Thirty-two people crowded together under a small shelter - built for about half that number - as the rains
drenched the area. Nobody saw the view out to the west from the Darlington Range, surely one of the most
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beautiful parts of Queensland where, on a clear day - not only can you see forever - hang-gliders soar
through the air like graceful eagles. Oddly enough, the only arty shopping area on the mount has the
delightful name of Eagle Heights.
Although I had phoned from Cairns and made an appointment to see a customer on this day, the
weather was such that I could not keep the appointment.
On the following morning, after all baggage had been deposited near the bus, we enjoyed our final,
fabulous breakfast, at the Koala Resort Motel … one of the friendliest family run places I have ever stayed
at. But the tour was not yet over. We drove north again to a river-cat (catamaran) terminal on the Brisbane
River for a cruise upstream. Shortly before reaching Toowong I noticed a very interesting seafood
restaurant that appeared to be actually sitting on the water - that was advertising a special treat for one-week
only - whole lobsters! It demanded further investigation. After returning to the city area, with the weather
looking most unpleasant, we were each given $10 to have lunch somewhere, after which we cruised
downstream to the bus. This was it … a most pleasant and informative week had come to an end. There
was little time for farewells as it was time for everybody to go their separate ways … some to the railway
… some to the airport and some, like us, wanted to stay in town. We requested a drop-off as close as
possible to Explorers Inns - midway between Roma Street station and the city centre - where I had pre-
booked a twin room for a week.

One whole week was spent walking the streets of Brisbane, re-acquainting ourselves with old haunts, and
discovering new places that we had never seen before. On our first evening, however, I had one destination
in mind … the seafood restaurant that I had seen on the bank of the river that morning. Not being sure
exactly where it was, and not knowing a name to tell a taxi driver and, as time was of no importance, I
suggested that we walk along the river walk until we came to it. The Wharf, it’s called … such a pleasant
midsummer evening for a stroll, especially when I knew that there was lobster at the end of the rainbow.
The city of Brisbane has wonderful river walks on both the north and south banks, linking the city
with a great number of attractions. In one ‘circular’ stroll it was possible to visit the Casino, the Cultural
Centre with a magnificent Art Gallery and Museum, the Lyric Theatre where I had seen such shows as The
Boy from Oz, Chicago, Oklahoma! and more, and the Convention Centre was directly where Expo had been
held, with good restaurants, a swimming pool - and an actual beach with a lifeguard on duty - and a
terminal where ferries come and go at regular intervals. As the river meanders on a particularly devious
course, Brisbane has become a city of bridges, each with its own individual style. The boardwalk also takes
pedestrians to the Botanical Gardens and many old, historical buildings along the way back to the city.
Roma Street station is the major Transit Terminal for all rail travel - suburban, airport, country and
interstate, and is the terminal for all interstate bus lines as well. Walk straight through the station and one
comes upon the recently developed Roma Street Parklands, another breathing space in the heart of the city,
and a credit to the city council. On my first visit to Brisbane in 1953, I thought it to be the most
depressingly backward city I had even seen. Now it is a delight to explore, with an excellent Mall as the
main street and excellent shopping but - be warned - unless you’re in the know, it is very difficult to find
anywhere to dine of an evening. In which case, take a train, bus or taxi to The Valley … Fortitude Valley,
with it own Chinatown, trendy restaurants, sleazy bars … and, unfortunately, the dregs of humanity.
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 237

THE GHAN AND THE MURRAY RIVER CRUISE 2005

Arnold had been coming down to Australia for annual holidays on or about December 1 - returning to
Papua new Guinea on March 1 - every year since I returned to Australia in 1988. Airfares were becoming
more expensive with each passing year, and finances decreed something had to give.
It was in 2004 that a new rail line - linking Darwin in the Northern Territory with Adelaide in
South Australia, right down through the red centre of the continent - was opened. I immediately began
enquiries about affordability and reservations, the earliest booking I could get for a twin Gold Class
Kangaroo sleeping compartment was for March of 2005. Here was my golden opportunity to save
money - but I had to spend money to do so. When I broke the news to the lad that instead of coming down
on December 2004, his next holiday would be March 1, 2005 - he was most upset. Since we first met we
had been apart for Christmas only once when I had been ill in Port Moresby in 1979, and never since I had
returned to Australia. Eventually, with the aid of one of his sisters, I managed to get the message through
that - if he was prepared to wait for another three months - having previously crossed Australia from east to
west, on his next trip we would be doing it from north to south. His disappointment eased somewhat but
when he returned to PNG in March 2004 he wasn’t a very happy lad … twelve whole months until we
would be together again. I must admit that I wasn’t very happy either, but I realised why the change had
become necessary.

Since returning to Cairns four years earlier, I had been attending a visiting oncologist regularly, each time
being greeted with a handshake. “How are you feeling?” A pat on the back, that was always followed with
“Keep up the good work … I’ll see you again in six months!” ...and his account would arrive in the mail
that same week.
On receiving a call from his receptionist, advising of my next appointment, I determined not to
attend as never during the past four years had he really examined me or had a PSA test done. (PSA or
Prostate Specific Antigen is a protein secreted by the prostate gland and, without going into unnecessary
detail, can be detected by a simple blood test to determine the degree of prostate cancer in the blood
stream). A normal healthy male usually registers less than 4 on the scale. I felt I was wasting both his
time and mine, and a lot of money for very little reason. On a subsequent visit to the clinic for HIV testing
- which was still undetectable - I discussed with the doctor about pulling out of the oncology visits. He
suggested that before doing so, a PSA test should be done to see where I stood … we were both staggered
by the result… On leaving the Gold Coast my reading was undetectable now, three years later - and due to
neglect - it had risen to an alarmingly high 38. I was one very dissatisfied boy and told the oncologist so …
a handshake, one quick question, a pat on the back, followed by an account in the mail within a week …
that had been the sole treatment. It was not good enough. I requested a referral to another specialist.
The new chap, a visiting specialist from Brisbane, asked why I had been taken off the Zoladex
(oestrogen) implant in the first place. I had no idea. Was I prepared to go back on to that treatment? I
assured him, Yes! The first implant was done painlessly as usual and the reading one month later was 9 -
down from 38 in that short space of time. The following month it was 6.8, the next it was down to 6. I was
back in the land of the living once more.
For quite some time - as mentioned previously - I had been promising myself that one day I would take the
lad on a cruise … the largest vessel he had sailed on had been a day trip from Cairns to Green Island, a
distance of about twenty-seven km (15 miles) on a local pleasure boat.
As a child, I had often told my mother that one day, when I grew up, I was going up to the Murray
River from Ballarat - I don’t know how I thought I was going to get there - with a canoe. I wanted to drift
downstream until I reached the coast near Adelaide. Childhood dreams never hurt anybody, but now here I
am, a senior citizen who had travelled the world, and still I hadn’t fulfilled my dream of cruising on the
Murray. In my adult years I had always lived too far away from the Murray and could never afford to fly
so far south in order to catch a cruise.
 238

One day, after doing the shopping - with the Ghan trip all booked and charged to Visa - and with
accommodation and tours in both Darwin and Alice Springs also booked, I sat to have a sushi roll and iced
tea at the local shopping centre and - having nothing better to read - I checked the reverse side of my shop-
a-docket receipt, where I spied a small ad. for Murray River cruises out of Mannum - near Adelaide - on
the Proud Mary. Our forthcoming trip on the Ghan terminated in Adelaide … here was a solution! If I
could combine the two trips into one it would cost me nothing to get to Adelaide. The docket gave a
phone number, I phoned, and within a week had the cruise itinerary in my hot little hand. I found a cruise
that would be departing late on a Sunday afternoon of the very day on which we would be arriving in
Adelaide in the morning. One twin cabin on the Proud Mary coming up!
On the eve of our departure the weather forecast showed a cyclone coming in from the Coral Sea,
heading towards Cairns. As our flight wasn’t ‘til noon of the next day we had ample time to move outdoor
items that could have been hazardous during cyclonic winds. Jack was billeted out with Des, the manager
of the retirement village, where he usually spent his holidays.
How on earth I had managed to stay alive this long, I do not know ... but I was determined that the
lad and I would make the most of my remaining days while we could, so with my favourite travelling
companion, I flew to Darwin on Sunday, March 6 in the year 2005 … pills ’n’ all.

Darwin was forever changing. Nothing is left of the old Wild West town that had come into being during
the gold rush period of 1869 when it was a centre for crocodile hunters, buffalo shooters and prawn
trawlers. During the second World War it had suffered badly at the hands of the Japanese when air raids
wiped out much of the infrastructure. By the 1970’s it had reinvented itself to become a bustling city with
fine buildings and then - on Christmas Eve of 1974 - it was practically wiped from the face of the earth by
the 217 mph winds of Cyclone Tracy. Forty-nine people were killed in the city alone during that cyclone,
and another sixteen perished at sea. Thirty-six thousand people were evacuated following Tracy, as
everything needed for living had vanished overnight. The tragedy inspired a song that went long the lines
of: Santa never made it into Darwin - a big wind came and blew the town away!
Arnold and I had spent a few nights in the re-built city in the early 1990’s but now - in 2005 - there
was little that I recognised. The airport was new and exceptionally good and - as we drove from the airport
that Sunday on roads I’d never seen before - I was amazed at all the many beautiful high-rise hotels and
apartment blocks lining the main streets and waterfront. Some of the history remains and the city boasts
some of the best-maintained streets in Australia.
We arrived at the Crowne Plaza Darwin, on Mitchell Street, late in the afternoon to a wonderful
surprise … the hotel in which our travel agent had booked us was 5-star luxury, within easy walking
distance of the CBD. Next morning we took a taxi to the suburbs to meet the owner of a needlecraft
business I had been dealing with for some years. She had done very well selling my designs, and had
expressed interest in buying the business if ever I considered selling, as she was aware of how it had
grown from a beer carton of stock, to a thriving business and shop on the boardwalk of the Radisson Hotel.
We had never met before but here I was, about to discuss the possibility of her buying something that had
been my life for seventeen years. The sale of my business was agreed to on a handshake, but it took
another seven months to be finalised as the purchaser demanded that all i’s had to be dotted, and t’s
crossed before the deal was finally done.
That evening I phoned Des, the manager of the Retirement Village to ask him to secure my home
and close all windows. He told me that the cyclone had already passed north of Cairns, and no damage
had been recorded in the city.

Also pre-arranged was that my friend, Maureen - from the old days of the Gateway Hotel - would be
meeting us at the hotel for dinner that evening. Arnold and I sat on a wide sofa in the foyer, waiting, with
our eyes glued on the door, as neither of us had seen Maureen for several years and we wondered if we
would recognise her. I was looking for an attractive woman who had succumbed to old-age spread … we
both looked at each other in disbelief as a magnificently preserved youngish-looking matron entered the
door and smiled our way. My God she was attractive, beautifully dressed in a simple knee length black
frock. She must have spent hours at the hairdresser that day as she was so fashionably coiffured with her
ageless blonde hair swept up in a French roll. She was far more attractive than she had ever been in her
younger days as supervisor in the Gateway Hotel’s dining room, where she had always been a most
striking figure.
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I had envisaged being seen in the best restaurant in town with Maureen that evening, but in her
mature years she preferred something less formal. We walked the streets, talking for an hour or so, looking
for somewhere to eat, as Darwin, like Brisbane, seemed to close down after dark. We settled on a small,
simple Chinese café that Maureen was familiar with. I felt sorry for Arnold as he was left out of most of
our reminiscences of the old days together in his country. After the meal, while Maureen and I chatted, he
sat out front watching the passing parade of pedestrians.

Our hotel was part of a package deal in conjunction with the Ghan railway. On our second day we found
the office of the travel agent and thanked him for all his planning and hard work, and for booking us into
the most prestigious hotel in town, then we did a complimentary tour of the city and surroundings that also
came with the package. This was the ideal way to travel as we saw and learned much more of the city than
would have been possible had we done it under our own steam.
The two of us spent our second evening walking the length of the foreshore, high above the waters
of the Beagle Gulf that was, in turn, part of the Timor Sea. All along this coastal fringe are beautifully
manicured lawns, easy-walking paths with good lighting and shady trees. We returned along Mitchell
Street and discovered there was life after dark in Darwin after all. Many interesting bars and restaurants,
packed with people lined the other end of the street from our hotel, so when we found a Chinese restaurant
just around a corner in a side street, that’s where we had dinner that evening. Watching TV in our room
that night we saw that the cyclone that had bypassed Cairns had crossed York Peninsular and was heading
west across the Gulf of Carpentaria towards Darwin.
The following day was Wednesday, the long-awaited day when Arnold and I would begin to
achieve our dream of crossing Australia from north to south by train.

After breakfast that morning we sat waiting at the front door, where a trolley stacked with our baggage,
together with that of others who were also going on this legendary journey, was waiting. We had packed
jointly, with a single carry bag between the two of us, as our compartment - although Gold Class Kangaroo
- was train-sized and not overly spacious.
I expected our complimentary coach to be a small twenty-seater but a gigantic beast of a thing that
would seat somewhere about forty passengers came along and pulled up at the front door. Luggage was
stored beneath the bus in numbered order of which carriage passengers were travelling in. We were about
to witness unprecedented organisation such as I’d never experienced in all my travels. It took about one
hour to reach the railway station that had been custom-created several miles outside town, as suitable flat
land was scarce in the area. A whole new concept in travel had been designed around this unbelievable
train. When it eventually came in sight I could not believe my eyes. It was so long that, owing to its
immense length, no way can it be seen in its entirety apart from the air. Bus after bus drove along an
equally long, wide platform, dropping passengers and their luggage off at their designated carriage. We
started near the back at carriage Z - or something equally remote - and at a time when I was beginning to
think we would too late for boarding, we reached K ... that’s us! The main body of our bags had been
dropped off at the rear of the train for storage and we were left with one simple little bag that Arnold took
with him as we boarded with some excitement.
Our compartment was next-door to the dining car, with the lounge the next along. As I had paid a
lot I wanted the best money could buy, and we got it.

Right on the dot of 10.00 a.m. all 1.25km of this huge

train slowly crawled out of the Darwin station. I assured
Arnold that I would take a photo when we reached our
next stop at Katherine - that’s where the photo on the
right was taken. We walked to the lounge car where a
lass was taking reservations for activities during our
scheduled stop where we were due to arrive at Katherine
at 1.40 p.m. for an almost five-hour stopover. Bookings
were heavy but I was fortunate to get the last two seats
on a helicopter flight over the Katherine Gorge - in
which we had cruised on an earlier trip. Our destination
was six kilometres west of the town of Katherine due to The Ghan is far too long to capture in one photograph.
 240

the lay of the land and the path of the railway.

This station had also been built especially for a train of such immense length and, once again, I was
unable to get a photo of it in its entirety. Buses and tour operators lined the platform, holding placards to
show passengers which bus to board for their chosen tour. We drove through Katherine, en route Nitmiluk,
the original but only recently adapted Aboriginal name for the gorge that had been gouged from the
sandstone of the Arnhem Plateau about twenty-five million years ago.
A more recent history of the area comes from the time in 1844, when the first European explorer
Ludwig Leichhardt passed through. John McDouall Stuart - after whom the great highway linking Darwin
with Adelaide was named - also passed through on his epic south-north crossing of the continent in 1862.
The settlement has since developed into a flat, hot, dreary and dusty town, with a population in excess of
7,000.
Nitmiluk National Park boasts an excellent airconditioned and very informative visitor centre
where food, drinks, film and souvenirs can be purchased and has a large, comfortably furnished area where
visitors can sit and relax while waiting to be called for their chosen tour. A car collected us and pulled up
near the helipad just as our craft was coming in to land - the pilot and three passengers alighted. This was
Arnold’s second helicopter flight - the first being the Grand Canyon in the United States when he was
known as Raymond.
Although spectacular when seen from the air, and the 30-minute flight particularly good, I found it
far more impressive when we had previously seen the Gorge from river level, as only then can the depth of
the gorge and height of the immense cliffs be appreciated.
Apparently two helicopters had been due to take passengers on these flights but the company
responsible had been unaware of the number wishing to participate. The Ghan was experiencing
unprecedented popularity and, being such a small centre, Katherine had not managed - at that stage - to
meet the demand. This caused us to be a few minutes late and the train had to be delayed for our group to
rejoin. Time was allowed for a quick shower and change of clothes before dinner was called.

Brochures had told of the excellent 5-star dining on the Ghan … we were not to be disappointed as the
meals were gourmet delights. After dinner we adjourned to the comfortably appointed lounge for tea and
coffee, while the smokers were encased in a glass aquarium to avoid polluting the atmosphere. That was
the only area of the whole train where smoking was permitted. After dinner, as the lad wanted to talk to me
and was too embarrassed to do so in sign language in the lounge, we returned to our compartment for a
short talk before retiring for the night. I didn’t convey to Arnold the disappointment I felt at having elected
to break the journey and spend two nights in Alice Springs … the Ghan was so good I didn’t want to leave
it.
Thursday dawned as we passed through the very same part of the world that we had driven in 1999,
but this time I did not have to concentrate on the road. Australia, in all its red glory, was speeding past our
windows.

We arrived at the Alice Springs station on schedule at 9.20 a.m. and, as we had to be ready to join a
conducted tour at noon, we took a taxi to the Crowne Plaza Alice Springs - a sister hotel to the one in
which we had stayed in Darwin - arriving at about 10 a.m., to be told that check-in was not until 2 p.m..
This did not impress me at all as we had been travelling for over twenty-four hours, and in that heat we
needed to change clothes and freshen up somewhat. We were told in no uncertain terms that we could not
have a room before 2 … I told the receptionist that we were going on a tour at noon … she quite matter-of-
factly told us that we could sit in the corridor near the dining room where we could have an early lunch to
fill in time. She was kind enough to store our luggage in the interim.
This was where I really started to get annoyed with myself for having broken the trip. The hotel
was more than 1.25km out of town, and no, they did not have a shuttle bus … a taxi would cost about
$20.00 each way. As we were both hungry by this time, I chose to stay where we were for lunch, and
called for a menu. Arnold ordered a hamburger - the second cheapest item on the menu at $18.00-plus -
while I, feeling totally agro and mean, had a bowl of soup.
As this was my fifth visit to Alice Springs, and Arnold’s third, I felt there was little that we hadn’t
seen, but I was pleasantly surprised by the complimentary tour that took us to places of interest I wouldn’t
have dreamed of visiting when younger … the Telegraph Station, the School of the Air, a reptile park, a
mock-up of what a farm in the old days was like, and other aspects of the city I had previously chosen not
 241

to visit. It all helped to fill in the time while waiting for a room, but the tour was far too long and we didn’t
get back to the hotel and into a room until after 6 p.m. It was a long and completely wasted day.
After showering and a change of clothes I was in a better frame of mind and, as I knew of no-where
we could go for less than $20.00, we dined in-house. Dinner was satisfactory, no more and no less, but cost
more than I could afford to pay for two. It was charged to Visa, and still we went to bed hungry.
Our second day was spent listlessly wandering the city area, in and out of anything that looked like
a shopping centre, and trying to go to a movie in a complex that didn’t seem to open during daylight hours.
We were hot and weary and, in other words, bored out of our baby brains. On the way back to the hotel the
driver showed where Lassiter’s Hotel and Casino was - an easy walk of about 200-300-metres south of the
Crowne Plaza. We stayed indoors for the remainder of the afternoon resting, and in the cool of the evening
walked to the casino … the one in which the final scenes of Priscilla Queen of the Desert had been filmed.
There the two of us enjoyed a completely satisfying meal and, with a flutter on the pokies, the entire
evening cost little more than a Crowne Plaza hamburger and soup.

Before departing on the Saturday morning I filled in the ‘How Do You Rate Us?’ questionnaire, advising
that if they wished to continue in the tourism industry, they should get their act together and have
accommodation available to coincide with the arrival of the train, and organise some form of transport for
hotel guests. Additionally I mentioned that although it was a 4-star hotel, I would not recommend it to my
worst enemy until such time as the interests of the guests were taken into consideration. Big money
deserves good service, and a little politeness goes a long way as well. As Margaret Pomeranz, the
Australian film critic would say, ‘I give it two-and-a-half stars!’

A second wonderful night, with superb meals, was enjoyed on The Ghan … but wait, as they say on TV,
there’s more! We rolled in to the new Adelaide Railway station, quite some distance out of town, at 9 on
the Sunday morning. The coach that would take us to the Murray River Cruise would be departing at 5
p.m. … that’s where we first went, to deposit our baggage in lockers before spending the best part of a day
walking the streets of the city centre in luvverly Adelaide - the City of Churches. A few hours spent in that
city is a most enjoyable experience although, for Arnold’s sake - and mine - we spent a couple of hours in
the company of Will Smith in the hilarious film, Hitch.

Soon enough we were on our way once again, driving

for about one hour along the super Eastern Freeway to
Murray Bridge, and there we turned north to meet
with the beautiful, white with red and blue trim
Proud Mary, tied up at the bank of the magical,
mystical Murray River. As our bus came to a halt the
crew, comprising the Captain and five young staff,
came streaming ashore to take our bags to our cabins.
The brochure tells of deluxe riverview cabins
- in all honesty I could never say they were deluxe but
were very comfortable and quite large enough for two.
I couldn’t imagine travelling with three in a cabin, as I
Arnold and the Proud Mary—tied up alongside at Mannum do like a little space. A few nights on this glorious
on the Murray River little vessel would put closure on my list of must-do
experiences for Arnold. Accommodating only forty passengers, it was the friendliest cruise imaginable. It
is classed as a boutique vessel, ‘providing an intimate and friendly atmosphere’… the understatement of the
century.

On our first night Arnold and I sat at a table with four heavy drinkers who had done the cruise previously.
They seemed to be interested in nothing other than themselves and drinking, and chose to ignore us
completely ... we just did not exist! The following morning we were asked to join two married couples at
their table, and we six were inseparable for the duration of the cruise. The previous group later asked why
we had left their table, and noted that our table seemed to be the happiest of all in the dining room. As
tactfully as possible I let them know that that was the reason we moved - everyone at our new table was
both convivial and happy. And so, for the next four nights there were Dorothy and Ron, Arnold and I and,
 242

quite by coincidence a couple from Ballarat, Jennie and John. Jennie had known my late-cousin Dorothy
quite well, and their son had recently bought part of our old farm at Miners Rest that was being subdivided
into five-acre lots. Arnold likes anyone from Ballarat and on this trip he had a triple-whammy as the chef
was from Ballarat as well.

The days were spent cruising short distances; then we would berth alongside at places of interest where the
bus and driver would - by following the road - meet and take us on a tour of the area. Every night bar one
was an absolute banquet … a banquet of the highest degree, the one exception being a great fireside
barbeque ashore, where our coach driver entertained and sang bush ballads. As the smoke from the fire
kept the mosquitoes at bay, I spent most of the evening engulfed in a blue cloud. Murray River mozzies are
monstrous!
At one stage the Captain asked for Arnold to join him on the bridge, as he wanted me to take a
photo of himself with Arnold at the wheel.
Between Mannum and Blanchetown - upstream a little - lies Bunyip country. The Bunyip being the
mythical creature to which I had alluded during one of my United States rail journeys. At the point where
we had to about-turn, sixteen German tourists and their interpreter joined us. After dinner on the final night
the Captain, the interpreter and all five crew stood in a line facing the passengers and the Captain
embarrassed me no end when he said that in all his seventeen years as Skipper of the vessel, he had never
met two nicer people than Arnold and Graeme. I got all weepy ... had I tried to respond, I would have
cried. Everyone, including the German tourists, clapped and cheered!
As we approached Mannum on the final leg of the journey the skipper called me to the bridge as I
was wanted on the phone. It was the manager of the accommodation where the agent had made
reservations for that night - the news was not good - Round 1 of the V8 Clipsal 500 Supercar
Championships were being held and crowds had flocked to Adelaide for the event. I had apparently, and
unwittingly, failed to reconfirm our reservations … the room had been let go. We had nowhere to stay that
night … Adelaide was completely booked out! We had reservations at the Victoria Hotel in Melbourne for
the following five nights, and so the Captain of the Proud Mary - who had contacted various
accommodations in Adelaide on our behalf - contacted the Melbourne hotel, requesting a twin room for that
night. Sorry, booked out! Despite this, I asked him to radio Qantas and change our flights to any flight on
which he could get seats that evening. After finally berthing and all farewells had been said, the bus took
us back to the depot from where we took a quick taxi to the airport.
In all honesty, and I don’t want to rave on unnecessarily, I am not exaggerating when I say that that
week, until right now, had been one of the most pleasant reasonably inexpensive experiences of my
lifetime.

From the airport at Adelaide I phoned the Victoria in Melbourne to be told once again that the place was
fully booked. I told the girl: “Two of us will be arriving at approximately 2 a.m.!” and hung up. From that
point on I was extremely agitated while, at the same time, trying not to let my distress flow on to the lad. I
was so relieved when the flight took off, and even more so when we landed at Tullamarine airport in
Melbourne in the early hours of that Monday morning. We were two bedraggled, weary little babies as we
dragged ourselves to the reception desk at the Victoria. I told the night manager at the desk, “I believe you
have a reservation for a twin room under the name Ross. … we’re here at last!” Just like that. We signed
in, took the room keys, and made our way up to the ninth floor to a sub-standard room towards the back of
the hotel … sub-standard yes, and cheap yes, too! It was for the one night only and tomorrow we could
revert to our initial bookings. Anything would have done, and although I say it was sub-standard, it was
still far better than many of the places in which I had stayed overseas.
Arnold would not allow me to rest … over the next few days we walked every street, lane and
alleyway, from Spencer Street to Spring Street, from La Trobe Street to Flinders Street. We walked to
Melbourne Park to see Cirque du Soliel Quidam, and back again after the show. We walked to and beyond
the Shrine of Remembrance, taking in the Victorian Art gallery and Southbank along the way. We went to
the top of the Rialto Tower and did a cruise on the Yarra River. We even took a tram one chilly evening to
Luna Park at St Kilda, then walked back to Fitzroy Street for dinner, all the while re-living the mis-spent
days and nights of times long gone by.

On Wednesday, March 23 we took an early morning flight to Sydney where we had a very shaky landing in
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atrocious conditions. Things were so bad that transport to and from the airport had been thrown into
disarray and we had to take a taxi to our hotel. It was almost impossible to see the road, and the cab was
constantly being buffeted by horrendous winds. When checking in at our hotel we were asked how we had
managed to get in from the airport as Sydney was experiencing the phenomenon of a cyclone. Cyclone!... I
didn’t know Sydney had cyclones! And we were cold … bitterly, uncomfortably cold. We needed warm
clothing and, as we held tickets for The Lion King that evening, and I had no intentions of letting a small
matter like a cyclone interfere with my plans … we had to get to Myer in a hurry! Taxis were out of the
question, so we set out on foot to walk from the Vibe Hotel, in winds that nearly blew us off our feet, with
rain pelting in and under the shop verandas. By the time we got to the store we were drenched to the skin,
but we managed to buy thermal underwear and an umbrella. A bit too late for the brolly, however. Our
room, in which we lay all damp clothing out to dry, was the largest and best I had ever encountered in
Australia. We had two queen size beds, two hand basins, both a bath and shower in separate compartments,
and windows - the span of which I estimated at the time to be in the vicinity of eighteen to nineteen feet
wide. We rested awhile, had a casual dinner downstairs, then walked to the theatre - with not a drop of rain
in sight - to see the show that I had waited so long to see, and one that I had told everyone that if and when
it ever came to Australia, and I could get Arnold down to coincide with it, I was prepared to fly to any city
in the country to let him experience it. This whole trip had taken considerable organisation as firstly there
was the problem of getting him to Australia in time to connect with the flight to Darwin, bookings twelve
months in advance for both The Ghan and the Murray River cruise, tickets for Cirque du Soliel in
Melbourne and, to top it all off, The Lion King in Sydney. Intentions were that this would be our last big
holiday … who knows what the future holds in store?

There had been times in my life when I had watched with amusement as a bus load of oldies passed by, and
I had wondered what had brought them to the stage where they had to go out as a group and rely on a bus-
driver to take them out for their pleasure. Had they ever had a life of their own? Had they ever loved?
Where had their individuality gone? Now that I am living in a retirement village I prefer the term senior
citizens to oldies, and have taken on the role of organiser of those self-same outings myself. Believe me,
those outings are no longer as amusing as I had previously thought, and they don’t just happen by
themselves!

I have spent my life travelling the world in the search of excitement and adventure in an attempt to cram
every possible pleasure into it … afraid to waste one precious moment. There is little that I have wanted to
do, that I have not done. I have no regrets at the few things undone, or the loves lost - and there were so
many of those glorious encounters. My greatest problem is that I fall in love too easily, and too frequently,
but I have the memories of some wonderful partners who are now all lost and gone, but not forgotten.
Nowadays I find my greatest pleasures are organising activities that I hope will bring a little happiness to
the lives of others, and spending time in bed with a book rather than a partner - in a bed where I can spend
the nights thinking, listening to the radio, getting up and down to the toilet, making notes of recollections
from the past, and coming to this computer to record my life … remembering how it all began.

As I promised myself I would, I have booked a flight departing Cairns on August 8, 2006 to take Arnold to
Hong Kong for ten nights. While this book is being printed we’ll be visiting the Tai Po Monastery on Lan
Tau Island, Hong Kong Park, and all the other wonders that can be crammed into a little over one week.
Then we fly to Singapore for a two nights before taking a cruise on the SuperStar Virgo with a twin cabin
and private balcony. The future is now in the hands of doctors who have advised that I am well enough to
travel. The only problem that remains is the annual one with the Australian Immigration Department that is
responsible for issuing Arnold with a visa to enter Australia. Despite the fact that he has been coming to
Australia - almost annually for twenty-eight years - it is still an annual nightmare trying to get his visa
approved. He is due down in 20 days, and still no word. Here’s hoping!
Now while I am still able, with all the facts in my head, without the aid of any of notes, diaries or
journals, and before I forget the details of such an extraordinary life, I’d like to take you back to the very
beginning.
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The Quiet Country Boy

Part Three

BACK TO THE VERY BEGINNING

1932 – 1963

Pre-School Years 245

Primary School Years 249
Higher Education 256
Those Terrific, Tumultuous Teenage Years 261
National Service 269
Ten Years Of Extraordinary Activities 275
The Territory Of Papua & New Guinea 297
Epilogue 311
 245

PRE-SCHOOL YEARS 1932-1935

Having already told in such graphic detail all the interesting aspects
of my life - spanning the years between 1963 and 2006 - how can I
try to tell you the story from the very beginning? Possibly I should
start with the story that I heard from my mother over and over
throughout the years:

In 1929, my brother John was born and, two hours later, his twin
stillborn sister. Mum was never given the opportunity to hold, or
even see her baby girl who was taken from her and disposed of in
an unmarked grave. Carrying John, who had apparently seldom
stopped crying since birth, she returned to the farm and my father.
When I was born three and a half years later, John was still crying
constantly, and mother was suffering severe depression and Graeme James Ross aged seventeen months
exhaustion. Her sister, Ivy came up from Melbourne to visit and
help her youngest sister.
Later, when Ivy was at the Ballarat railway station ready to return home, my mother was holding
me, a baby of six months in her arms, and was saying goodbye. As the train was about to depart Ivy said,
“Let me take him home with me, Stella!” The story as I was so frequently told, was that Mum passed me
through the open train window into the hands of Ivy as the train left the station. My mother cried all the
way as she drove home to the family farm of ‘Avondale’ at Miners Rest. She must have been a nervous
wreck by this time and the loss of me would undoubtedly have compounded her distress.

I have vague recollections of being sat on the counter, beside the window, where Mummy Ivy sold rail
tickets to passengers at the Glen Waverley railway station, and sitting on the counter as she counted the
money at the end of the day. I recall going for rides in the guard’s van with Daddy Bob, who worked as a
guard with Victoria Rail. The small, amber-painted weatherboard Government-owned house in which they
lived was close by the station building at the end of a narrow path that ran from the platform, through a
cyclone-wire gate, and through a flower-filled garden to the house.
This station was the end of the line that ran from Flinders Street Station in Melbourne City. I have
strong memories of two large, black, circular metal things with springs behind them, higher than my head,
attached to a solid , white wooden blocks at the end of the track. I realise now that they were buffers to
stop the train from going over and down the steep incline ahead. Ahead and down below was another
world that I never did get to see close up. I only recall a single platform with lots of trees growing on the
other side of the tracks. A short distance towards Melbourne the train would go around a bend to the right,
through what I was told was a cutting. So many things to learn, and so little time in which to learn it all!
Deep down in the recesses of my mind I can recall Mummy Ivy saying: “Throw it in the fire,
love!” I tossed my beloved dummy (comforter) into the open fire.
I have never been back to Glen Waverley since those days, and have no idea how long I lived there
with Mummy Ivy and Daddy Bob.

My next recollection of life was a time when my mummy was driving to Ballarat in our collapsible-top,
green Singer car. Out through the wide-wooden gate we would go, turn right down the rough gravel road,
past the windmill on our right and the constantly flowing spring on the left, with the glorious old spreading
gum tree close by. That tree had a hollow in the trunk where all sorts of interesting little things lived. Then
we passed by the overgrown cypress hedge, behind which Aphra and her mother, Mrs Kennedy lived. That
was a mysterious place that was to remain unexplored until I grew up a bit. Across a little wooden bridge
we would go, turn left at the Top Road - later named Racecourse Road - and along to gravel cross road that
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ran past uncle Bob Ross’s - dad’s brother’s - property a little bit up to the north, then on to where there was
always a haystack and a mulberry tree. Along a little further was a small ever-flowing trickle of water that
crossed the road just short of Creswick Road. One day when we were driving to Ballarat Mummy said
something about the car needing water. She got out and bailed some from the small stream and poured it
into a hole in the car … I never did see where exactly. This is mentioned only because some time later,
when I was in the car with my father, he said something about having to get petrol as we were nearly out. I
piped up: “Mummy always puts water in it!”
These early years were happy ones living at ‘Avondale’ although I did have an older brother who
would - when we were making mud pies in the garden - pack my mouth with mud to keep me quiet. No
doubt many people would have liked to do the same when I was older.
I had wide, open spaces in which to play ... Puppy-dogs and kittens, and even little bunny rabbits,
plus a team of huge draught-horses and a small Shetland pony called Tiny. There were cows that I could
watch my father milk, and where I was always guaranteed a good squirt of milk, direct from the teat Often
I would stand on a sawn-off log and turn the handle of the separator that somehow separated the cream
from the milk; the quicker I turned the handle, the thicker the cream would be. I liked turning the handle of
the honey-coloured wooden churn that turned the cream into lovely salty butter. We had pigs that I could
ride on in their smelly enclosure, birds with interesting nests and tiny babies, insects to be experimented
with - such as pulling the wings or legs off flies to see what they would do, and flowers in abundance in the
front garden, the best of which were the poppies that I liked to pull the tops off before they opened to give
to Mummy so that she could see what colour they were going to be. I had a hayshed to play in and a
cypress tree that I could climb and hide in when throwing a tantrum. I had it all - all except someone to
play with. I grew up in a world of nature and do-it-yourself amusement.
Brother John was still crying … always running and crying to Mummy or Daddy about something I
had done. He’d get a cuddle and I’d get a good whack and be sent to my room.

When running water was connected to the kitchen a

hose was attached for Mummy to fill the heavy iron
fountain - a very large pot with a small tap at the base -
that sat on the hob, with half the base overlapping the
stove top. This meant we had hot water on tap at all
hours, day and night. I mention this only because of
the time when Daddy walked into the kitchen and
found me guzzling merrily from a bottle of spirits of
salts - a highly toxic solution of hydrochloric acid and
water - most unsuitable for children to drink apparently,
even though the child wasn’t necessarily wanted. It
seems he forgot himself and, in his haste, grabbed the
What I knew as the forge had once been the home of Dad’s
hose, shoved it as far as he could down my throat and
parents at ‘Avondale’ … Mt Pisgah is in the background turned the tap on full-pelt … my daddy invented the
oral enema that obviously saved my life.
There were the spring and summer evenings when Mummy and I would play in the small fenced
yard outside the kitchen door, beneath a large spreading elm that had been planted by Daddy’s grandfather
when he came to Australia. Big trees from little acorns grow! It dropped so many leaves in autumn that
Mummy always had to sweep up.
Beneath this tree there was a gully-trap intended for disposal of waste-water that flowed past the
semi-sunken dairy that was always so cool, dark and mysterious to play in, and down further, past the
orchard of fruit trees with plums, apples, quinces, cherries and pears, to a swampy part near the lavatory …
not far from the cowshed. It was awfully smelly and messy down there - I didn’t like it! But the gully trap
had a second use, a far more important one, as it was where I would hold Mummy’s forehead when she so
frequently vomited. Mummy was nearly always sick … she vomited a lot, especially at night, and I would
always hold her sweaty head and cry with her.

It seems that I was a self-entertaining child, always creating my own games - because during the day there
was no-one else to play with as my brother was at school - and so the farm animals became my friends and
playmates. Right through these early years Mummy would say that she would never worry about me if I
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were ever to be put in isolation, because I would always find some way to entertain myself.
It must have been either a spring or early summer evening when all four of us - Daddy, Mummy,
John, a few of our farmyard dogs and I, were playing games outside the kitchen door. Being rather tiny at
the time, Daddy sat me on the back of one of our little fox terriers and then somehow managed to make the
large cattle dog really cross … a fight broke out between the two dogs and the cattle dog attacked the foxie
with me sitting on its back. I still have a faint scar right in the middle of the back of my right hand as a
result of that dog attack.
Somewhere about this period Daddy tied my braces to the cattle dog’s lead before throwing a stick
over the front hedge and shouting, “Fetch it!” I still remember the large, brown cattle dog racing towards
the hedge, dragging me behind, before it leapt over the hedge, taking me with it. The landing resulted in
my first bone fracture … the right collarbone,

Trips to Ballarat were always exciting as we would always go to visit my Grandma and Grandpa Cassell -
Mummy’s mother and father - I loved them both. But when visiting the other grandma, Grandma Ross -
the one with no grandpa - I would always get a good bashing from Daddy to stop me crying before I would
go into the house. I hated Grandma Ross - I was scared of her - she had pure white hair tied back in a bun,
no facial hair at all, and she wore long, black dresses that went right to the floor. I thought she didn’t have
any legs and I knew she was a witch!
As we drove down the driveway beside the house there would nearly always be two strange, scary
men who would run into a shed - they called it a stable - way down in the back yard. There weren’t any
horses in that stable like we had in ours. In later years I learned that those two men were Grandma Ross’s
brothers - Uncle George and Uncle Fred - and, for some reason I never knew they were never allowed
inside the house. Don’t ask me why, I don’t know! Of course knowing I was in for a bashing before these
visits did nothing to make me want to run to Grandma Ross with open arms. The only good thing about the
place was a daphne bush in the back garden that seemed to flower all the time. I don’t remember seeing
anything of the inside of that house other than the kitchen, apart from an occasional glimpse of a strange
thing that looked like the bottom half of a clock, that stood on a piano - a metronome it was called - in a
nearby, darkened room that always had the blinds pulled right down. She was a witch … she had to be … I
just knew it! I have always wondered why Daddy and the uncles always referred to her as The Mater …
such a strange name, I thought.
But the home of the grandma with the grandpa would be home to me, off-and-on, until they died.
Every room in that house was a place for me in which to play, as was the large garden out back with apples,
gooseberries, strawberries, raspberries, rhubarb, plums, figs and all kinds of herbs that Grandfather would
dry for Grandma to use in her cooking, and a lovely perfumed lavender bush where bees buzzed busily.
Sometimes there were lily-of-the-valley growing in a shady area outside the kitchen door and, naturally, the
freestanding semi-attached lav (outhouse) with a narrow hidey-hole between it and the hedge. In the house
on the other side of that hedge lived the two Miss Millers, elderly sisters. They were lovely - they were old
and thin and lovely and they often gave me lollies. In the house on the other side of Grandma’s, lived Mr
and Mrs Berryman. I didn’t see much of Mr Berryman as he died when I was very little.
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Mum, me, John and Dad at Avondale in 1938.

 249

PRIMARY SCHOOL YEARS 1936-1940

A friend of Dad’s, Mr Frank Fiscalini, was due to start teaching at the Mount Rowan School but the
school was one student short of the required number to warrant a teacher. Mr Fiscalini talked with Mum
and Dad, and it was agreed that I would start school at ripe old age of three … in the year 1936. In
December of that year I would be four. John had been attending school at Miners Rest until this time but
he was now transferred so that we would both be at the same school. (While researching information for
these writings in 2006, I read that Mr Fiscalini’s brother, Rev. Fr. L. Fiscalini, had been Secretary to the
Bishop of Ballarat at the time).
Mum drove us to school on my first day and waited outside for me to come running out, crying.
When I failed to show, she went to the door and, without letting me see her, attracted Mr Fiscalini’s
attention to see if she should wait and take me home. He waved her off … telling her that I was
completely happy, sharing a desk with Robert Page, the only other student in Grade One. She came back
after school to take both John and me home. From that day on John would dink me - with me sitting on
either the bar of his bicycle, or on a small, bottom-jarring metal luggage rack at the back. That was
terribly uncomfortable as I had a bony bottom! Sometimes Mum would tie a cushion on the rack so that
my bottom wouldn’t get so sore.
With only the two of us in Grade One much of our school days was spent sitting astride the seat of
our desks and we would sit, facing each other, playing little games with our wee-wees and pretending
they were talking to each other - at times making them kiss each other. There was nothing else to play
with. Boys will be boys, it seems!

In the meantime, Dad was making a small cart to suit the size of Tiny, the Shetland pony, so it would be
much easier for the two of us to go to school together. I painted a Mickey Mouse and Pluto on each side
of the cart. Our father was a very clever man, he could make nearly anything … he could do all the
repairs on the farm machinery, and was a wonderful market gardener.
The most students we had at any one time at Mount Rowan was
twelve - where possible, two to a desk. Dad finished making the cart in
the early part of summer, and Tiny soon learned the directions so well
he travelled on remote control. Sometimes we would take our
lunchboxes outdoors and sit in the shade of a wattle tree that was
usually good for producing a little sap that we all liked to pick from the
trunk to eat. Anything that we didn’t like in our lunchboxes was always
given to Tiny.
In the winters, when we pulled a canvas over the top of the
cart, we could stud it down on all sides, giving complete protection from
the rain, hail and occasional snow. In the schoolroom during winter, an
open fire blazed to warm the room, and we had a hearth on which we
could heat our milk for cocoa, and lay down on a rug in front of the fire
after lunch if we were tired.
Springtime was fun and we would all gather in Page’s paddock
next door, where daisies grew in abundance. We would sit in the long,
green grass and try to outdo each other as to who could make the longest
daisy-chain without breaking it. Spring was also a great time to fossick
in the grass for what we called yams; the swollen pods of onion weed Cousin Ian Ross sitting on Tiny, Ron
Toogood, me and brother John.
that developed after the mauve flowers had died off. These, too, were I painted the Mickey Mouse and Pluto
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beaut to eat. One day each year was Wattle Day and the teacher would take all students on a nature walk
through the paddocks behind the school, across the railway line that ran from Ballarat to Creswick and
beyond, then up into the State forest where we could do some bird-watching. These were very happy times.
On special occasions all desks would be moved outdoors, the floor polished with candle-wax and
kerosene until you could scarcely stand, and a dance would be held in the schoolhouse. The mothers would
bake cakes and sponges and other nice things to eat, all with loads of freshly whipped cream, and the
fathers would brew up the coffee in the copper that was always in the shelter shed. They would fill the
copper almost to the top with pure, creamy milk, then a fire would be lit underneath to heat the milk while
the coffee grounds were left to simmer. On those evenings, we children would play hidey in the cypress
hedge, or spend time climbing through the piled desks.
Many were the nights when John and I shared a bedroom with single beds and lovely patchwork
bedspreads next door to the room where Mum and Dad slept. The aunties and Mum had knitted and
stitched the squares together for our beds - they were just like the ones I had seen in the my book of Snow
White and the Seven Dwarfs. There were many nights when John would shake me until I was awake:
“Dad’s trying to kill Mum!” We could hear Mum screaming and we would run out into the passage and
into their room where we would find Dad lying on top of Mum as she struggled. We would fight like hell
until we managed to get him out of the room. We were both too young to realise that lying on top of
somebody doesn’t necessarily mean attempted murder. In those years neither of us would have known
what people were talking about … we didn’t know that after the loss of John’s twin, Mum had been told
that a further pregnancy could possibly kill her. Then I came along, and Mum was still trying desperately
not to have another baby. All through my life on the farm Dad would be reminding me that I wasn’t
planned, and I wasn’t wanted … I was an accident, he would tell me. Until I was in my early teens I had no
idea what he meant. How could anyone be born by having an accident? But I had the feeling that he didn’t
like me very much. Believe me, I didn’t like him very much, either - he was always trying to kill Mum, and
so the feeling was mutual!

After our episodes of helping Mum, we were moved to another bedroom adjacent to the kitchen at the back
of the house. We thought it was so that we wouldn’t hear Mum crying for help.
Shortly afterwards, at a time when all the aunties and uncles were in Ballarat, I remember Aunty
Alice taking my cousin Margot and me to see Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs at the Regent theatre. I
was so excited ... I was really going to see Snow White! Margot’s father was Uncle Jack, and he was
Mum’s only brother. Margot was six months older than me. We were all staying at Grandma’s and the
house was crowded and all beds were full … I slept in a big bed in a room with Aunty Alice, and Margot
slept on a sofa in the kitchen. Grandma had made apple and rhubarb jam that afternoon, and at night left it
in a big boiler on a bench inside the kitchen window, to cool. During the night somebody heard noises and
crying … Margot wasn’t on the sofa, but there was jam all over the ledge at the window, jam on the ground
outside, and jammy footprints that led down out back. Dreaming of Snow White’s witchy stepmother,
Margot had been having a nightmare - a new word for me - and, in her terror, was sleepwalking way down
in the back garden. Scary stuff, those Walt Disney pictures!
Around this time, when I was about five years old, the older children were sniggering amongst
themselves about what a little girl called Margaret and I had been doing in the drain that ran beside the road
on Mount Rowan hill. I knew that I’d never been in the drain, especially with a girl. What fun could a boy
possibly have with a girl in a drain? They were all so silly!
Meanwhile, back on the farm during harvest time, Mum would continue making sandwiches and
scones and a billy of sweetened black tea that either she or I would have to carry across the paddocks for
the workmen for both morning and afternoon tea. Our farmhouse, in which Dad had grown up, was of the
old world style with a large baker’s oven in the kitchen and out back - connected to the main house by a
roof over a walk-through that never saw direct daylight - there was the dairy, washhouse and bathroom.
Mondays for Mum was the big day - wash day. She would have to fetch firewood to boil the copper, shave
soap from a bar, stirring the clothes as they boiled, then lift them - using two short poles - out of the copper
and into wash-troughs of cold water for rinsing with blue-bags squeezed into the water. The hard work
came with hanging them out on a line that Dad had strung up from the elm tree to the barn, held up by two
‘props’ that had begun their lives as tall, slender saplings in the bush. None of this did anything for Mum’s
arthritis, poor old thing. It was terrible on days when strong, cold westerly winds blew and often the props
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would lose their grip on the line ... all the washing would fall to the ground, and have to be done all over
again. Also ingenious was a cut-down kerosene tin that Dad had secured to the bathroom side of the
washhouse wall, with a pipe that ran through into the bathroom so that hot water from the copper could be
bailed into the kerosene tin, and fed directly through the wall into the bath. As the copper was always
boiled on a Monday - Mondays were bath day - Dad first, Mum second, then John, and me always last and
by then the water was always getting cold, and it would be covered with a whitish soap scum. Poor Bobbie,
the farmhand, had to wash in what was left after me, if he wanted a bath. It was awfully scary being left out
there alone at night, especially if the small kerosene lamp went out, and ‘possums happened to cry in the
darkness of the overhanging elm tree. I had seen a picture with Mum and a man had been choked to death -
that was the sound the ‘possums made in the dark of night.

Dad had his own miracle cures for things when I got sick, amongst which were a few drops of eucalyptus
on a teaspoon of sugar for colds or sore throats, and occasionally eucalyptus would be substituted for
kerosene. When I got a bad cold or very sore throat he could somehow find an old Chinese herbalist who
would appear from heaven knows where, to blow an evil-tasting brown powder down my throat through a
paper funnel. And there was a strange man by the name of Nabob who would come to the farm in a horse-
drawn covered wagon, selling trinkets and herbal medicines that would ‘cure’ anyone who got sick. Dad
said he was an old Arab … I knew he was old, because he looked something like my grandma, and she was
old - really old - she was sixty-seven! Maybe Dad told me he was an Arab because he was a foreigner and
came from another country where Arabs lived, I don’t know.

I had my sixth birthday in December of 1938. It was right in

the middle of a long drought and a severe, hot, dry summer.
Two months later, blown by extremely strong winds, fires
swept across large areas of Victoria at horrifying speed,
causing massive destruction. January 13 of 1939 would
forever be known as Black Friday in Victorian history. My
memories of that period have been dimmed by the passing of
time, but I can still see - quite clearly - two images from
when my father had driven Mum, Aunty Elsie and me
through the area that night. It was terrifying … I cried when
I saw an old man, trying to save a burning, hollow gumtree
by throwing water from a bucket; I cried again when I saw a John and Graeme Ross at Avondale at about this time
pig run head-first into a burning haystack and not come out
again. Almost two hundred thousand acres were burnt during those fires, and seventy-one people lost their
lives. How could a father take a six-year-old boy to see such awful things? I’ve had a terrible fear of fire
ever since.

That was the year that we heard of the outbreak of World War II in Europe - this had nothing to do with me
as all I knew was that the Germans lived way out to the west somewhere, out past the chook house, way out
past the Dowling Forest Racecourse, and even further still to a place where there was nothing else. And
just four days before my 9th birthday, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbour. I wasn’t told anything about
these things so I had nothing to worry about. Life for me was full of fun and fancy free.
Most mornings, when Tiny was taking John and me to school in our little cart, travelling slowly up
the lane - that would later be known as Ross Road - we would hear the yodelling of Lloyd Davidson, who
lived with his parents and sisters on the neighbouring property to ours. His yodelling carried far and wide
over the countryside, especially on cold, crisp wintry mornings. The eldest girl in the family, Gwen,
worked in Ballarat and would ride Lloyd’s bicycle as far as Creswick Road, where she would hide it in the
furze bushes that grew at the corner of Creswick and Racecourse Roads. Marjorie, the youngest girl was a
brilliant artist; I liked Marge because she drew nice pictures for me; one time she gave me a big picture that
was all Mickey Mouses - lots ‘n lots of Mickey Mouses.
Then, one morning, maybe that year or maybe the next, there came a day when John and I were
going to school and Lloyd wasn’t yodelling. We continued on our way to school wondering why there was
no singing. That evening John and I heard whisperings that Gwen had gone out to get Lloyd’s bicycle from
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the shed and found that the handles were covered with blood. Thinking that Lloyd had possibly fallen off
his bike the previous evening, when he had ridden to Miners Rest to see a girl, Gwen cleaned all the blood
from the bicycle and rode off. When she returned home that evening she found her mother and fathers and
Marjorie waiting for her … had she seen Lloyd? No! He never did come home again. After some time
when he still hadn’t returned, people thought that he must have run away to go to the War … there was no
other logical explanation. Nobody had seen any trace of him, and nobody would until two years later when
a Mr Blackmore, who lived on a property diagonally opposite the northeastern corner of our property, went
to the well near the corner of his paddock and dropped a line down to find out how much water was in the
well. When he pulled it up again there were traces of a white woollen pullover, the same as Lloyd had been
wearing on the night of his disappearance, and one white tennis shoe like the ones Lloyd had been wearing.
Some time later, when John and I arrived home from school, there were lots of policemen and cars
in our yard. From the direction of the well we could hear a constant thumping bom-bom-bom-bom sound
… the police were pumping the water from the well. Dad introduced me to some of the Detectives, and to
some black trackers … life was really getting scary now, I had never seen a black man before! I knew
about Tukoni in the radio serial ‘The Search for the Golden Boomerang’ but as there were no pictures with
radio, I didn’t know Tukoni was black until I was given a picture book of the story. He was my first hero
that I remember. I fantasised about Tukoni and all his exciting adventures that carried on until well after I
had left the farm. Never did I hear if he found that golden boomerang, but his adventures were far better
than my Tarzan ones that I played by myself in the cypress tree.
The sound from the well continued without stopping for many days and nights - for so long that I
forgot why it started in the first place. Then someone was lowered down the well on a rope and - when he
came up again - he had what was left of Lloyd with him. Tests later showed the scratch marks of pitchfork
on Lloyd’s ribs. He had been murdered - and another new word entered my vocabulary.
By this time Japan had joined the war. For a while that didn’t affect me either as Japan was way up
north, over the railway line, up past the well where Lloyd had been found … and even further still out
beyond the blue horizon past Uncle Norman’s place. That, in my very early days, was where the northern
end of my world ended.
With school, homework, gathering hen-eggs, preparing kindling for the fires, doing chores in the
cowshed - like shoveling you-know-what - and every Saturday having to scrape the mud off and clean all
the family shoes, time flew by. I would get so cross about the shoe cleaning as John never had to clean any
and, to make it worse, I had to clean his shoes as well as all the others. But I accepted it all because by that
time John was Johnny Boy, and Johnny Boy didn’t have to help with anything around the house. Johnny
Boy could do no wrong. Mum and the aunties loved Johnny Boy and that made me withdraw even further
into my fantasy world.

Cutting the kindling with my own little tomahawk was another of my tasks; this was one job that I liked
because it was my responsibility to get up early in the mornings to light the kitchen fire before anyone else
was out of bed, and I liked thin kindling. They were lonely cold mornings when the family was still asleep.
I liked to cut my kindling almost match-thick - grading the thickness so that when the finest kindling caught
fire, I had thicker pieces to put on top, I then had larger pieces that would easily catch fire. There was
nothing worse than having the kindling burn away before the bigger pieces caught fire. Doing it my way, I
felt that I was creating something. There came a day with excitement beyond comprehension … I saw a
photo of Dad in a newspaper. Where I found that paper - the Ballarat Courier - I do not know, but I took it
to school to proudly show to the new teacher. Mr Fiscalini had left Ballarat by this time. A letter to the
editor that accompanied the photo said that my father had killed Lloyd Davidson - that’s why his photo was
in the paper. Life couldn’t get much more exciting than this!
Police investigations into the matter revealed that Lloyd had ridden his bicycle a short distance
beyond Miners Rest to rendezvous with a girl ... we all knew that. The police didn’t know that Dad had
told Mum that he was going to the Miners Rest pub for a few beers that evening. I wondered how the
bicycle had got into Davidson’s shed? Who had put it there? For the rest of her days, Gwen would curse
herself for cleaning the blood from the handlebars and removing any fingerprints.
Mum later told me the story that the girl’s father - a grumpy old man - had found his daughter
engaging in a little hanky-panky in the haystack. I had never heard of hanky panky and couldn’t see what
all the fuss was about - maybe it was something like what the children at school said Margaret and I had
been doing in the drain. Mum told me that the girl’s father got cranky when he saw what they were doing
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and he grabbed a pitchfork, killed Lloyd and buried the body in the ploughed paddock near the haystack.
She told me that he had returned a few nights later to dig up the body, then he had taken it to the well on the
other side of our property, and dropped it in.
Some years later as I aged somewhat, and began to develop a mind of my own, I would brood over
Lloyd’s murder and wonder about who had told Mum the story of that fatal evening? After the body had
been discovered, Dad changed his story about going to the hotel at Miners Rest - he now said he had been
playing cards with Jack and Dorothy Brown at the Waubra Junction railway station. Was that in order to
distance himself from the vicinity of the crime? How had an old man, who didn’t have any transport,
return the bicycle to its place in the shed, dig up the body, and transport it about two miles to the well on
the other side of our farm? If he had been able to do this he would have had to pass our lane to get to the
well.
Had my father really been playing cards with the Browns? Dad was a rotten, aggressive drunk and
there’s nothing I wouldn’t put past him! Where had he really been that night? Why had Dad suddenly
become so friendly with the police, and why was he being so helpful by making our property available to
them at all times? Unfortunately, I was too young to take any greater interest in the case at the time. So
many questions have gone unanswered and, I feel, so many questions have gone unasked. No one was ever
charged with the crime and, to this day it remains one of Victoria’s unsolved mysteries.

When yet another new teacher came to the school, I was put up one grade, missing Grade 3 and going
directly to 4. This would bother me for the rest of my life, as I never did learn weights and measures.
Although three and a half years younger than John, I was now only one grade below him.

World War II continued to rage on in both Europe and the Pacific. To help with the war effort most
children were taught to knit and make balaclavas, mittens, gloves and scarves for the troops serving
overseas. Poor John never really made the grade with knitting - he was good with anything mechanical.
Humbly, I will admit to excelling in knitting, and would later design and knit all my own pullovers, I even
designed and knitted a Fair Isle jacket for one of my cats. Grandma was named as the woman in Australia
who knitted the most pairs of socks for the troops during the war years. She even taught me how to turn the
heel.
We had an eighty-four year old man living in the hut near the barn for a year or so. I don’t know
why his daughter and son-in-law had brought him to the farm and left him there. A nice old man, he was, I
liked him! One day I heard yelling in the yard and saw Dad with a stock whip, lashing out at poor old Bill
as he was chased and whipped for the full length of the yard, from the forge to the cowshed.
There were nights when I was young and Dad would invite visitors for drinks. If the group was
small enough for the sitting room - outside our bedroom door - I would be called out and have to stand in
the centre of the room, where I would have to spell words that they threw at me. He was always proud of
me when he was sober. Mum said he was a street angel and a home devil.
When the weather was fine I would usually be found outdoors sketching. On days when the
weather was too nasty for outdoor games, I would usually be content sitting quietly indoors, sketching.
This later developed to the stage where I would go out into the yard sketching the Clydesdales and farm
buildings. Occasionally, very occasionally, I would be stuck for activities - “What can I do now, Mum?”
“Write a letter to aunty!” “Which aunty?” (There were five aunties on each side of the family), “Any
aunty … one in Melbourne!” “What can I write about?” “Tell her about what you learned in school!”
“Go outside and draw something!” Mum was always there for me when I arrived home from school.
New games would be invented whenever John had friends out to stay. Their very favourite was to
gather all the rotten eggs they could find in the hayshed or under the pine trees, and little me would be
nailed in a small crate with well-spaced slatted sides and they would pelt all their rotten eggs at me. They
would be so putrid that they would explode on impact with the crate. And there was me - getting splattered
with filth and muck through the gaps in the sides - I didn’t like that game at all.
One game I did enjoy was to climb Mount Pisgah, taking a go-kart that John had made, and off I’d
go, racing down the hillside at breakneck speed. Or we would run up the mountain taking old car tyres
with us… then I could curl up inside a tyre, with feet and hands spaced around where the wheel would be if
it was on a car, then John would stand it on edge, give it a roll and let it go. Stopping was usually as easy
matter - if I’d been aimed in the right direction I would crash into a fence - but there came a day when I hit
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a fence that had fallen over to an angle of about thirty degrees … I hit, and was sensationally airborne. I
had time to wonder if I would be killed when I hit the ground, but no, I bounced several times before
coming to a stop in the lower paddock, just short of the railway line.
Occasionally, Mum would load our little cart up with supplies, and off we’d go with our friends, up
into the bush behind Waubra Junction railway station, where there were no roads, not even tracks … Tiny
would know the way, taking us to Moore’s Dam without direction of any kind from us. I remembered the
days when I used to go into this same bush - riding on the wagon, pulled by two beautiful Clydesdales - to a
spot where Dad had an allocated plot with gumtrees marked by the forest ranger Stan Thomas, that were
there for the cutting to eventually become our firewood. All the trimmings - the twigs and leaves - would
be piled up to be burned when dry. There was one day when I was playing hidey by myself and hid myself
in one of these piles. Next thing I knew it was on fire! Dad had lit it. Like a rabbit, I bolted out the other
side away from him.
But now that we were growing up and independent, the forest was a fun place to play, as the water
in Moore’s Dam was clean but, after a minute or so, we would be black with blood-sucking leeches. Our
very clever mother would always pack some salt in with our food as she knew that a pinch of salt on a leech
would make it drop off instantly. We would pitch a tent and spend a sleepless night - trembling with fright -
as we listened to the sounds of the forest. I remember one night when Fred - a schoolmate of mine - was
terrified; he thought the forest was filled with monsters an’ demons an’ dragons an’ all sorts of nasties …
we thought we could hear the sound of their cloven hooves and the snorting from their fiery nostrils. I
lifted the side of the tent and peeked out into the darkness - it was nothing more than a herd of wandering
cows.
There was a time when we called at an old, defunct gold mine, where John had gone down a tunnel
that ran on a gentle slope - a cave, we called it - to the very bottom of a narrow mine shaft. There was mud
and water down there and I was hit by a brilliant idea; I hurried to the top, grabbed a rock and dropped it
down, hoping to splash John at the bottom - unfortunately for him, he happened to be climbing up the shaft
at the time, with legs straddling to the sides as he crab-climbed upwards. I had picked up the largest slab of
clay, hardened like rock, staggered under the weight of it to the opening of the shaft, and dropped it. John
screamed some very naughty words, and without waiting to learn the result of my game, I took off, running
through the forest at breakneck speed, running all the way down to the railway line, and on until I reached
the safety of home. Although not seriously injured, he didn’t particularly like his little brother very much
for a while after that.

During all this activity, Mount Rowan School had closed down and students disbanded to other places.
Initially, John and I both went to Dana Street State School, he repeated Grade VI, and lived with grandma
and grandpa in Ascot Street, while I was in Grade V and living with Aunty Elsie McGee, in Raglan Street.
Much of this period about Dana Street has been mentioned earlier, especially the part where Yvonne and I
would walk hand-in-hand to feed the swans at Lake Wendouree. Was there any mention of a jingle that
was being sung at school about John’s friendship with a girl named Nancy … “Nancy, Nancy peed her
pantsy … Johnny had to wash ‘em!”
One of the boys in Grade V lived with his mother and father in a block of flats at the corner of Eyre
and Lyons Streets - I walked past their place when going to or from school each day when I was staying
with Aunty Elsie. One morning he wasn’t in class … the word soon got around that his father had cut his
mother’s throat with a cut-throat razor. He never returned to school … just disappeared out of our lives.
Monday mornings were the bane of my life due to compulsory swimming at the Ballarat Baths.
Cold water was bad enough at any time, but cold water in Ballarat winters was not to my liking at all. I
guess the main attraction that got me to the baths at that time was the dilapidated condition of the changing
rooms where much of the plaster had fallen from the internal lath and plaster walls, and I could see through
to where the grown up men were showering and changing. Some of the boys preferred to peep through into
the girls’ changing rooms, but not me ‘cos I reckoned that was dirty and nasty.
I went up to Grade VI - the final year of primary school - where we had Mr Soderstrom as
a teacher. We thought he was a German because he was so unpleasant and nobody liked him. John had
already left Dana Street to repeat the year in Post Primary at Urquhart Street School. That saw the end of
his formal education as Dad wanted him home to work on the farm. That year my good friend and
antithesis, Bob Jelbart, beat me in the final examination … I was told that I came a very close second. I
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always felt that Bob was Clark Gable reborn … tall, tanned, athletic and handsome. It was also the year
that I had to sit an exam for a scholarship to attend the Ballarat Junior Technical School.

These were the war years when our school’s windows were heavily taped to prevent shattering of glass in
the event of a Japanese bombing attack, the playground was dug up and trenches dug in. We were all
issued with hideous gasmasks and - when the siren sounded - we would have to grab our masks and run as
quickly as possible to our designated place in the trenches. When these exercises were initially introduced
they were one big game … with the onset of winter, however, and the bottom of the trenches was filled
with mud and water it wasn’t very funny at all.
Right through these early years we had wonderful, happy, annual family gatherings - every year the
extended family would come to Ballarat for what was known as ‘The Birthdays’. The birthdays of
Grandma, Grandpa, and Aunty Ivy were on three consecutive days, the 7th, 8th and 9th of August.

Another very happy annual gathering was on Boxing Day, when all the family would again come to
Ballarat and, early in the morning of that day, Aunty Alice, cousin Margot and I would ride our bicycles to
Lake Wendouree in order to hold Grandma’s favourite picnic table beside the lake. While we waited for
the others to come, we would enjoy feeding the swans, or watching the squirrels scampering over the lawns,
gathering nuts and grabbing discarded ice-cream cups so as to lick out the sweetness. The entire extended
family would come together annually for one day of happiness.
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HIGHER EDUCATION 1942-1948

I topped the list in the exam to go to the Junior

Technical School and so, in 1942, I entered
Form 1A at the Tech. There were four grades in
each Form and I was fortunate enough to
remain in A all the way through - 1A, 2A and A typical rural 1940’s family: John (at left with head on a tyre) , Me,
Mum, Dad, and three fox terriers on the northern veranda of Avondale.
4A. I skipped Form 3, as again I was advanced I have no idea who the baby is.
a year, missing out this time on trigonometry.
Not all that much of a loss, I’ve never had any need for it.
On many occasions when I wanted to go to the farm to stay the weekend, I would firstly go to the
Police Station - where Dad was still sucking-up to the senior officers - to get a lift ‘home’. As usual, Dad
would stop at every hotel along the way for a few drinks with friends until he was so sloshed he couldn’t
drive the car properly. If either Mum or I said a word about it, both of us would be put out onto the
roadside and left to walk home in the dark. Little wonder I spent most of my time living with the relatives
in Ballarat.
Every morning when I was living at the farm, I would have to walk up to the railway line, then a
couple of miles along the tracks to where I would catch the school train to Ballarat. Occasionally, a railway
worker, who rode a motor-driven trike along the tracks, would stop and - illegally - give me a lift. One
bitterly cold, miserable morning when - as we were crossing a gravel road - the trike flipped, throwing both
of us in the air. Somehow, in mid air, Mr Strachan managed to kick me out of the way of the falling trike.
It seems that after landing I showed no sign of life and was laid out on the grass beside the line while Mr
Strachan - with brute force and determination - managed to get the vehicle back on the tracks. Thinking I
was dead, he wrapped me in a waterproof tarpaulin. As he was carrying me down through the paddock
towards the farmhouse, I moved. I was again laid on the grass until I showed further improvement and then
carried home. Although I have no recollection of any of this, I was told that Mum then drove me to
hospital in Ballarat where I was X-rayed and found to have minor spinal injuries. I was treated for a
fractured right collarbone that was put in a sling. A short period of rest and care soon had me back to
school again, unfortunately left-handed … hopelessly so!
Throughout the years of travelling in and out to school by bus or train I would to pass two picture
theatres - Her Majesty’s and The Regent - and with my love of the pictures I would literally drool over the
stills from the films on display outside the theatre. I kept a running scrapbook with details of every film
that was shown during those years, each one carefully hand-illustrated. If time permitted I would go down
to the Brit - The Britannia, on Sturt Street - to check on what was showing there, and occasionally slip
around to the Plaza on Camp Street for a look. I didn’t like the Plaza but there came a time when I was
living at the farm and How Green Was My Valley was showing at that dreary theatre. At the age of nine, I
walked to Ballarat alone one night to see the film, and walked the seven and a half miles home afterwards.
I remember, after having turned off Creswick Road and making my way along the gravel surface of
Racecourse Road, I could hear Mum’s voice calling across the paddocks in the darkness “Graeme –
Graeme”...and then I spied the feeble light of a hurricane lamp, way out across the fields. She was always
there, waiting for me to come home, even though I was now a big boy, nine years of independent manhood.
Although my father hated films with a vengeance he would condescend to go once annually in
November for Mum’s sake, to mark their wedding anniversary. For as long as I could remember the choice
of what picture we saw was left to me. The only other occasions that we went out together as a family was
when entertainers such as Bob Dyer, Jack Davey or Roy Rene came to Ballarat in a Tivoli-styled vaudeville
show. Roy (Mo McCackie) Rene was Dad’s favourite - he was regarded by many as being far too risqué
and vulgar for the God-fearing folk. Then the Folies-Bergere came to town. Excitement mounted as the
big night neared … there were going to be nude ladies on stage! The excitement of it all when the curtain
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rose, revealing six naked ladies standing motionless - then, after a musical number - on cue, they all stepped
aside from the naked body casts they had been standing behind, wearing skimpy costumes … they weren’t
naked at all. Two who remained standing were nude from the waist up, the law being that anyone naked
was not permitted to move on stage. Speaking of big boys … cousin Margot told her mother one day that
she wanted to go to Ballarat to see the boys - John and me - and the grand pricks. She wasn’t trying to
boost our egos … what she really meant was grand prix, but she had the pronunciation all wrong. Good
try, Margot!

I was living with Aunty Elsie and uncle Viv when they were both in the Australian Red Cross and were
heavily involved in the RSSAILA (Returned Sailors, Soldiers and Airmen’s Imperial League of Australia).
Uncle Viv always called me The Queen of the May … I didn’t like it, and I didn’t know why he called me
that. Many of the U.S. Marines had their own camp that had been set up in Victoria Park, and it was there
that I would go with my uncle and aunt to spend evenings, and that’s where I first saw poker machines - in
those days a handle would be pulled - the spinning pictures that I recall were all rich, red cherries. I would
spend evenings at the club with the soldiers, airmen, and marines. The RSS had two other buildings in
Ballarat - one in Lydiard Street north and the other in Lyons Street south. As we regularly attended both
venues I considered myself a mascot. Two American Marines were billeted to stay at the aunt’s house for a
time. I loved those guys - they showered me with little gifts - none of which I saw after they departed, as
Aunty Elsie confiscated all my souvenirs and kept them for herself. Once, when I kicked up a stink about
it, she knocked me down. I still bear a scar from the cut received when the back of my head hit the corner
of her kitchen table.

After Mum died I found a letter from a U.S.
Marine asking: “Is little Graeme still
keeping up his interest in art?”
After being clobbered by the aunt, I moved back to the farm - times had
changed - and Dad’s list of drinking mates had grown, as had the
amount of alcohol at hand. The war was still going on and Dad was
always eager to impress members of the forces. When there were too
many for the dining room, the old billiards room would be opened at
the front of the house and the keg - or kegs - would be positioned inside
the lounge room door, immediately off the passage that ran centrally
through the length of the house. By this time I was an old hand in the
art of hospitality, and would ensure that I got the job of serving the beer
from the keg. I would quite often manage to sneak into the passage,
where I could quaff down an occasional small glass or two for myself.
The air force guys thought I was terrific, and the feeling was mutual. I
enjoyed the company of those mature men who had so many interesting
stories to tell. When I went to bed, someone would usually come in and
sit at the foot of the bed, telling me tales of distant places. I have very
fond memories of one such Air Force man named Mac who treated me
as an equal … he told me much of his home state of Tasmania, and of
experiences when flying. I never knew why I enjoyed their company so
much, maybe I was trying to put them in the place of the father I hated
so much.

During winter, our evenings were often spent in the dining room - in which I don’t recall ever having a
meal - that was cosy and had a wide, open fireplace where large logs blazed, and later in the evening
glorious red embers would glow with flickering darts of fire. My father must have had some good in him
as - from a very early age - he taught me to put my hands into the fire to rescue any spider or insect that
found itself suddenly in the depths of hell. I was taught to allow it to run onto my hand and up my arm to
safety. In my adult years I came upon a book - The Road To El-Dorado - that had been written by John
Armour, a cousin of Dad’s, and published in 1938. The opening words of the prologue were: Alexander
Ross found peculiar pleasure in gazing into the fire. Was I like my father? I hoped not!
Mum wanted me to learn piano and so I began under the tutelage of Aphra who - I have previously
mentioned - was living down the road apiece. At this time cousin Jack who - together with his four
brothers - lived on the neighbouring property on the lower eastern slopes of Mount Pisgah - with Uncle
Norman, an older brother of Dad’s and Aunty Mary. Jack would walk to our farm and sit with me at the
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piano in the cold of evening while I picked out melodies with one finger. Just the two of us, alone at the
piano in the cold front room, while the family would be sitting comfortably by the fireside in another room.
Two of Jack’s favourite pieces that he liked me to play were The Gypsy and Nature Boy. After five
years in St John of God Hospital, Jack lost his battle with what was then referred to as being creeping
paralysis and died aged 31, in 1958. He was such a nice person, so stable. That’s where my little dog
would one day get his name from.

Aphra and her mother moved on, and somewhere about this time a fund-raising barbeque was held in the
sheltered area where they had lived, to raise money for Legacy. It was a weekend when I happened to be
staying at the farm. Whole sheep and whole pigs were roasted over a pit fire. There was a big marquee as a
bar, and another where live music was played by the RAAF band, and it was then that I first heard the
haunting melody of Vilia. Played in the open air by the Air Force band, the haunting melody has stayed
with me forever. A massive affair it was, with free buses to carry passengers and nurses from Ballarat.
Lots of Marines and Australian Air Force personnel … it was estimated that two thousand people attended.
I didn’t fully comprehend a comment I heard during clean-up the next morning when someone said to my
father: “The grass in the paddocks won’t need rolling for awhile, eh Sandy?” But I was getting there …
the penny was about to drop.
We had a radio that stood in a recess beside the fireplace - a very large radio - with a big trumpet-
like speaker sitting on top. When I was younger I often reached down into that speaker, trying to get a grip
on whoever was talking down in its bowels. These were the days of radio serials such as First Light Fraser
and The Rajah’s Racer that was set in a mystical place called India. It was scary! And who could forget
Mrs Ludlow in Martin’s Corner? There were the nail-biting adventures of McGlusky the Filibuster - with
his many terrifying exploits as a buccaneer on the oceans of the world.
The forebears had designed ‘Avondale’ well … the large fireplace in the billiards room - the front
room - backed onto the one in the dining room, both sharing a single chimney. There were also fireplaces
in two of the bedrooms … wonderful when we were ill and confined to our room during winter as children.
A small fire would be kept burning night and day during the worst of the Miners Rest chill.

There were so many interesting places to play at the farm. I had the forge - the original low-set, slab-sided
settler’s cottage with shingled roof and kitchen out back - that had served Dad’s grandfather when he first
came to Australia. I could leap up to grab the handle of the massive bellows that would puff out a cloud of
soot and dust as I was slowly lowered to the earthen floor. There was the huge hayshed that grandfather
had built for the storage of hay bales, and a seventeen-thousand gallon water tank that he had built from
brick, rendered on the inside, that collected the water that ran from the roof of the hayshed. During times of
no rain our water would be pumped from a well by a windmill that stood about one hundred yards south of
the homestead. That was another of my tasks … running down the paddock in the wind and rain to the
windmill that I would have to climb in order to turn it off when strong winds blew, or on when we needed
water. It nearly always seemed to be night when I had to run to the windmill. Dad also built a chook-
house at the western side of the house-yard, with a row of nesting boxes that could be opened from the
outside. Nearby were the sheep pens where, at a very early age I learnt to draft the sheep, separating them
into two different groups as required by Dad. Next to the pens was the hut where a workman usually slept.
There was a humpy that stood outside; it reeked to high hell from the accumulated stale sweat of the
unwashed labourers who had slept in it over so many years. The humpy could be pulled along behind the
traction engine and thresher and had double-decker bunks at either end, with straw-filled mattresses and
unwashed pillows that even I wouldn’t dare lay my head on, but I loved the smell. This was where
workmen slept when working away from the farm. In years to come I grew to love the smell that had been
left behind by all the unwashed bodies of the men who had slept in the humpy. Next to the hut was a very
large weatherboard barn that had been built by Grandfather … at one end the shearing shed, at the other
were the stables with their mangers. No baby Jesus in there, however. Another long shed was separated
into three sections, the cowshed, the woodshed, and Tiny’s stable and loose-box next door. This was my
world where there were so many possibilities of homemade adventure.
There were times when we would be drafting the sheep on Uncle Bob’s property because he had a
sheep dip - a bath where the sheep would have to walk in single file down a narrow ramp into water with a
carbolic solution that would kill fleas, lice and ticks - then swim to an upward ramp at the other end. If I
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happened to be in the area at the time Dad would always put me through the dip, together with the sheep.
And then again, when we went out rabbit hunting, I would always be sent into the furze bushes with the
dogs, to hunt the rabbits out. I was a very versatile little animal to have on a farm.
Friday was shopping day for the country folk of the Ballarat area. The shopping list would be left
at Ritchie’s grocery store on Mair Street in the morning and, by time the parents were ready for home, the
order was already packed in several large and heavy cartons that the grocer would stack in the trailer. The
inevitable few beers would be consumed at each hotel we came to on our way out of Ballarat and, when we
arrived home - Dad would walk behind Mum - kicking her heels as she carried the heavy groceries into the
house.

During this period there was an interesting episode one night when one of the visiting RAAF men had a
sort of fit during a party that was later explained as being epilepsy. He was put to bed in the front room - in
Mum and Dad’s bed - where he was muttering deliriously and incoherently in a strange language that
nobody recognised. His name, he had told me, was Peter van Damme. The authorities were called and an
interpreter from the RAAF camp discovered that the language he was speaking was Dutch. I never saw
Peter again, but Dad later told me that he had been found to be a German spy who had somehow infiltrated
the Royal Australian Air Force.
Back at school again, I had three like-minded and like-sized friends - all of whom were less than
five feet tall. We were all interested in art, each had a bicycle, and we would go for rides, exploring the
countryside around Ballarat at weekends, taking pencil and sketchpads with us. On one such occasion I
remember we had decided before venturing out, that we would have a ‘you show me yours and I’ll show
you mine’ kind of day. As it turned out, after we had found a secluded location and the time came to
unbutton, none of us would go first, and it turned out to be a no show event.

I completed Form IV - as far as the Tech went in those days - at age twelve. I had won yet another
scholarship, this time to attend University in Melbourne, but I was far too young to be taken in so, not
knowing what to do, I had myself enrolled in the Arts School of the School of Mines. Education was
becoming more interesting with every passing year, and I loved school so much, mainly because in all my
life never once did I have to study outside school hours. I don’t know where my parents were at this stage
as I was living with my Grandparents and had nobody to whom I could go for advice.
In those days I was extremely skinny - and I still have that awful white skin that has no hope of
ever tanning. When one of the students remarked about my physique one day, I told him it was not my
fault, as Mum had been chased by a ghost that had caught her, and ravaged her as she was bending down to
climb through a barbed-wire fence.
There was one evening when friends of the family, who were in charge of catering at the Ballarat
Railway Station were entertaining. Mum and Dad were invited as were John and I, and Ronnie who stayed
at the farm at times. There was another couple with their 9-year-old daughter. We young ones, Ronnie, the
girl and I were sent upstairs to stay in a bedroom. During the evening Ronnie told me he was going to put
his thing in the little girl - he would go first and I could go next. The three of us were on the floor when
Ronnie said, “I came!” He hadn’t been anywhere and I wondered what he meant. He rolled over towards
me and wiped his hand on mine … it was all slimy and yukky and, oh boy, did it stink! It must have been
some sort of girl stuff, I thought. I had never smelled anything like it before, so I didn’t have a go.

A few years passed by and I was attending Arts School where we also had night school. That’s where I met
June, whose parents lived at Ballan, about twenty miles feast of Ballarat. June was living in a room in a
private house in the next block up from Grandma’s in Ascot Street. A big night was coming up … a school
dance was being held. I had never been to a school dance before and asked June if she would be my
partner. After the dance that night, I walked her home where I kissed her at the door because I knew boys
and girls were expected to do that sort of thing. She said, “You shouldn’t have done that!” “I’m sorry!”
said I. And she said, “Oh, I didn’t mind,” and walked inside. I must admit, I didn’t find anything
particularly interesting about it, anyway.

Back when I was just beginning to learn about the birds and the bees, we were returning to the farm after
visiting family friends in Ballarat one evening and, naturally, Dad had been drinking. He was driving,
Mum was in the passenger seat, and both John and I were in the back seat. This was an extreme rarity, the
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whole family out as one. I remember quite well that Dad had mentioned something to Mum about a woman
who should have kept her legs together. Mum said, “Alex, the children will hear you!” John and I began to
snigger as we had a good idea what he had meant. Dad shouted; “For Christ sake, shut those bloody kids
up!” I cheekily retorted that there was no kids in the back seat, only we two boys. I added that if he
thought I was a kid, then he must be a goat. Very seldom in my life have I referred to children as kids … I
hate the term with a vengeance.

About this time I was given a new bicycle of my own, and for the next
few years didn’t know where home was. Where I slept depended on
both the wind, the weather, and my state of mind. For the first time in
my life I was independent in my mobility. If it was fine, I would ride
the seven and a half miles to the farm to sleep. If there was a strong
north wind blowing, or other adverse conditions, I would stay with
Grandma or Aunty Elsie. I had my own room in each of the three
houses. It had reached the stage where nobody expected me to arrive,
and nobody worried. I was a juvenile free agent - as free as the wind.
During my time at Arts School I was rather pleased when the
teacher took a piece of mine and held it up for all to see. I was not so
thrilled when he said, “Whoever did this has no idea of art and is
wasting time attending this school!” Little did he know that, in the
future, art would become my very life. The classes were varied; we
studied architecture, draftsmanship, lettering, and clay modelling.
I thoroughly enjoyed the evenings with live models to sketch
and, at one stage, did my share as a nude model myself for a little
pocket money. During this period I joined the Ballarat Arts Society
where I met and mixed with artists from all over Australia, including
Margaret Ollie.
The sun has just risen in the east as I set
World War II ended that year, when I was twelve years old. I danced out to ride over 7 miles to school in Ballarat
in the street that night and continued with arts school, trying to fill in
time until I was old enough to accept the scholarship and go to University.

It was about this time that I ended my affair with Pinocchio and Tukoni when a new love - by the name of
Turhan Bey - entered my life. He first appeared on a screen near me in 1945 and I kept his picture on my
wall, together with Rita Hayworth, Ingrid Bergman, Maria Montez, Gene Tierney, Jon Hall and Sabu. But
Turhan Bey was my very bestest favourite - I thought he was beautiful!
Although I couldn’t care less about football, on Saturday afternoons when I was living in Ballarat I
would walk to the football ground on the corner of Sturt and Pleasant Street where Dad could usually be
found, either at the bar or in the players’ dressing rooms. He was my ticket to get in amongst the
aphrodisiac aroma of the liniment and body rubs, and all those beautiful bodies. How old was I? Thirteen!
…and I’m not at all superstitious.
 261

THOSE TERRIFIC, TUMULTUOUS TEENAGE YEARS 1948-1951

This period actually began on December 11, 1945 when I reached the ripe old age of thirteen. Early in
January of 1947, when I was fourteen years old, the thought of earning my own money appealed to me.
The year rolled over to 1948 … to hell with the idea of going to University and living in Melbourne … in
my mind I was still far too young, and couldn’t imagine leaving everything I knew. I was living with the
Grandparents at the time and, without saying a word to anyone, found myself a job as a message boy,
delivering packages for Taylor and Taylor the chemists. At the end of that week, one of the Mr Taylors
gave me my pay and told me I was far too qualified for the job; he suggested I apply for work at Morsheads
department store.
I started in the Dispatch Department at Morsheads the following week, wrapping parcels. I was so
tiny, so very tiny, that I soon became the darling of the store. One of my regular errands was to deliver
goods to two elderly ladies who had a typing business around the corner. I remember well that one of the
ladies told me I would do well in life, but one day my honesty would get me into trouble. Like the son of
William Tell, I cannot tell a lie but, as the years passed by I soon learnt the art of bending the truth in such a
way that people would hear what they wanted to hear, and arrive at their own conclusion.
Before work each morning - six days a week - a team of junior staff had to scrub and sweep the
floors. I spent quite some time in that role, scrubbing floors and cleaning windows at the front and side of
the store. While doing that I became friendly with the Display Manager Zaccy Bath, his deputy Ted Thorne,
and their assistant Dawn Coulter. The head of the School of Mines sent a deputy to see me one day, asking
me to go back to school and thence on to University. Because of that meeting, either Zaccy, Ted or Dawn
realised I had a flair for art and soon had me transferred to the Display Department as a trainee window
dresser. This was under the superb guidance of Dawn, a wonderful window dresser, and a tough boss who
would stand for nothing but perfection in the job. In time I became a fully-fledged window dresser in my
own right. I have a lot to thank Dawn for and was so pleased to meet the lady in my senior years, and have
the opportunity to tell her so.
One evening, when we had visitors at the farm to celebrate Mum’s birthday, the recently connected
telephone rang and Mum answered; “My God!” she called, “Coghlan’s house is on fire!” The Coghlans
lived in what was regarded as a mansion in those days, just outside Miners Rest, on the Ballarat road. They
were a very prominent, highly respected, well-known, moneyed horseracing family of the old generation.
All the able-bodied males at Mum’s party rushed from the house and - in a convoy of cars - headed towards
the blaze, the glow of which could be seen from our property as it illuminated the sky above. The
firefighting equipment arrived before we did, and the beautiful old house was well and truly ablaze. Mr
Coghlan Snr was rushing in and out of his burning home in at attempt to salvage small, precious items, and
without giving any thought to possible consequences I raced in to help him! The ceiling was well ablaze …
we gathered a few small items that we managed to get outdoors but when I went in for another load a
stream of scalding water heated by the galvanised iron roof - came through the ceiling causing minor burns
to my arms - very minor, so minor in fact that they did not require dressing, but sufficient to put an end to
any thoughts I might have had of being a fire-fighter. That’s when I decided I would be a deep-sea diver
when I grew up. The magnificent old homestead was burned to the ground, leaving nothing other than the
chimneys standing. It was a very sombre few who eventually returned to the farm and the life had gone out
of the party.
Fire entered my life on another occasion in those early years when John and I were at a matinee at
the Regent Theatre. A slide appeared on the screen, requesting John and Graeme Ross to come to the foyer
immediately. Mum was waiting for us with the news that a massive grass-fire was racing southwards
towards ‘Avondale’. As we drove towards the farm a great cloud of smoke was billowing high in the
northern sky, coming directly towards us. When we reached the farm John attached a trailer to the car,
while Mum and I loaded our smaller valuables on board. The fire had already crossed the horizon at the
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northern end of our property. We three - Mum, John and I - sped up the lane and, when we turned into
Racecourse Road and looked back, the entire ‘home’ part of the farm - the house and outbuildings - had
been completely engulfed in the pall of smoke. Dad, by the way, was up north somewhere helping fight the
fire. When we were in the vicinity of Mount Rowan we were told that the fire had died, so Mum turned the
car around and headed homewards again, not knowing what we would find. Driving back along
Racecourse Road we could look out over our property … all buildings were still standing. The stately
pines, the sheds - particularly the hayshed - were still there. Everything from the railway line north, as far
as the eye could see, was completely blackened and smouldering. The fire had jumped the railway line and
crossed into the paddock where I had once been laid out for dead, and then - a miracle happened - the
flames parted, and when they were adjacent to the house, on each side, they died.
My only explanation on the matter was that the
row of pines had caused a wind divergence at that
point, and that, together with a crop of potatoes that
Dad had planted as a firebreak, had prevented falling
embers from igniting the dry grass. All we lost were
fences and livestock! The fire had started from the
spark of a steam locomotive on the line near Clunes,
cutting a wide swathe through the grasslands for some
twenty-odd miles to our place.

Although I was still very young, I had readily adapted

to the company of older folk. Imagine my delight
when I was invited to join a group at a farewell dinner
for a departing staff member at Morsheads. That was In my senior years I designed a cross-stitch of the hayshed and
my first formal dinner at a hotel. I was so proud, water-tank that grandfather built at ‘Avondale’
growing quickly in confidence, and slowly in stature.
My previous experiences in fine dining had been limited to the occasional Friday when - if I was
going to the farm to stay and Dad was sufficiently sober - he would take Mum and me to dinner at Mrs
Morris’s café at the lower end of Sturt Street. Without fail, I would order battered whiting that was served
with potato chips, a small salad, with a piece of lemon to squeeze over. Oh my God, it was wonderful!
Never since have I had battered whiting that tasted anywhere near as good as Mrs Morris’s. These special
treats were rare because Dad would have had to have enough beer to make him spend money, and be
reasonably sober before he would take us anywhere.
My connection with the cleaning group at Morsheads had not ceased, even though I was now a
window dresser - every week we would buy a ticket in Tattersalls Lottery. I had previously arranged with
brother John, that I would buy his old motorcycle, even though I had no idea how I would ever be able to
pay it off. Then we - the seven cleaners - won more than £800 in Tatts. As soon as I received my share I
paid John in full, and returned to the farm to live for a brief period as I now had my own transport to get to
and from work.
It seemed so very long ago that I had had to ride my bike to school in Ballarat when, on bad days, I
would hide my bike in the very same furze bushes as Gwen Davidson had done, and catch the Creswick bus
into town. Sometimes a car would come along before the bus, and I would get a free ride, saving myself
the threepenny fare that I would hide for when I was able to go the pictures. When the bus service closed
down, I would walk about two miles to Waubra Junction station and catch the train. On the homeward leg
of the day, I would dawdle, inspecting all my little treasures along the way. I knew every bird’s nest, every
rabbit burrow, every spot where wildflowers bloomed in the spring. Everything demanded daily inspection
as I walked along that line, pacing myself, so as to step on the sleepers only. Now, however, I was working
and earning my own money, as little as it was, and I had a motorcycle - my life had to adjust to the speed of
the motorised age.

It came as no surprise when I received word one day that Dad wanted me to meet him at the Police Station.
I was unaware that a young nurse I knew had been decapitated in an accident - that was Dad’s surprise for
me. He took me into the morgue to show me her body that lay on a stainless steel draining table, with the
head close by on another. If he expected me to say thanks for the memory he had another think coming.
He was rapidly slipping further and further down the food chain as far as I was concerned.
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Where I lived during those years still depended of my whim of the day … sometimes with the
grandparents, sometimes with Aunty Elsie … and sometimes at the farm. I had no fixed place of abode,
and loved it that way. I was my own ‘man’, but over the years it has now become one jumbled, confusing
mess in my mind.
Mum was interested in having me take piano lessons again … so she enrolled me to be taught the
Swing Method by a young lady who had rented rooms at the back of Allen’s music store in Sturt Street.
Lessons were after school on Friday afternoons, giving me the chance of going to the farm, or staying
where I wished for the weekend. The first piece I remember learning was ‘Always’ ... ‘I’ll be loving you,
always, with a heart that’s true, always.’
Fashion parades were held regularly at Morsheads - sometimes knitwear, sometimes fashions. Mr
Morshead Snr had been training me for some time as a floorwalker and, under his guidance, I was being
groomed to become a respectable young gentleman. It was my job, when there were no windows to be
dressed, to meet and greet the fashionable ladies of Ballarat at the front door and direct or escort them to
wherever they wished to go. I was asked if I would do some modelling on the catwalk in a hand-knitted
garments parade. By this time I had grown above the five-foot mark that I had been at school and, although
very slim, I was a reasonable shape, sometimes referred to as being quite handsome, sometimes reasonably
good-looking, and occasionally it was said that I was too pretty to be a boy. In other words, I was perfect
catwalk material. All went well until a few minutes before I was to grace the boards on my first effort and
my nerves went haywire. I was petrified beyond belief! Dawn rushed in and gave me a small dose of sal
volatile - a few drops in water to calm the nerves - and on I went! A born showman! As there was only
one dressing room I soon got accustomed to changing in a room full of ladies. I soon learned that the
difference was minimal! It was in those days that I realised that once you’ve seen two, you’ve seen them
all. It was my part that was minimal!
Although elevated to a more prestigious position as far as work was concerned, I was still called to
do occasional vacuum cleaning. When Mr Morshead Jnr - who was constantly trying to belittle me - told
me to get a ladder and climb up onto the top of the ladies changing rooms and vacuum the roof … was he
trying to embarrass me? Or had he sensed something I was unaware of at that age - that I wouldn’t be any
threat to the ladies? Anyway, the nozzle of the cleaner hit a naked wire and, whompah! It took about two
seconds for me to hit the carpeted floor about eight feet below. An ambulance was called and I was taken
to hospital and held for observation. It was a shocking experience!

Cousin Dorothy asked me to partner one of the debs at a forthcoming debutante ball at Sebastopol, a
southern suburb of Ballarat where she had lived since marrying her husband, George. I stayed nights with
them during the period of rehearsals, and felt quite smart and grown up, dressed in a dinner suit - hired of
course - shiny black patent leather shoes, white shirt and black bow tie.
One evening, when living with the Grandparents, I had the urge to really learn to dance. I walked to
Armstrong Street and nervously climbed the stairs to Marjorie Morcom’s School of Ballroom Dancing. Up
those stairs I found a whole new world - a fantasyland of swirling professionals, right down to rank, two-
left-footed amateurs such as myself. I had discovered a world that I didn’t realise existed outside the
picture theatres. I loved the music, the rumba, the tango, the foxtrot - I loved it all. The experienced
members were teaching the newer members, under the watchful eye of Miss Morcom and I found it all so
friendly and exciting. I was grown up at last! We
danced to the predictable rhythm of Victor Sylvester’s
Ballroom Orchestra and I became a regular, and
eventually became a teacher myself.
At this time, working on the hosiery counter at
Morsheads was a very attractive widow, in her early
forties who, for some unknown reason, had me
absolutely besotted. Her name was Mavis and I
thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever
met - apart from Rita Hayworth, of course. She in her
early forties - me a young teenager. One day during
working hours - knowing that I came from Miners Rest
- Mavis mentioned that there was to be a ball at Miner’s
I did this sketch sometime in 1949.
Rest on the coming Friday evening - would I be her
 264

partner? We could go by bus, as buses ran from a central terminal in Lydiard Street to all the various
country balls every Friday evening. From then on for quite some time we would meet at the bus depot on
Friday evenings to check where the various balls were being held that evening, and we would dance the
nights away. She was so nice to me - in her eyes I was no longer a child We met at an age level
somewhere in the middle. I must admit we made a striking couple on the floor and never once did I hear a
derogatory remark about our age differences. We were accepted as dance partners, and that was that.
I remember only too well when saying goodnight after an evening out when I was gripped by a
sudden burst of passion … standing against the wooden fence beside the back gate that lead out to a rear
lane, I held her tightly against the fence, my heart pounding; I was going to prove my manhood, she said
she didn’t think we should - and that’s where the throbbing ended. Sadly I walked home … my attempt at
seduction had failed.

The parents had moved into the room that John and I used to occupy … it was the room with the two single
beds with the spreads from Snow White’s place. I heard about the night when I wasn’t sleeping at the farm
and Dad, in one of his dark moods, took a swing at Mum, slipped on the mat and - in falling - almost
completely severed an ear when he slipped on a mat and his head struck the wooden bed. Mum drove the
miserable monster to hospital where the hanging ear was successfully stitched back in place. Every chance
I got I would give him hell about that episode!
One Friday evening as he was leaving the Canberra Hotel and Mum and I were sitting in the car
awaiting his return and drunken abuse, he slipped and fell in the drain, fracturing his leg in two places. He
was taken to hospital. While he was in hospital he had peritonitis and hurried surgery, after which the
stitches tore apart and his innards started falling out. He told me how he had to try to push them back in
with his bare hands while calling for a nurse. That kept him off the street and out of my hair for a few
weeks.

There were occasional moonless nights when Dad - with some of his friends and John - would go out in the
paddocks of the farm in a utility, spotlighting and shooting rabbits. No matter how cold the night, even
during a frost, it was always my job to lay on the mudguard, holding the lamp and trying to keep the spot on
the running rabbit while the others shot at the poor little critters. I wasn’t at all keen on blood sports and
one night, after I fell off the mudguard, John grabbed the light and they continued racing around the
paddock like madmen, leaving me trying to take cover in the darkness. When it seemed the spotlight was
coming my way I would throw myself into a furrow to hide. There were a couple of times when I was
caught in the light, bullets sped close by me … I swear to this day that Dad was trying to shoot me.
Often I would tell Mum that I was going to kill the bugger. I meant it … I could no longer stand
his cruelty to Mum and his obvious hatred of me. Mum would beg me not to, saying: “The police will lock
you up for life, son!” This I couldn’t understand, as I thought I would be presented with a medal, not a
prison sentence. I wanted to get rid of him before he got me.

A young man came to the farm one evening … I thought he was old - everyone older than myself was old.
He asked Mum if he could bring his drum kit and leave it in the front room as he wanted to practice,
accompanied by me on piano. I looked up to him, he was mature, and he showed an interest in both my
playing and me as a pianist. We hadn’t spent too many nights at practice when he told me we would be
playing at a Saturday night dance at the Ballarat City Hall. I wasn’t particularly excited about the
arrangement as I considered myself to be too young to play professionally, I was still so small I couldn’t
reach an octave and my feet barely reached the pedals. Regardless of what I thought, we played. Feeling
far too young and amateurish, I was embarrassed, terribly nervous, and failed to play at my usual standard.
The dancers appeared to enjoy themselves but I didn’t … I felt I didn’t reach my potential and never played
professionally again.
Dad bought me a guitar that - at the time - did not interest me in the least. I resented the fact that he
had bought it without mentioning it to me. I don’t remember him having ever given me anything in my life,
apart from a threepenny piece one day when I was in primary school, and I wanted nothing from him now.
There was no instruction manual and I had no idea how to play it, so it sat in the front room, untouched,
until after I had left home forever. Bet it fell off the back of a truck!
While I had a penchant for art and couldn’t understand the workings of a wheelbarrow, John was
the exact opposite, he couldn’t draw a straight line using a ruler. He could make anything, as long as it had
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something do with mechanics, motors and wheels. At one time he made a motorised go-kart ... old pram
wheels, a motor, and a seat, and I was to be the test-driver. He took the go-kart and me to the sealed
Creswick Road and, when I was ready, set the contraption in motion. It worked wonderfully, speeding
along at a high rate of knots. By the time I reached the site where our old school had been at Mount
Rowan, I was wearying of motor sports and wanted to stop … that’s when I found out that he had
neglected one small matter … it had no brakes. Up the mount, over the mount … racing along at some
unearthly speed towards Ballarat. What was I going to do when I reached Howitt Street at the northern
outskirts of the city? If I crossed that street I was doomed … I swung the wheel hard right, thinking that if
I could reach cousin Dorothy’s house she could help me, but fortunately, I turned the wheel too sharply
and overturned, rolling onto the grass at the roadside. Thanks to John, that was the beginning and the end
of my life as a racing car driver. I had already given up any thoughts I had of being a deep sea diver after
seeing Reap the Wild Wind with that gi-normous octopus that attacked either John Wayne or Ray Milland.
Another time John invented something that I wished he had patented … it later came on the
market called a ‘whipper-snipper’ - very similar to those currently on sale. He could have made a fortune.
One brilliant would-be invention of his never actually got off the ground. He wanted to make a
one-man helicopter type thing that would transport me to work in Ballarat. I was all for it! It consisted of
a small platform on which I was to stand while holding onto a central pole that supported the rotor blades.
This invention never actually took off as he had forgotten one small matter … where to put the motor.
Another ten years or so at school might have helped, but he was my brother and I thought he was very
clever.
Right from childhood Mum had encouraged both John and me to bring our friends home. In our
teenage years when John and I both owned motorcycles the tradition continued, and a group of our friends
would come to the farm every Thursday evening to play cards. These were happy social occasions …
when Dad was sober. If he happened to come home with a few beers under the belt our friends would
quite often be ordered off the property. One night after all our friends had left, John and I rebelled, Dad
grabbed for the shotgun, yelling that he was going to shoot us both. Mum was screaming for him to stop.
The two of us raced to our motorcycles, revved them up and - with lights off - took off like bats out of hell
in the dark of night down the lane and, as we crossed the little wooden bridge, we noticed headlights
beaming out through the gate from the farm. Swiftly, still with no lights, we each swung around and
under the bridge … John to the left, me to the right. We met on the creek bank beneath the bridge,
cowering and trembling in the darkness as the car passed overhead. We stayed there until well after he
had returned home and we felt he would be in a drunken sleep.
As we got older, and more of our friends owned motorcycles, we would ride up into the same
bush to Moore’s Dam, where we had skinny-dipped with the leeches. Then we’d have speedway races
along the firebreaks through pine plantations or, when wet, they would be mud scrambles. John would
eventually ride in the scrambles at Korweinguboora where he wanted me to accompany him in sidecar
events but by then my interest had died. For me, it had become a spectator sport.
One evening, when the family was in the kitchen, Dad became particularly abusive and
aggressive. I could take no more ... I snapped! Grabbing the back of a wooden chair, I picked it up, swung
it, and crashed it over his head. I ran to my bedroom, threw a few things into a bag, and vowed never to
return. I was off down the lane as quick as my motorbike would carry me.

Back I went to Ascot Street to live with the Grandparents where I felt I belonged. I felt terrible deserting
Mum at such a time but realised that I had a life to live, and I wanted it to be as far as possible away from
obnoxious drunks. John and I would meet with a group of our friends every Saturday at noon outside
Marx Brothers the jewellers, on the corner of Sturt and Lydiard. We partied together and - despite my age
- we drank together. Quite often we would meet at a milk bar in Armstrong Street south for late night
suppers of baked beans on toast, or spaghetti on toast, and a milkshake.
By this stage my circle of friends had changed considerably. I had learned to play the ‘swing
method’ on piano, and would frequently be invited to parties - of course it was always ‘bring your music’.
We would gather around the piano, everyone singing, having a few drinks and a thoroughly enjoyable
time. Two beers for me would be a big night out!
The evening of the night of my sixteenth birthday was the first time for me to join the ‘in-scene’ -
a dance at the Rowing Club on Lake Wendouree. I mention this only because on that night I was able to
proudly wear and show off my birthday present - the first wristwatch I had ever owned. It was also the
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night that the new dance craze, Balling the Jack was introduced to Ballarat: First you put your toonies
close in tight, then you swing ‘em to the left, and swing ‘em to the right …

Arriving home at Ascot Street early one morning after one of our all-night parties, I was about to open the
front gate when - through the window - I noticed Grandma getting dressed. I thought I was about to be
sprung. Down Ascot Street I ran, into a narrow lane that turned into a service lane that gave rear access to
houses on either side. Over an eight-foot high fence I climbed, let myself in through the back door and, just
as I got into my room heard Grandma pitter-pattering down the passage. I leapt into bed fully clothed,
quickly pulled the covers up to my chin and closed my eyes. “Time to get up, love, and get ready for
work!” Grandma called.

Dorothy Armstrong came into my life, although we didn’t actually date for a long time. Whenever the band
struck up with Sweet Georgia Brown - no matter who we were individually dancing with - we would excuse
ourselves from our partners and merge as one for our own version of jitterbugging, and ballroom. Dorothy
soon took over as my regular date and we were frequently seen together … I was so proud to have that
sensationally well dressed, attractive, peroxide blonde - who usually wore a peasant skirt that flared out
wide with several stiffened petticoats underneath - as my partner.
I would frequently hitchhike or take the train to Melbourne at weekends where I would land in,
unannounced, to stay with one of the aunts - Ivy or Alice. More truthful to tell, I would say “Hello”, drop
my bag, sleep there, have breakfast, and spend the rest of time going to the theatre, and shopping for clothes
with a difference. Aunty Alice knew how much I liked spaghetti and would always have a can or two in the
cupboard for when I happened to drop in on a surprise visit. What she didn’t realise was that I had
developed a liking for genuine Italian style spaghetti, not the canned variety that resembled floured worms.

With all my connections in the world of art and theatre I was beginning to become involved with a rather
Bohemian crowd. One of this group, Johnny Caffarelli, lived in Ballarat. Without doubt he was the ugliest
man I had ever met, but he intrigued me with his maturity and interesting lifestyle. Johnny lived with his
mother who would always say in her heavy Italian accent: “My Johnny, he bad boy … he bad, bad boy!”
His mother thought he was bad - quite possibly he was - but to me he represented excitement, individuality,
and a whole new lifestyle. I didn’t want to know why his mother considered him to be bad. Every time I
went to their place I would take drinks for me and some simple gift for Mrs Caffarelli.
Their house was also so completely new and different, with its sparse furnishings and masses of
candles as the only form of lighting - the electricity had been cut off. As a candle burned low, the wax
would be poured onto a piece of furniture, and another candle lit and set in the molten wax. There were a
few chairs, a sofa, and masses of pillows and rugs on the floor. I had the impression that they did not own
the place. I took Dorothy along one night and - as we lay on the floor - propped up with pillows, I was
soooo embarrassed when a real widgie-style girl from Melbourne turned to me and asked how widespread
the kamp scene was in Ballarat. I nearly died with embarrassment. Why ask me, I only lived there? I told
her I didn’t know what she meant. Actually I did know … it was a police term taken from the initials of
‘Known As Male Prostitute’. It soon became known as camp, and has ever since been used in normal
everyday Australian language when describing, over-the-top theatrical productions, and the gay scene in
general.
Dorothy and I had run dry - our drinks had finished - and there was a sudden cry of “Cops!”
Candles where hurriedly extinguished and people raced in all different directions; I grabbed Dorothy’s hand
and we both quickly and silently climbed out through an open window into the night. Walking down
Lydiard Street afterwards, giggling and inwardly excited from the episode, and thinking the situation so
absolutely hilarious, we physically stopped the traffic by hugging and kissing on the tramline, causing the
tram to come to a screeching halt. “Stupid bloody idiots!” the driver yelled.
That was the last I saw of Johnny Caffarelli … he drifted out of my life altogether. His mother
passed away not many months later. I continued wearing my green duffle jacket - with wooden toggles -
black stovepipe trousers and bare feet. I was rebelling and creating my own image.

There was a time when the parents of my school mate, Fred, asked my parents if I would be allowed to
sleep nights at their place as company for their son while they went on holidays. Fred’s father was
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manager/caretaker of the exclusive Doctor’s Club … their apartment was upstairs above the club. While staying
with Fred I used to go to the milk bar alone some evenings to help in the kitchen and serve at the tables. When
times were quiet we - the young Italian owner, his wife and I - would sit in the kitchen area out back and talk.
We became firm friends. They introduced me to another Italian chappie who had only recently arrived in the
country; then he and I got into the habit of meeting of an evening. He had a small room in the nearby Town
Hall Hotel and spoke no English. He didn’t even understand the word ‘name’ when we first met. The owner of
the milk bar told me the newcomer’s name was Eric - I soon learned it was really Evaristo Lazarotto - but it had
been anglicised to Eric. From that day on I began teaching English to Eric of an evening. Coming from a farm
upbringing I found it interesting to have an Italian friend, and we would often go to the home of another friend,
Joe - Giovanni de Michele - who was awaiting the arrival of his wife, Maria and daughter Loretta, from Italy.
As the time of their arrival neared, I had gained a small understanding of their language and - as Giovanni was
afraid to ask for time off from work - he asked if I could meet his wife and infant daughter at Port Melbourne. I
didn’t have a car, but John could always get Dad’s car whenever he wanted it. I asked John to drive me to
Melbourne to meet the ship. Although Giovanni had given me a note for Maria, it must have been a very
daunting experience for her to travel in a car, more than seventy miles, with two unfamiliar Australians, in the
dark of night. From then on I would spend most of my evening meals with my new Italian friends, teaching
Eric, Maria and Loretta a little English. Eric called me Grangea da Rossi - Giovanni called me Younga da
Fella. Eric and I became inseparable … me seventeen … he about ten years my senior. I had a secret crush on
him but wasn’t game to say anything in case I lost his friendship.
The joint managers of the Town Hall Hotel - two married couples - where Eric was living, asked if I
would care to join their group as they were going to a formal cabaret ball. What to wear, that was the problem.
Mum dragged out Dad’s old dress suit that he had worn to meetings of the Masonic Lodge way back before I
could remember … it fitted me - quilted satin lapels, tails and all. To go with the dress suit I needed a butterfly
collar and somewhere I found one … nobody told me that this form of dress had gone out in the 1930’s. I
looked and felt like Charlie Chaplin. Still, I wore it, and attended my first cabaret ball with Eric and friends.
We went to the movies together and to Melbourne together. He would always offer me a cigarette, an
Italian cigarette - a Caballero - about the strongest cigarette on the market, that I would accept, each time
apologising that I didn’t have any to return. He didn’t mind but I felt guilty. Then I bought a packet so that I
could offer him one occasionally out of courtesy. That was the beginning of forty-seven years of smoking.
Through all our time together, a friendly handshake was our most intimate connection. Dad disagreed with our
friendship and sent Mum to tell me that my relationship with the Dago had to cease, or I would be disowned. I
told her to go back and tell him that as far as I was concerned I had been disowned at birth, and considered
friends to be far more important than family.
Unknown at the time, my chance to escape was just around the corner. I had long since made up my
mind never to marry, as I felt there was a possibility that I could grow up to be like my father, and I didn’t want
to bring children - who would have a father like mine - into the world.
Escape I did, but through no fault of my own ... it was not to be permanent ... not for at least another six
years.
 268

I took this photo of Grandma and Grandpa Cassell at the side of their house
at 113 Ascot Street, Ballarat on the day of their Diamond Wedding
 269

NATIONAL SERVICE 1951

National Service was being introduced in Australia. Here was the unimagined possibility of changing my
life forever. It was compulsory for all males - who would turn eighteen years of age after a certain date in
1950 - to register. There were three choices: Army, Navy or Air Force, and no guarantee that anyone
recruited would get into their chosen service. My initial leaning was towards the Air Force as I dearly
wanted to be like Mac, the young airman who used to sit at the foot of my bed and talk with me when I was
a boy. But then uncle Bob had been in the Navy and he had regaled me with tales of sailing the seven seas
on sailing ships. He had even told me of sailing up the Fly River in New Guinea when he was young, and
being attacked by the natives. The Army? - no way was I going to be a footslogger, carrying a heavy kit.
(The joke was on me.) On the day before the ballot closed I placed an X against Navy.
Early in the year 1951, hundreds of teenage males would enter the Royal Australian Navy Reserve -
National Service - as recruits on full time training. Those in the Ballarat area were called to muster at the
Drill Hall for a medical examination. All who would be accepted were guaranteed that their jobs - if
employed - would be available when they had completed initial training. The training period would be total
one hundred and twenty-four days, including two three-week periods of training at sea. Height, weight,
measurements, colour of hair, ‘bend over and cough’ … Hello, Sailor! Stringent eye tests - I nearly did my
dash on my very first eye test when the examiner held a card right up against my face and asked: “What
can you read?” “Nothing!” said I, “It’s too close to read!” “Read from the chart at the end of the room!”
A urine sample wasn’t all that difficult - easy as pissing in a bottle - and that was followed by an IQ test.
“A what?” To be perfectly honest I had never heard of an IQ test, and would have sworn blind that I didn’t
even have one - well not one that any doctor had treated me for. Skipping Grade 3 and Form III wasn’t
helping me at all - but the weakling had always managed to pass somehow. In June of 1951, call-up papers
were received, with no information given as to who - or how many - had been selected for which service,
only to tell which Melbourne train to catch, on which day, and at what time. No items to be carried apart
from toiletries and whatever we would be wearing at the time.

On the platform of the Ballarat Railway Station on that cold winter’s morning of June 1951, I met the other
three who had been selected to serve in the RAN with me in the first intake of National Service trainees in
Australia. Just four of us had been selected for the Navy from the Ballarat area - Ron Ringin, Frank
Maloney, John Nice and myself. Four entirely different personalities from four totally different walks of
life! Ron was a farmer, Frank a painter, John into banking, and me … more into the arty side of things. The
only thing we had in common was our age - four eighteen-year-olds, about to begin a new adventure.
There was so much conversation to be crammed into a one and a half hour train trip.
Once in Melbourne we had to make our way to the historic Victoria Barracks on St Kilda Road.
How often I had walked past that grand old building without giving it a second glance. We were shown to
a room of vast proportions; I noticed it had a polished wooden floor. In single file we had to pass through
checkpoints where all personal details were crosschecked before proceeding further. There were five
hundred very anxious male teenagers in that room, and when the order came to remove our clothes there
were five hundred very cold, and very confused youngsters from all walks of life. This was going to be a
levelling-out experience where class distinction had no place; some gave the impression that they had been
raised on the wrong side of the tracks, some were college graduates, some gave the impression that life had
passed them by, and others like myself were more the indoor type. There were farmers, clerks, students, a
boxer, college graduates and labourers … that’s the impression I got from when they had been clothed. In a
few short minutes we were all stripped down to the bare essentials and nobody was any better than anyone
else. Some took advantage of the situation to display their assets, while others like myself, needed more
than two hands to protect their modesty - and I’m not boasting … I was very shy! Had the weather been
warmer, this could have been a paedophile’s paradise - an absolute smorgasbord - but stripped of clothing
 270

in that climate, the choice was pathetic. It was cold enough when we had clothes on … when stripped of
our dignity it was freezing! And when I say it was freezing, I mean it was freezing! We were then allowed
to re-dress and the next thing we knew, we were on a train bound for ‘HMAS Cerberus’ at Flinders Naval
Depot, Crib Point on Western Port Bay.

Once inside the depot we became numbers, no longer teenagers, and no longer young men, just numbers
with surnames. I’ve heard it said that all servicemen remember their I.D. number for life … I have no idea
at all what mine was! All five hundred were divided into classes, twenty to a class. Each class allocated to
a particular dormitory. Was I in room 32, I think so? The number is very familiar! Maybe I’m thinking of
my year of birth. Next we were divided into two groups, starboard and port. Even numbers became
starboard - green, and were always allocated to right-hand positions, while the odds became port - red,
always on the left.
There came the time to be issued with kits; this was a total scramble and, in many instances, we
were given ill-fitting items. Clothing from cap to boot, lanyard, knife, socks, underwear, bedding, towel,
and kit bag … the lot! And, of course, a hammock to sleep in. Each was issued with ration tickets for
cigarettes or tobacco.
When it came to laundry … that was the time I gave thanks to my mother for the way I had been
raised … most of the boys had no idea how to wash clothes - the blue of their collars ran into the whites -
surely all boys knew that a little salt in the water prevented colours from running. Ironing … they didn’t
have a clue, but were about to learn. The same went for sewing … I was a wizard with the needle.
Meals were served in the ‘mess’ … a crazy name as the building was really quite nice, it was the
food that was a mess! We would take a tray with indentations for various foods - (a bit like Meals on
Wheels, I would later learn) if we were lucky we would get meat in one dent, veggies in another, sweets in
another, but quite often all would end up mixed together, the way the food was sloshed onto the trays.
Some food was good, some awful. For six months I survived on a diet consisting mainly of Coca Cola and
Jaffas.
And then there was the dreaded part where we had to line up in classes - in single file - one-by-one
to get the dreaded needle: injections; vaccinations, inoculations etc. Needles didn’t seem to be changed
very often and became rather blunt and painful for anyone towards the end of the line. One size fits all was
the motto. The following day the vaccinations had begun to develop into ugly, painful sores on the left
upper-arm near the shoulder. Best to leave them if possible, to form a scab, and allow it to fall off on it’s
own time.
This was not the life I had expected. Never did I imagine I would be up at reveille - at the crack of
dawn - to the call of: “Hands off cocks and on socks!” Or out on the parade ground, rain, hail or shine,
doing exercises. Hour after hour on the parade ground marching, quite often with the rifle bashing against
my collarbone that became extremely painful and required dressing. Attention! Quick march! Halt! Right
dress! Left dress! Present arms! At ease! I remembered thinking: No way was I going to be footslogger,
carrying a heavy kit.

Religion on a Sunday morning became a breeze once I worked out the system that while Catholics attended
service, other denominations had to pick up litter and clean the grounds; while the Catholics did the
cleaning, other denominations attended service. For six months I became a defacto Christian - attending
both services - as that seemed to be just one grade better than cleaning.
Clearing blocked toilets was another experience I did not rate very highly but - as I seemed to have
a strong stomach - that was one task that frequently came my way.
Soon I began to enjoy the experience, the conversation and the camaraderie. I made friends with
guys I would never have met, no matter how long I lived in Ballarat. I got used to slinging the hammock
each evening in order to sleep, and soon learned how to lash it into a cocoon to be stowed away in the
designated area of a morning. I soon grew accustomed to using communal showers, and going to the Post
Office to see if there was any mail … nothing!
I hated the gymnasium and all the exercises. I soon learned to keep a firm hold on the 303 on the
rifle range, as they pack one hell of a punch to the shoulder unless held the right way, and firmly. I had
never had much in life to brag about previously, and was so very proud when I came second on the rifle
range out of five hundred. A little bit of rabbit-shooting had come in handy; most of the chaps had never
even seen a rifle, let alone fired one. Not so good on the long-distance running, however, as I came in at
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fifty-two out of five hundred.

When word reached the Petty Officers Mess that I could play piano I would be smuggled in through a side
window and supplied with free beers - illegal for National Service trainees - for as long as I was able to
play, or until time to be lowered out through the window and sneak back to my hammock.
As I was unable to swim I was ordered to attend the swimming pool each morning before reveille,
but chickened out due to the cold. Nobody seemed to notice my absence.
Being put in a sealed bunker with gasmask on, and having to remove the mask after tear gas had
been piped in was not one of my favourite past-times, in fact I hope never again to be put in a similar
situation.
Morse code and semaphore had to be learned, knots and splicing perfected - all this had to be
spot-on before heading out to sea on either a Corvette or Frigate.
One evening during this period all trainees were allowed to go by train up to Melbourne to see and
hear Gracie Fields at the Stadium. I held fond memories of seeing our Gracie - as she was always referred
to - in the film Shipyard Sally when I was about six or seven years old. Mum had taken me, and I still
remember her singing, “Wish Me Luck as You Wave Me Goodbye ...”
In 1977 I would wave my ‘goodbye’ to Gracie again, when Eileen and I saw the home in which
she spent her final years on the Isle of Capri, near Naples.

Was it that experience that turned me into such a compulsive traveller? I loved the ships, and I loved the
sea … and actually, I wasn’t adverse to sailors either. The only craft I had ever sailed in previously had
been a paddle steamer on Lake Wendouree. Unless, of course, you’d consider the old galvanised bathtub
in which we paddled on Page’s dam, where John would pull the plug when we got into the deep cow-shit-
green water and leave me stranded. If I stood with one foot on each side of the tub I could keep my mouth
above water until help came.
I was also keen to keep my head above water at times where we would be slung over the side of
the ship - two men to a plank - suspended by hawsers (ropes) above an incredibly black ocean. The duty
was to paint the hull of the ship - not at all easy when up near the bows, and we were suspended about six
to eight feet out from the vessel. A swinging motion would have to be worked up … swing out, dip the
brush in a can of paint, swing in, slap the paint on, swing out … all the time with that ugly, angry Pacific
Ocean surging ceaselessly beneath us. When on my knees scrubbing decks I felt like Cinderella before
she went to the ball, but I had had plenty of experience behind me from times when working at
Morsheads. My main concern was having being told that everyone would have to take their turn in the
barrel - my friend Colin explained it to me - but it never did come to pass.
When necessary in severe weather, the order would be given to sling hammocks, mainly so those
who suffered seasickness would have somewhere to lie down if need be. I have never experienced
seasickness, not even when I would be sitting at the table having a meal, and some dumb bum would
vomit from his hammock, splashing it onto the table at which I sat, eating.
The heads - shipboard toilets - were another unsavoury experience at first, as the partitions came
only to about chest high and had no doors … we would have to sit side-by side, doing our own business,
with no chance of developing ‘tennis’ elbow..

Life on board was broken into watches … 4 a.m. to 8 a.m., 8 a.m. to 12 noon, noon to 4 p.m., and then - so
that every day we had a different routine - there were two ‘dog-watches’, each of two hours, bringing us
back to the 8 p.m. to 12 midnight, midnight to 2 a.m., 2 a.m. to 4 a.m. and so on. I enjoyed doing lookout
duty especially in daylight hours - scanning the horizon for a non-existent enemy … the best I ever came
up with was an interesting battle when a school of sharks was attacking a killer whale. The abject cruelty
of it all upset me no end but it broke the monotony of staring out to sea.. Nights on lookout duty were
sheer hell when cold and wintry; a mug of cha - heavily sweetened cocoa and water - was always
welcome. One particularly cold night, when I was exhausted, I curled up in a coil of rope and slept on the
cold, hard, steel deck in the rain.
Practice with the big guns worried me as I had difficulty lifting and carrying the heavy shells for
the big ‘A’ gun up near the bows, with the knowledge that if I dropped one I would be blown to
smithereens. The smaller anti-aircraft guns were more my size, but I was nearly a nervous wreck trying to
keep up with the constant orders from instructors, worrying about making a mistake.
 272

On the way north we called in at Eden on Twofold Bay, where those off-duty were given shore leave. It
was a strange sensation walking on dry land again, where we would stagger like drunks trying to maintain
our balance. In such a short time we had adapted to sea legs after sailing out from Western Port Bay on
HMAS Culgoa. Once ashore the ban on alcohol was lifted and, after a few hours of heavy drinking, some
of the idiots went to a tattoo parlour, after which most of the boys staggered drunkenly back to the ship -
branded for life.

We sailed through The Heads into Sydney Harbour. All hands on deck - in full uniform - standing at
attention! Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined myself ever coming so far north. Sydney was in
another state. I had never been so far from home before. Ahead was the beautiful Sydney Harbour Bridge
that I had heard and read so much about … it had been opened in the year of my birth - 1932 - and I had
always felt a close attachment to it for that reason.
After a lot of rigmarole such as whistle blowing, tossing of hawsers and tying up, we berthed at
Garden Island. I could see The Bridge through the ‘port hole’ from below decks where I slept and ate.
Fortunately, my friend Colin and I were both given shore leave together - we had to be back on board
before duty at 4 a.m. Colin had been to Sydney previously and was anxious to show me Kings Cross, while
I was eager to catch up with one of my old Air Force friends Jack Benson, who I had seen once only since
the war years when he had brought his girlfriend to ‘Avondale’. He was currently employed as head chef at
Sammy Lee’s nightclub. The girlfriend Belle - who I adored on sight - worked as hatcheck girl at the
prestigious Celebrity Club.
Colin told me he knew the way to The Cross … it was late on a Saturday afternoon when we
swaggered from the docks at Garden Island, barely able to walk a straight line after a few weeks at sea -
around past the particularly unpretentious and extremely popular Café de Movealong where, we later
discovered, the best pies and mushy peas in world were sold.
We weaved our way up the hill that was MacLeay Street, turned into Darlinghurst Road, and then
into Williams Street where Colin had to ask a stranger where The Cross was. “Which way have you come
from?” asked the stranger … “Up there!” said Colin, indicating up the hill behind us. He laughed,
“You’ve walked right through it!” So much for Colin knowing the directions.

We located the Celebrity Club, downstairs on York Street

- it was early evening and Belle was already on duty.
She had no idea when, and if, I was coming. My God, it
felt good … in our swanky sailor’s uniforms, talking with
a delightful young lady, in the foyer of a nightclub.
Neither of us had ever been to a nightclub before. Belle
phoned Jack and told him I was in Sydney … he
immediately told her that we should get a taxi to Sammy
Lees, where he worked and dinner would be on the
house.

The two of us - Colin and I - had a table to ourselves …

you can imagine the spread that was set before us with
Colin Rycroft, Belle Turner and Graeme Ross at the
Celebrity Club, York Street, Sydney in 1951.
Jack being head chef. We were in our pride as we dined
that evening and when a female singer, dressed in top hat, white tie and tails, and carrying a silver-handled
cane (like Marlene Dietrich) took to the stage and the spotlight swung around onto the two of us - when she
began to sing “All the nice girls love a sailor” - in my embarrassment I skidded peas all over the white
cloth and lost my composure. To make matters worse in trying to hide my mess, I gathered the peas up
and dropped them down the neck of my uniform. Don’t ask me why! Sheer embarrassment, what more
can I say? A drink waiter came to the table and gave us two beers from a gentleman admirer who we never
did meet. The drinks were much appreciated as the price of a beer in a nightclub was way beyond anything
we could afford.
When Jack finished work he drove us back to the Celebrity where we waited for Belle to finish
work as they were going to a place they called The Entrance for the night. Jack was fishing for details of
what we sailors needed as nocturnal entertainment. His advice to me was if I wanted to keep out of trouble,
stick with Mother Palmer and her five daughters. I thought he was recommending a brothel and, when he
 273

noticed the look on my face, he placed his right hand in front of him, palm upwards, and indicated the
palm and five fingers. I got the message! Good thinking, Jack! There are times in life when a guy has
to take hold of himself if he is to survive in this world.
I soon learned that not only did all the nice girls love a sailor … many of the nice boys did, too!

This part of our training was a little short of eighteen weeks. There was a lot of hard work and discipline
- for which I am eternally grateful - and two cruises along the lower eastern coast of Australia, both of
which took us to Sydney. I am - or have been - so incredibly dumb in my time; I wondered how it was,
as we were pulling away from the dock on our final visit, there was such a large group of young people
that had come to wave Colin goodbye - mostly male, and all waving little white hankies. I just didn’t
understand.
Sometime in amongst all this we were given a few days leave; I took the two Colins - Rycroft
and Wooding - and Lawrie Woof home to the farm to meet Mum, and show them where I lived. Ada and
Bob came to meet my Naval friends and - as I was introducing Lawrie - Ada asked his surname. He said,
“Woof!” She asked him to repeat it, he said “Woof!” again. As quick as a flash she said, “You can cut
out the St Bernard act with me, young man!” It was a very short break but a very pleasant one - I was
satisfied as I have always liked my friends to meet and know my friends … we returned to base once
again.
I am a great advocate for the reintroduction of National Service in Australia, but the government
seems more interested in handing out dole payments, letting the young wander the streets, injecting and
smoking drugs, than doing something to ease the cycle of boredom and rage in the new breed of
teenager. A little bit of discipline goes a long way towards a healthy mind. I know … I have so often
been thankful for the training I received in the Navy.

On or about my 19th birthday, training finished - with our heavy kits, and no civvies to wear, we took the
train up to Melbourne. Colin and I decided to celebrate and he knew the right place to do so. It was
getting towards late afternoon when we stored our kitbags in lockers at Spencer Street station, and later
still when I was taken through the front bar of the Hotel London - which was absolutely packed with men
- to the back bar where I met the barmaid of my dreams, middle-aged Molly. She wasn’t at all attractive;
she was plump, with a wonderful personality and, when I told her my name that day, I never had to tell
her again. She had the memory of a delightful female elephant. Little did I realise that that hotel and
that bar, would become my haunt in Melbourne for years to come. This was the time when Victoria had
the terrible ‘six o’clock swill’ when - a few minutes before six - the call would come: “Time gentlemen,
please!” Glasses had to be quaffed down and all drinkers were turfed out into the streets with nothing to
do.
Colin seemed to have friends all over the place while I - not knowing anyone - stood beside the
kerb having a cigarette. On the other side of the pavement, just outside the hotel’s door, stood a man
with the most beautiful smile. My God he was handsome! Whenever I saw someone interesting I would
want to know them … I brazenly walked to him and introduced myself … we exchanged addresses.
His name was Ken, and he lived in South Yarra. He gave me his phone number … I had none,
as I wasn’t sure where I would be living once I returned to Ballarat. I told him we would be meeting
again in the near future.
 274

Ken Magill came into my life in December of

1951.
 275

TEN YEARS OF EXTRAORDINARY ACTIVITIES 1952 - 1961

The period between mid-December 1951, and mid- May 1961 were, without doubt, the most interesting,
exciting, heartbreaking and extraordinary years of happiness imaginable. They began when I arrived back
in Ballarat on the night of the day that I finished National Service and returned to the home of my
grandparents once more. They were years filled with dramatic changes.
On the following Monday morning I walked to Morsheads to report for duty once more. How
strange, going to work in a department store again after those glorious months of living such an interesting
life, and riding the ocean waves. I need not have worried, as my days at that store were numbered. Sadly,
my Italian friend Eric had moved on and was living and working in Bendigo.
Betty, who I had known pre-National Service, came to the store with a belated birthday present for
me - a bottle of Purple Para plonk - surely the lowest class of wine money could buy. Her suggestion was
that we meet that evening and go to the Ballarat Botanical Gardens to ‘knock the bottle off’. Because I
didn’t have much money we walked all the way, I couldn't afford the tram fare as the pay in the Navy had
been a mere £5 a week. We found a secluded spot where two sneaky teenagers - with a cheap bottle of
wine - could hide from prying eyes amongst the dense overhanging foliage of a tree in the gardens.
Somehow we emptied the bottle, with full marks to Betty who had her idea of how the remainder of the
evening should be celebrated, while I had mine. Did she really believe that all the nice girls loved a sailor
was true? Sorry, Betty! I thanked her for the bottle and the offer of favours and walked her home.
Within a week, one of the friends I had met at Arts School came to offer me the position of
window dresser at Myer where he was currently working in Ticket Writing. Myer had only recently
bought the old established store of Paterson’s. Myer was class - dignified class. It was the dream of many
of the young lads and lasses of Ballarat to work in a Myer store. Headquarters of the Myer Emporium -
founded by Sidney Myer - was in Melbourne and was, at the time, the largest department store in the
southern hemisphere. The Morshead family hated Myer for encroaching on their territory.
Soon after being offered that job - and while I was trying to decide what to do - cousin Kevin,
who worked in a bank in Elizabeth Street, Melbourne came to the store to see me. We hadn’t seen each
other for a few years. We talked just outside the front door for about fifteen minutes - and were
interrupted by Mr Morshead Jnr - who told me that if I wished to talk, I could do so in my own time, not
his. I walked straight to the office to see Mr Savage, the Secretary, and gave notice that I would be
leaving as I had been offered a better job with Myer. The very next morning I was called to his office
where I was sacked on the spot. It was my first and final dismissal!

Although sorry to leave Dawn and all friends at Morsheads it was an exciting prospect, working for the
largest department store in the Southern Hemisphere, especially as a window dresser for a company that
had the reputation for having the best window displays in Australia.

Mum had news for me - Dad had found accommodation for me at his main drinking hole in Ballarat, the
Commercial Hotel on Armstrong Street, about five minutes walk from Myer. I felt that Dad would have
some ulterior motive for doing something nice for me, but couldn’t for the life of me think what it could
be. What did the man have up his sleeve?
No-one in their right mind would recommend anyone to stay at the Commercial - it wasn’t that
sort of place. This was a pub where workers and farmers gathered to drown their sorrows. But for me, it
was so very convenient being so close to my new job. It was very homely. Mrs Camm was the licensee -
a fat, jovial woman who treated me like a son - with only two employees, a cook and a waitress. For a
very small fee I had a room, about six by nine feet with a bed, a chair, and linoleum-covered floor. A
single, unshaded lamp hung from the ceiling above the bed. It was comfortable and affordable and I
would only have to suggest something I would like to eat, and it would be on for the menu at the next
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meal. Most of the time I would have the dining room to myself but an occasional casual would pop in for a
good home-cooked meal. If I wanted to see Dad - which wasn’t very often - I could always find him in the
bar on a Friday.
When offered a job as usher at Her Majesty’s Theatre - the home of the South Street Competitions -
I accepted gladly. When possible, I worked six nights a week, and also the Saturday matinee, to help pay
my accommodation. This was about as good as it could possibly get for a film buff like me.

For one lengthy period, Dad was in St John of God hospital for an undiagnosed illness while, at the same
time, Mum was in Novar - a psychiatric care hospital. I still had no personal transport and would walk to
work at Myer, after which I would walk to the hospital to see Dad, then to Novar to see Mum, back to the
hotel for dinner, shower and change into my evening clothes, then work at the theatre until after the films
finished - after the last tram left, usually about 11 p.m.

Myer wanted a model for some still fashion photographs to be used in

advertising … not me, I recommended my friend Dorothy who gave a
very professional performance. Now I had a professional model as my
partner and I was anxious to show her off to the local country lads. One
summer’s evening we caught the bus to a ball at Miners Rest. (Mavis had
remarried and left Ballarat). Dorothy looked fantastic in a sleeveless
black top, overly flared multiple layered tulle skirt, and black stilettos.
She carried a long ivory cigarette holder that she used for effect, not
pleasure. I considered myself to be the utmost in the fashions of the day -
my entire outfit had been bought at Kings Cross - we were the new
sophisticated generation. I was going to show those country yokels, who
had ignored me as a child, that I was no longer the country boy who lived
next door. I had grown up and become a city slicker. It was apparent that
they got the message as we were completely ignored and had an awful
evening waiting for a bus to take us back to Ballarat. Lesson learned ... I
was no better than anyone else!

Myer was famous for its fashion parades - initially held in the Mural Hall
Myer wanted a model for a fashion
shoot … I recommended Dorothy of the Bourke Street store in Melbourne and later - when they opened in
Ballarat they would become the annual highlight on the social calendar. It
all began with a large ‘full house’ licensed affair in the recently opened Civic Hall on Mair Street. Top
international fashion models were imported. It was so successful that the next year it was held in the City
Hall, directly across the street from the store. As these big events were organised by the Display
Department, this was where I began to meet the fashion models of the day. On one of these occasions one
model was dissatisfied with the lower half of an outfit she was to wear and I had to escort her across the
street - wearing nothing but the top, panties and shoes - to the Fashion Department of the store, to select
something more suitable. I considered one of these models, Marianne Liedloff, to be a personal friend and
occasionally went to Melbourne to have lunch with her and her husband. There were a few who would in
future become household names in Australia, due to their involvement in glossy magazines and television.
Being a showman at heart, I would be called on whenever a ‘character’ was needed in-store …
usually I was the Easter Bunny with a papier-mâché head and very long ears ... children delighted in
tugging my white fluffy white tail and grabbing my crotch to find out what sex I was.

One Saturday I had to catch the ten-past-twelve train to Melbourne so asked the General Manager, Mr W.
Gordon Smith if I could finish work at eleven forty-five in order to catch the train. This was the day that I
had to dress as a clown with full grease-paint make-up, and a costume that I wore over my own clothes. Mr
Smith would not allow the fifteen minutes off work, so at 11.45 I removed the costume and waited at the
door until 12, then had to make a run for the station with face paint still on. Not having any cold cream
with which to remove the grease paint, I did the best I could with railway issue paper towels in the train
and, when checking in at the London Hotel, the receptionist commented that my mascara was running.
My interest in knitting, particularly in designing my own patterns, continued. Patons - the well-
known knitting-wool company - wanted to buy the rights to my knitting designs, particularly my original
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fair isle designs but I wouldn’t allow them to reproduce any,

as I wanted them to remain exclusively mine.

Having caught the Sydney bug when I had visited in Naval

uniform, I arranged with Jack Benson (RAAF and Sammy
Lees) for Mum to go to Sydney and spend a few nights with
his mother at Concord. I also made a booking for myself to
fly to Sydney and give Mum the surprise of her life. Jack
made arrangements at the Sydney end and filled me in with
the details. Together with Belle, and his daughter, Carol -
Jack took Mum to Chequers for dinner on the evening of Jack Benson, Graeme Ross, Carol Benson, Belle
March 24, 1952 … I watched from the sidelines as they Turner and Stella Ross at Chequers
settled at their table, and then casually strolled over and sat in the unoccupied chair. As a surprise, it
worked wonderfully. Belle wanted me to try her favourite dish - she ordered for me - sweet and sour
fish. It is still my favourite Chinese meal.

Later in the year I sprung another surprise on Mum: she

had flown to Sydney and stayed at a small corner hotel on
William Street where I had made a reservation, just across
from the Hyde Park station. I caught her there by surprise,
too, and we spent the evening at the Celebrity Club -
celebrating her 48th birthday. When the vocalist came to
the table and sang ‘Trees’, he dedicated it to Mum. ‘I
think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree ’ that
had been prearranged by Belle. On that night, Belle
introduced the two of us to her friend, the mesh-stockinged
cigarette girl, Beryl Nesbit. On a future visit to Sydney,
Belle had arranged a date for me to take Beryl to lunch at
I took Mum to the Celebrity Club in Sydney the Australia Hotel … I can still see her, a picture in white,
for her 48th Birthday
wearing a large picture hat. She later became a singer, and
sailed to the U.K. under the name of Lorrae Desmond.
Although this chapter refers to extraordinary years, I have often analysed the word … my life
had so many extras in it, but were they ordinary years? I think not! And if they hadn’t been ordinary
years, how could they be classed as extra ordinary?
During the time I was living at the Commercial Hotel, my Aunty Irene - Mum’s eldest sister -
died. Being so busy with my own life at that stage, I was unable to attend her funeral.

This brings me to the second part of National Service training - two weeks at sea, with an entirely new
crew, and once again we sailed to Sydney. I was in uniform, all alone one evening, walking north on the
Harbour Bridge. Two other sailors approached, walking south with three girls … all five rather unsteady
on their feet … all five swinging bottles as they walked. I was asked to even the party up by joining
them. Against my better judgment I did, not wanting to create an uncomfortable situation. We settled on
a small patch of greenery, screened by shrubbery, behind Wynyard railway station on the edge of
Sydney’s central business district, known as Lang Park. It was terrible … I wanted out but didn’t want
any unpleasantness. I knew I had to be on board again before midnight and so kept a careful watch on
time. The female I was stuck with told me her name was Shirley … Shirley Butler … she was as
common as all hell, foul mouthed and loud. In between swigging from the bottle, she told of being
sexually abused by her uncle - her mother’s brother - and referred to her mother as a whore. I’ve met
some awful girls in my time but she, without doubt, was the worst.
“Good God, eleven thirty … I have to be on board by twelve!” Without further apologies I left
the five of them trying to get their rocks off on that patch of grass, and made it to Garden Island in time
for a pie with mushy peas at Café de Movealong, before re-boarding and sailing from Sydney.

Exercising what I considered to be my masculine rights one evening when working at the theatre, I asked
a young patron if I could walk her home after the film. I didn’t know at the time that she lived way out
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past the eastern suburbs of East Ballarat - way out in the country. We veered off the main road, climbed
through a fence, then up a rise in the adjacent paddock to a spot where we lay on the cool grass. This was
it, Rossie … it’s now or never! Sad to say, once again, I wasn’t up to it and - very sheepishly - put my
pants back on and walked home in disgust. Time to face the cruel facts of life! But as they say: Who
cares?”
One weekend I went to Bendigo as Best Man at the wedding of Eric (Evaristo) Lazarotto - who had
left Ballarat while I was in National Service - and his bride, Shirley. I was honoured, and so very pleased
he hadn’t forgotten me.

For some time I had had a friend named Stan who lived with his aunt as his mother had recently died. Stan
and I hadn’t seen each other for some time. There came an evening when I was called out from the theatre
as there was a car with about five young males in it who wanted to see me. I was invited to a party - a party
such as I had never previously experienced. They returned with Stan to pick me up after the film. We
drove to a small weatherboard house in Ballarat East. The open doorway led down a long, central passage
to heavy drapes that screened the light from the door, and blanketed the noise and carryings-on from the
lounge at the rear of the house. Parting the curtains I met a woman who introduced herself saying, in a
rather deep voice: “I’m Carlotta!” (Not the future famous Carlotta of Les Girls fame). She added: “And
you’re gorgeous!” . To this day I don’t know if I was embarrassed or lapping up the attention. I hurried to
a divan against the far wall: “I know, darling!” and threw myself on the divan as I imagined a dumb blonde
starlet in a movie would have done. It was hot and the air thick with smoke. After a few beers Stan
suggested we go out into the cool evening air for a while. We walked to the bank of a nearby creek to
where there was tall grass, and there we settled down in absolute privacy beside a bridge. That night I
proved my manhood, but not in the way I had expected. I also fell hopelessly in love! I was beginning to
feel that it doesn’t take much to tear at my heartstrings. I was experiencing a side of Ballarat that I had
previously been unaware of.
Stan was doing a bit of night work as a drink-waiter at the George Hotel - after-hours trade.
Saturday nights were so busy that they needed extra staff and Stan recommended me. The job was mine,
not only because of Stan, but I already knew the wives - two sisters - of the two licensees of the hotel. On
many occasions, when I saw something interesting in the Fashion Department at Myer that I felt would suit
either Pearl or her sister, I would select a complete outfit with matching accessories, and hurry around to
the hotel with my selection. Never once did they refuse; they would write a cheque for payment in full on
the spot. They both admired my choice in women’s clothing. Proudly I admit that I had a good eye for
fashion. As a window dresser, I had full access to the Fashion Department and was always on the lookout
for nice clothes for Mum. I was constantly paying off goods on lay-by as - when I saw a hat, frock or coat
that I wanted her to have - I would put it on the never-never and have it paid off in time for a birthday or
Christmas present. Working at the George Hotel on Saturday nights after finishing work at the theatre, the
hours were short, the tips good, and they paid for a lot of my expensive whims.

Stan, Aunt, and I became regular travellers up and down the highway to Melbourne. The three of us would
go out to dinner at night, after which Aunt would be content to stay in her hotel room. Stan and I were free
to get up to all sorts of dastardly deeds. After one such night of partying and drinking, I awakened to find
myself alone, in a badly disturbed bed, on a boat that was under repair in a dry dock. A note on the bedside
table read: “Thanks for a wonderful night!” It was accompanied by a jar of jam. I had no memory of how
I had got there, or with whom, but I must have given a good performance to earn a jar of jam. Did this
mean I had turned professional? Stan was on the dock, waiting in his car, and could shed little light on the
matter as he had found himself in a similar state. But he didn’t get any jam!
There was a time when we three - Aunt, Stan and I - drove to Sydney, where we stayed in a
beautiful place called Mandalay, that had once been a hospital on the coast at Manly. After dinner that
evening Aunt, as usual, told us to go out and enjoy ourselves, saying she would be perfectly comfortable
staying in her room. Stan drove to Kings Cross where we spent the entire evening, on a pub and bar crawl,
where I foolishly had far too much to drink and, through my own even more foolish actions, found myself
in a situation where I had to find my own way back to Manly. With insufficient money for a taxi, I had to
walk all the way from Kings Cross, down to the city, across the bridge, and all the way out to Manly. I
arrived just as Stan was about to drive Aunt to church. I was able to catch up on some sleep while they
were out.
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Through a friend I had met in Melbourne, Ted - who was heavily involved in theatre and with whom I
occasionally stayed in his converted hayloft - I soon found my way into the theatrical scene. There was one
evening that I was able to stand in the wings at His Majesty’s Theatre to see a performance of Swan Lake,
and that is where I met the grand lady of ballet herself, Margot Fonteyne. While she waited to go on stage
she would scuff her shoes in the resin tray as we talked.

Mrs Camm ran an illegal after-hours bar from the cupboard beside the dining room. It was completely
hidden from sight as there were no windows. Drinkers would sit at tables nearby. Before leaving the
theatre I would leave my burgundy jacket on a hanger and return to the hotel, looking very formal with
black trousers, white shirt and black bow tie. Often when I came ‘home’ from the theatre I would stop for a
couple of beers at the cupboard. Then came a night when a red light flashed … it was a raid. The police
rushed in! Keeping my cool, I took a folded white towel from the cupboard, laid it over my left arm, picked
up a drink tray, and went about the business of collecting empty glasses and returning them to the servery.
As soon as I was out of sight of the police, I made my way quietly upstairs to my room. A lowly staff
member, going about his business, had retired for the night!
As my 21st birthday loomed over the horizon, I heard that Dad wanted to put on a party at
‘Avondale’ for the occasion … why, I don’t know because, as far as I knew, he had done nothing to
recognise John’s ‘coming of age’. Mum asked me to compile a guest list… I did, and after a lot of
deliberation, managed to whittle the number down to one hundred and eighty. As it was being held at the
farm, space was of no concern
When Aunty Alice - the social snob of the family - heard that the party was imminent, she took the
train to Ballarat, as she wanted to approve the guest list. (Alice’s husband had been a bank manager who
counted Prime Minister Mr Robert Menzies amongst his personal friends). Scanning the list she asked,
“Who is this Margaret, and who is Edie? I have never heard of either.” I told her that Margaret was the
waitress at the Commercial Hotel where I lived, and Edie was the cook. “You’re not going to invite
common domestics, surely!” I told her that yes! they were being invited as I included them amongst my
friends. “Aunty,” said I, “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to come!” She didn’t!

I remained at the Commercial for twelve months and then friends of Dad’s offered me a beautiful upstairs
flat - one block from work - at 409 Sturt Street, Ballarat. Access was up a narrow flight of thirty-two steps
that led directly from the street to a large 30ft x 18ft lounge above an elegant handbags and shoe shop. At
front there was a narrow, enclosed balcony with louvres, and sufficient space to hang laundry to dry. Next
to that was a very large bedroom with one double, and one single bed. The lounge was an L-shape, with the
stairs coming up beside the eastern wall, and a light well took up the square in the L in a corner on the
opposite side of the room, allowing natural light from above for both the lounge and adjacent bathroom,
that opened off the kitchen. The lav was off the bathroom. It was all very spacious and - having no
neighbours - wonderful for entertaining! I was in my element! Opposite the light well was a small
partitioned ‘room’ in which I slept. A short passage ran from the lounge, forming a short corridor between
my room and the light well to the kitchen. Over a period of time I gave it my personality - painting the
lounge grey and lime, with the eastern wall that ran right down to the front door, a shocking bright yellow!
The toilet I painted black, white and scarlet, and the bathroom black and white. The kitchen was a lime
green with a biscuity shade of mushroom, and white trim. I had heavily pleated dark green drapes made to
order to go around the two sides of the light well to block out the light when required for long parties. The
ceilings throughout, I painted a very dark green … a bit darker than the drapes. And, as I couldn’t afford
new carpet, I had the old feltex covered with wall-to-wall sea grass matting and bought new furniture - all
on time payment. Now that I had my own home, I intended to party, and party I did! It seemed I had the
only apartment in an entire city block.

When I first joined Myer, the Display Manager, Vern Ferguson - highly acclaimed in his field - was my
boss. I had a brilliant lead to follow! When Vern married, he brought his new bride Mary, to Ballarat. To
my way of thinking she was a clone of Rosemary Clooney. Not only did the Fergs join the increasing
number of ‘must haves’ on my guest list at the flat - they became lifetime friends. Both are now deceased.
My National Service friend Ron was keen on Betty Parsons, the reigning Begonia Festival Queen.
Frank warned Ron to watch out for me, and laid a bet that I would date Betty within the first two weeks of
starting work with Myer. Frank won … mainly because I had made it my ambition to go out at least once,
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with each of the prettiest girls in town.

Shortly after moving in at 409, a new magazine called People

hit the newsagents. In the first edition there was an article on a
particularly interesting artist, Rosaleen (Rowie) Norton … the
Witch of Kings Cross. I knew Rowie personally as Rosaleen,
but have since seen it written as Roslyn. Several pieces of her
art were shown - in miniature - in People and they fascinated
me to such an extent, that I re-drew every one of them in
intricate detail, in black and white, in a sketchbook. Later, I
painted two murals of her fascinating pieces … one on my
bedroom wall, and the other on the back of the toilet door … a
devilish figure, complete with luminous eyes. I became so
intrigued with Rosaleen that I felt a compulsion to meet her in
person.
I flew to Sydney, took a room at my usual haunt on
Victoria Street, then crossed William Street to a bohemian
coffee lounge where I sat, ordering a short black to go with a
cigarette. The northern wall of the coffee lounge was
completely adorned with colorful murals, all painted by
Rosaleen Norton. I told the waitress that I had come to Sydney
specifically to meet the artist. She told me that Rowie
frequented the place - obviously - and she gave me the number
of where Rowie lived on Brougham Street. “Walk back to “Hell’s Horse”, one of Rowie’s magnificent sketches
William Street, turn right, and it is the first street on your that I recreated from the pages of People magazine.
right”. I did as advised and came to where I wanted to be -
Brougham Street … a very narrow street with aged, two-and-three story tenement houses on either side. I
found the number I wanted on the left. The front doorway opened to a hall of sorts, with a narrow, poorly-
lit wooden stairway running up along the southern wall. Suddenly, I was afraid! I had never met a real
witch before and I didn’t know what to expect. I stood at the door for some time wondering what to do -
should I climb those stairs to who-knows-what - or would I be wiser to turn around and forget the whole
business? I was an avid reader of Dennis Wheatley novels and witchcraft intrigued me.
The stairs creaked with my every step. I climbed slowly, trying to lessen the squeaking and
creaking, and then, on the third floor I came to the dead-end … a door with satanic symbols painted on it.
Tentatively, I knocked, hoping against hope that no-one would hear me … the door opened … there was a
man standing there, looking for all the world like Max Schreck in the silent German vampire classic,
Nosferatu. His face was ash-grey! “Yes?” he asked, “You want to see someone … you have business with
Rowie, maybe?” It was both a statement and a question all in one. I choked - not knowing what to say -
and at last managed to stammer, “I would like to see Miss Norton!” He told me she was not in but he was
expecting her to return shortly and invited me in. He suggested I make myself comfortable. The single
room was dim, it was dark, it was creepy and crawly … years of candle wax had solidified after running
down the sides of bottles, small animal skulls were strategically placed at the foot of an altar against the
north wall. A tattered mattress, strewn with bedding and clothing took up part of the western wall. Never
had I experienced anything like it. I wanted ‘out’ but knew I couldn’t go. I had to stay. I expected to feel
fangs at my throat. We talked - he told me his name was Gavin Greenlees - Rowie was his friend. More
creaking footsteps on the stairs … the thought ran through my head that maybe I would be cannibalised …
then in walked the object of my fascination … Miss Rosaleen Norton - The Witch of Kings Cross!
She had the most amazing facial bone structure, sleek black hair and snake-like eyes. At either side
of her forehead was a bump - sort-of buds - similar to what I had seen on male calves just before reaching
puberty when they were about to develop horns.
Rowie - Rosaleen - was in a desperate hurry to go someplace, she had an appointment - she didn’t
say where - and gathering Gavin and myself we hotfooted it down the stairs. I was pleased to stand on terra
firma again. She hailed a taxi and off we sped to Bondi - to the home of Gavin’s parents. I was taken
indoors and introduced to them and then, in the well-lit lounge room I noticed and was completely
mesmerised by the intensity of her incredible obsidian green eyes … then off she went with Gavin, leaving
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me alone with the parents - a delightfully normal upper-middle-class couple. Gavin’s mother made tea and
we sat and talked. She openly discussed Gavin’s recent releas from a mental home after being incarcerated
for performing a craniotomy on a cadaver in the morgue where he had been working. I was pleased that I’d
been unaware of that fact when I was alone with him in Brougham Street.
Both Gavin’s mother and father - not knowing that I didn’t really know either Gavin or Rowie -
must have thought I was aware of the case that had made headlines in 1956 when Roslaleen’s friend - and
possibly lover - the famous British composer and conductor, Sir Eugene Goossens had arrived back in
Australia from the U.K. and his luggage was searched. At Mascot airport he was found to be in possession
of pornographic photos and sex aids. Fearing a court case, he fled Australia. Sir Eugene maintained his
innocence until his death in 1962.
After a sordid, drug-filled week of nightly meetings with Rowie, I wanted out - I wanted to escape
from her clutches and return to the normality of Ballarat - my mission was accomplished. On arrival in
Melbourne, still in semi-stupor, I made my way to the Post Office on the corner of Bourke and Elizabeth
Streets and was on the verge of collapse as I made my way to a milk bar cum coffee shop on the corner
directly across from the GPO, where I asked for a long, strong black coffee. I guess it was the manager
who served me … he looked at me and ordered me out of the shop, saying he didn’t want my kind on his
premises. I couldn’t understand what he meant but I was able to make my way back to the Post Office from
where I phoned my friend Colin from National Service. When he eventually arrived he found me sitting on
the steps out front, gazing blankly in space. I was told two days later that after he got me to his home at
Carrum and put me to bed, I slept for two solid days without stirring.

Now that I was settled in my very own apartment there was a lot of living to do. I would gather a few
friends who wished to go to a cabaret ball, make a reservation and - on the evening - all would gather at
409, formally dressed for pre-ball drinks. With the passing of time the pre-ball drinks carried on later and
later each evening, until I suggested that we were wasting money going to the balls and, in future, each time
a ball was being held we would gather at the flat, have our pre-ball drinks at home in private and not go to
the ball - saving an awful lot of money, and just as much fun.

A distressing phone-call came through from Sydney one evening - it was Belle’s sister, Maisie. Belle was
in hospital and Maisie wanted me to fly up to see her as a matter of urgency. I found Maisie sitting at
Belle’s bedside in the Women's Hospital and, when I saw Belle, I had to sit down before I fainted. She was
nothing more than a shell of the lovely lady I had admired over the years. She had been taken to hospital
with a pain in one arm - tests showed that she had cancer - advanced cancer that had spread right through
her body. Maisie had been trying desperately to contact Beryl Nesbit - Lorrae Desmond - without success.
I was far too upset to stay longer than one hour and left to fly back to Melbourne the same day.
When I heard that Belle had been released from hospital into Maisie’s care, I flew up again … it
was frangipani time and Maisie, who wasn’t at all strong herself, had no difficulty lifting the once very
strong, athletic Belle from her bed, carrying her outdoors and sitting her in the shade of the frangipani tree
where we sat, talking, until she asked to be returned to her bed. Her final request was for Maisie to pack a
flat tray with frangipani blossoms for me to carry home to Mum. One month later my very good friend was
dead!

Where and how did I meet Pat Coates? I don’t know! I seemed to be forever spending evenings at her
home with Pat and her mother Hazel who - although a non-drinker - liked to fill the house with young
people and music. Was I invited because I played the piano? Or did Hazel have her eye on me as a future
son-in-law? I think the latter was the main reason for all the attention. Pat and I saw quite a lot of each
other and were often seen out together at various functions. We really were very fond of each other.
One evening, when I was having difficulty finding somewhere new to go for a holiday, Hazel
suggested Djakarta. I laughed at her: “That’s outside Australia … I couldn’t go that far for a holiday!” I
had never heard of anyone going overseas for a holiday … the suggestion was ridiculous … I cast it aside.
On another evening a group of us were going to the Air Force Cabaret Ball at the RAAF base near
Miners Rest. When I asked Pat if she would be my partner she told me she didn’t have a ball gown, I
suggested she improvise. When I called for her she was wearing a very sexy floor-length, pale blue frock
that was actually a nylon nightgown that left little space on which to pin a corsage of orchids. “Will this
do?” Actually she looked wonderful and nobody was any the wiser. We often discussed the future and felt
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that there was a possibility we would always be together. Then there came the day when we met on the
street between 409 and Myer and she stopped me. She opened a small velvet-covered burgundy box and
showed me an engagement ring. “What should I do?” she asked. The ring - from an Australian RAAF
chap - had been mailed in Malta, with a card: Will you marry me? Had she met the sender at the ball we
had attended together? I didn’t ask. We had often talked about the impossibility of either of us ever
travelling overseas … I told her to keep the ring and fly to Malta and marry the man. She did, and a couple
of years later returned home with husband Strom, and baby son. I am Godfather to that child, wherever he
may be.

I had been to Melbourne to get together with Ken again - the good-looking chap I had met outside the Hotel
London. He was about to go overseas, working as Purser on a cruise liner in the Northern oceans. I stayed
with him that night and - as I was departing the following day - he gave me a book he wanted me to read,
Giovanni’s Room. That book opened my eyes and made me aware that I wasn’t an isolated case with a
nasty sexual aberration. It made me realise that my problem was no problem at all - I was perfectly normal
in the eyes of many. Due to the nature of the subject matter, that I took to be very personal, I read it only
when alone and kept it well hidden from Mum.

There was a delightful young thing by the name of Beverley who worked as cashier in the ticket box of Her
Majesty’s Theatre. It was nearing Christmas and she invited me home for Christmas lunch with her family.
I happened to mention to her mother that my school-friend Bob and I were going on a cruise. She asked
where to, I told her Cairns. She told me not to miss seeing the railway station at Kuranda, and the curtain
fig tree on the Atherton Tablelands. I was amazed that anyone knew of places so far away.
Ada was furious that Bob would go away without her. But still … off we went, cruising on the
TSMV ‘Kanimbla’ on our way to Cairns. We two first-time cruise passengers headed for the bar before the
ship left Port Phillip Bay. Intentions were to go through the cocktail list, drink-by-drink, just to experiment.
We started with Martinis with - naturally - an olive in each … something neither of us had ever tasted.
Before even sampling the drink, we took the olives from our glasses, popped them into our mouths, and
chewed … and ran to the side of the ship where we spat them overboard. That was my first and last
martini. But not my last olive!
On the second evening at sea they had a fancy dress function - Bob and I went as Mother and Son,
long before it became a popular TV show with Ruth Cracknell. I was the mother - wearing a brightly
patterned frock, loaned by one of the young passengers, while Bob - much bigger than me - was the nappy-
wearing, screaming baby. On the way north we did day trips in both Brisbane and Townsville, visiting Lone
Pine Sanctuary in Brisbane and - that evening - we took a taxi from the ship into town where we found
Brisbane to be so frightfully dull, with police stationed on practically every corner - so dull that after two
beers we took a taxi back to the ship and returned to the cocktail bar
North of Brisbane a second fancy dress evening was held … this time Bob sat in the wings - so to
speak - while I had a team of young ladies preparing me for my starring role as a bubble dancer. Many
mouths were required to blow up all the balloons that were required to cover my modesty - so many that at
first attempt I couldn’t get out through the cabin door. A professional cosmetician handled my make-up
and wig. It was great fun until, one-by-one, my balloons were burst by cigarettes during the grand parade,
and I was left standing in my jocks on the dance floor.
During the day in Townsville, we managed to do a trip to Magnetic Island and for the first time in
my life I was able to go into the ocean without getting my knackers in a frozen knot … the water was so
delightfully warm.

Whilst in Cairns we sailed out to Green Island, and the second day was spent doing a tour of the Atherton
Tablelands. We did as Beve’s mother had requested and visited both Kuranda and the curtain fig tree -
never dreaming that in my senior years it would be less than one hour’s drive from home. The cruise was
wonderful, spoiled only by the fact that Bob worried about Ada all the way and - after only two nights in
Cairns - he wanted to fly home again to be with his beloved. We were flying back to Melbourne the
following morning, he told me. Return to Ballarat had become so urgent that Bob insisted on hiring a taxi
at Tullamarine Airport to take us the seventy-odd miles to Ballarat. A very expensive homecoming … one
that I really could not afford. Although the trip had been a wonderful experience, cutting it short had
spoiled everything.
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Meanwhile, back at the theatre, we continued with occasional, reciprocal, Saturday night parties. After the
film finished at about 11 p.m. we - at Her Majesty’s Theatre - would drive for an hour or so for a bit of fun
with the staff of the Corio Theater in Geelong. On alternate occasions they would drive to Ballarat. Then
came a night when we were lacking one car so I asked John if he would drive us to Geelong. He said he
would, on condition that the girl from the theatre sat in the front seat with him. She did, and that put an end
to any affair that I might have been considering with Beverley. They later married and my friend became
my sister-in-law.
Not to worry ...one of the staff at the Corio Theatre was Dennis … he and I became close friends,
so close in fact, that he would sometimes drive north on the Midland Highway while I, unbeknown to Dad,
would take the utility and drive south to rendezvous at Meredith to get our things together, so to speak.
This arrangement worked well for a while, as I would buy tickets for Mum and Dad to go to a film and -
while they were being entertained - I would be in Meredith enjoying my own share of entertainment. It
worked well until the evening when, before going to the theatre, Dad read the mileage. Next morning he
asked me where I had been in the car. I began to say “Nowhere” … but corrected myself, and told him I
had driven around Lake Wendouree. He came back at me with: “Around the lake is five miles, not one
hundred!” I’d been caught out … well and truly sprung!

December 11, 1953 rolled around all too quickly and we had the party to end all parties … my 21st
birthday!. Actually, without my knowledge, during preparations, the life of one party was ended altogether
… an electrician, who had been working on the huge illuminated arch over the farm entrance had been
electrocuted.
My only contribution, apart from compiling the guest list, had been a radiogram that I had bought
for 409 and took to Avondale for the evening but, as I had only one ten-inch record - of Ted Heath - friends
brought their own records. Uncles Bob and Viv managed the bar … fortunately Dad managed to behave
himself and stay away from it. The entire affair was something that will live in my mind to the end of my
days. Naturally I am unable to recall all the gifts, but two stay in mind as I still have one of a pair of beer
mugs from Ron Ringin, who I first met as we were about to head off to National Service, and the other
from Bill Sutherland, manager of Her Majesty’s Theatre, a very new first-release item on the market … a
100% pure nylon, completely transparent, cream shirt that I never wore. I refuse to wear synthetic clothing!

A ‘cousin’… not really a cousin, but a distant relative who was very involved in theatrical circles in
Melbourne came to visit one weekend, bringing with him one or two carloads of very interesting friends.
As afternoon turned to evening we lit a multitude of candles - together with incense - and drew the heavy
dark green drapes. There was a considerable amount of alcohol consumed that evening and one-by-one the
guests found a bed on which to rest their weary heads, or a place on the floor. Russell and I slept on the
floor, cuddled up behind some chairs.
When next they came they brought Evie Hayes with them. It must have been a Sunday as Evie told
me she had the night free from the lead role in Call Me Madam. She carried a small ‘birdcage’ with a tiny
dog in it - possibly a Chihuahua. There was nowhere for a doggie to go to the toilet in that flat, so we
opened the back kitchen window ... she held the cage at arms length, saying “Wee wee for Mummy, darling
… wee wee for Mummy!” Good girl!
On another occasion Johnny Ray came up with the group that was ever-increasing in numbers. I
could go on and on with name-dropping but have no intention of trying to impress or defame anyone.
Enough to say, we had some uproarious parties, some of which went on from Friday afternoon, right
through to Sunday when all the Melburnians would have to make tracks for home again.

As all this was going on Vern introduced me to the charity group ‘Apex’ which - although interesting and
worthwhile - was not really my scene but I stuck with the weekly dinner-meetings, occasional dinners
elsewhere within the state - Bendigo and Geelong, to name two - and annual conventions Interstate. That
was how I travelled to the island state of Tasmania for the first time.
A Melbourne guest at one of my parties had congratulated me on the way I had furnished and
decorated the flat - the only thing that spoiled it, he said - was a reproduction of a Trentchiko painting of a
blue-faced Asian woman that I had bought in Sydney. He suggested I do something original to hang in its
place. Me paint something? I wasn’t an artist … the teacher at Arts School had told me so! As the
following day was Ballarat Cup Day - a half-day holiday - at lunchtime I walked to a nearby art supplies
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shop and bought a large sheet of card, paints and brushes and took
my supplies home. That day I painted a piece to hang in the frame
of the blue-faced woman. I had done a large detailed piece of an
eagle, in browns and pale blue.
The Apex Club was holding an art exhibition in the Ballarat
Botanical Gardens and - as I was on the Arts committee - I was
expected to enter the piece. I entered my eagle and it sold on
opening day to an American tourist who I never had the
opportunity of meeting. I had to paint something else to hang in
its place at home… I was gripped with the desire to create, and
produced piece after piece. As one piece sold I would create
another to go in the frame.

The following year we organised a cabaret dinner-dance with a

French theme. Being on the Social Committee I was put in charge
of décor and reproduced twelve pieces after my favourite artist,
Henri de Toulouse Lautrec. Before the night was over all twelve
had been souvenired ... I didn’t even get one for myself. I was
dreading the possibilities of what could happen if I was on the
committee of the Apex Motor Show, which I was on for twelve
‘Japanese Eagle’, the first painting I ever sold, months only.
exhibited at the Apex Outdoor Art Exhibition in the
Ballarat Botanical Gardens, 1960.
On occasions when I had a Saturday night off from the theatre, I
would hitch-hike to the Myrniong Hotel - a little over halfway between Ballarat and Melbourne - carrying
my sheet music with me, and be amply rewarded with beers for as long as I felt like playing. I had never
heard of Peter Allen. How I got home again, and with whom, was another matter entirely that we won’t go
into here and now.
New Years Eve became an annual affair at 409 - with no invitations posted. All my friends in
Ballarat knew they were welcome, making for some very crowded, boozy, fun-filled musical evenings …
often we carried on until well after dawn.
An absolute joy - by the name of Barry - entered my life during this period. Barry was such a
Harry Belafonte look-alike that one night - when we had both gone to see that wonderful singer-actor in
concert at the Palaise Theatre in St Kilda, Barry was rushed by crowds of screaming fans during the
interval, wanting his autograph. We became almost inseparable.
One weekend we went to Melbourne together to see Black Orpheus and Carmen Jones, both on the
same day. He would come to 409 to spend his evenings with me, after which I would walk him home, then
we’d turn and he would walk me home, then we’d turn etc. etc. I was so infatuated with Barry that I
cancelled one New Year’s Eve party in order to sit by his bed, as he had to rest and be fit for a rowing
regatta on New Years Day. And one time I hitch hiked to Adelaide, after which I caught the train back to
Ballarat because I missed him so much that, on arriving back in Ballarat, I walked direct from the station to
his home where I sat at his bedside until he awoke. I was infatuated!
At one of my regular parties - a very crowded affair - one of the guests had brought an airhostess
along as his partner. She, like I, was fascinated with Barry. She was fair pawing at him like a bitch on
heat. She asked what sport he was involved in - the rippling muscles and heavily tanned body suggested
sport - he told her “rowing’. “What do you do exactly?” she asked. Without thinking he told her: “I stroke
the crew!” “Oooh” she cooed, “They must love that!” I smiled at her and told her that if anyone was
going to stroke Barry, it would be me.
There were times when the nights went on just too long, or I had just had enough. At such times I
would go to my bedroom, put on my pyjamas, go back to the lounge and tell the stayer-oners: “I’m off to
bed now … turn off the lights before you go!”

John and Beve were about to marry and Dad had decided they should live at the farm. They were married
on August 28, 1954 at the Barklay Street Methodist Church in Ballarat East, and immediately made their
home at ‘Avondale’. The good life for me stopped abruptly when - with no invitation from me - the parents
moved in at 409. I was devastated! Mum was most welcome - Dad was definitely not! They took over the
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front room with the two beds. Fortunately, the Old Man absented himself for most of the daylight hours -
spending his time at either a nearby hotel or the bowling club, coming home only to make my life
unpleasant when he wanted dinner. Now that he no longer had to drive the long distance home after bowls,
he could allow more time for drinking. If I happened to have friends in, and they were still there when he
arrived home, the usual thing was for him to pick up full ashtrays and hurtle them around the room,
scattering ash and butts everywhere. He would order my friends to leave but I soon put an end to that by
reminding him that it was my home, not his. I told him he was welcome to leave at any time. Mum would
be lying in bed in the front room, crying. She was at the very end of her tether.
He called me from the head of the stairs one morning … I dashed out from my room to see him
disappearing down the stairs - dressed in his bowling ‘creams’, dark jacket and white hat. When he reached
the door at the bottom he turned, and very matter-of-factly said, “You’d better go and have a look at your
mother … she’s tried to kill herself!” He walked out, closing the door behind him.

I found Mum sleeping peacefully … far too peacefully for my liking. A bottle lay on the floor beside the
bed, pills scattered nearby. Although she was breathing, her pulse was very weak. I hurriedly phoned
Mum’s doctor … he said he’d be right ‘round. I phoned Aunty Alice - a retired Matron - in Melbourne, and
told her what had happened. She said she’d be up on the first train. I phoned Vern and told him the story -
he told me not to worry about going to work. “Have you called a doctor?” “Yes!”
Dad came home that evening expecting his dinner to be on the table: “Where’s your mother?” he
demanded. “She’s where you’ve bloody well put her,” I told him, “Locked up in the mental home!” He
went into the bedroom and closed the door. At that time I wished I hadn’t called the doctor - Mum would
have been far better off out of her miserable world. I cursed myself for not thinking quickly enough! I
should have let her go through with it.
When Aunty Al reached the flat early the following day I told her all that had transpired. “He’s
such a bastard,” she said. I had never heard the aunt swear in my life. With Dad snoring his head off in
the front room, Aunty and I walked to the Reception Home where we were allowed to look through a tiny,
barred window, into the small padded cell where we could see Mum, huddled in a corner, with arms tightly
strapped in a straightjacket and folded across her chest. There was no furniture. She looked at me like a
demented demon and hissed something I couldn’t understand. Again I cursed myself! There was absolutely
nothing the aunt could do and so, the following day, Aunt returned to Melbourne, leaving me alone with
that disgusting creature in the flat. I was fortunate to have good friends - both at work and at the theatre -
and I needed friends now as never before.
A week or so later Mum told me how much she hated me for having her put away … she couldn’t
understand that she had been put away to save her life.

Bob and Ada continued to visit of any evening when I wasn’t working at the theatre. Each of us would sit
with pencil and paper, sketching. We spent countless hours, planning and plotting ways to kill Dad without
getting caught. Mum was forever in and out of care. Every time she felt another bout of depression coming
on she would pack a small bag and have herself re-admitted to Novar. I climbed the stairs at 409 at 10
o’clock one Sunday morning and was surprised to meet Dad on his way out. “Where’ve you been?” he
asked. Walking past him, I said, “Out!” and went to my room and to bed. I refused to share anything of
my life with the man. It was a very unhappy little household that I lived in, and I had no intentions of
making it any better for him.
After another spell in hospital, Mum was released into my custody again, but not before John,
Beverley and I had been called for an interview with her doctor. He wanted input from the three of us, as to
why we thought Mum had been suffering such severe fits of depression. I was first to be called. I told of
the years of physical and mental abuse … right back to the times he would kick her heels as she carried the
groceries in to the farmhouse; the times when we would be put out of the car when he was drunk and
driving, the verbal abuse when he arrived home after being at the pub. The days and even weeks of sulking
and not speaking to any of the family. John and Beve gave their deposition, saying what a caring, loving
husband and father he had been. I felt sorry for Beve as I realised she had to stick by her husband, and John
stood to lose the farm if he was honest. Beverley had the additional responsibility of caring for the children.

After Mum came home, I was unable to be with her all the time. A new young woman started work in the
Jewellery Department at Myer, looking for all the world like a porn star. Michelle Carlotte duBarry latched
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onto me like a leech - bleached hair, long false black eyelashes, over-done make-up and masses of chunky
jewellery. I found her exciting. She was forever coming to 409 - lavishing Mum and Dad with gifts - and
shouting me to the movies. There came an evening when she didn’t turn up as scheduled and the next
morning she wasn’t at work. Her boss, Dave, asked if I would walk to her lodging place to find out if she
was ill. The landlady told me she hadn’t seen Michelle that morning. At my request she took a key from
her apron and opened the door … the room was stripped of all personal belongings. Michelle was gone …
she had done a flit! The bird had flown! I returned to work to tell Dave the news. In the weeks that
followed many reports came back regarding hotel expenses that had been charged at various locations to
Myer. We saw her only once after that - when the circus came to town, and the grand parade made its way
up Sturt Street, passing the shop - guess who was riding the lead elephant, dressed in spangles and beads
and very little else? Michelle Carlotte duBarry!

Ever since childhood I had been interested in knowing what had happened to Mac, the RAAF. chap. I had
been discussing him with Mum when she remembered his name - Trevor McCarthy. We both knew he had
come from Tasmania. I made contact with authorities in that State, giving all the details I knew from so far
back. It took less than two weeks to receive a reply - from Mac himself - he was living in Melbourne with
his wife and two sons, named Graeme and John. I told him I would be down to see him as soon as I could
get away.

Five of us from Myer, under the tutelage of friend and workmate Ron Boon, formed a dance troupe. Ron
did the choreography and was lead dancer … my beautiful Barry, together with a couple of girls and I, gave
support. To the recorded music of Harry Belafonte singing Matilda we did a few stage performances,
beginning with one very energetic number at the well-known Myer Mural Hall in Bourke Street,
Melbourne. And there was one memorable evening when we auditioned for Channel Ten. Unfortunately, I
leapt too high and hit the overhead electronics, which didn’t impress anyone. Barry was asked to break
from the group and go solo - he wouldn’t do it - he didn’t want to break from me. He was also interested in
sketching and, together with Bob and Ada, we had some very arty little evenings at 409.
These were the days of the flamboyant Freddie - Fred Asmussen - renowned as one of the best
window dressers in the world, the wonderful ‘have you heard this one?’ Molly Massey, who I adored, and
the delightful Bobbie Vander. Through our choreographer Ron, and wife Maurine, I met a delightful
young lady - Betty Langley - who I often caught up with during visits to Melbourne. This was about the
time when Katherine Dunham and her troupe of dancers performed at the Ballarat Civic Hall. Mum and I
went along to the show one evening and, when the time came for Miss Dunham and Harry Belafonte to
leave Australia, my good friend Betty went back to the USA with them. She is now known as Elizabeth
Langley, and has her own dance school in the United States. I have been extremely lucky to find Betty
staying with Ron and Maurine on occasions when I have returned to Ballarat. And so the friendship has
managed to continue over the years.

Dorothy had contacted me from Brisbane to say that she was coming home to spend her holidays in
Ballarat. With tongue in cheek, I mentioned the fact to Dad, and to my astonishment he offered me the use
of his utility. If I thought I could drive it to Brisbane and back, I could have it. It was a lot further than
Meredith, he assured me - a long, long way further. I phoned Dorothy and told her that Mum and I would
be driving up to bring her home. I knew absolutely nothing about the mechanics of a car … the only thing
Dad showed me was how to change a spark plug. With a spare in the glove compartment, and a mattress in
the tray at the back - where we intended sleeping - Mum and I set off on our adventure,
All went well until, a few miles south of Gundagai in the dark of night, the motor stopped dead.
We raised the bonnet and while I was gazing blankly at all the filthy, anonymous pieces of equipment
underneath, Mum found a lead that led nowhere and I found a hole with nothing in it … we connected the
two. Mum turned the ignition and the engine started immediately. We spent our first night in a B & B at
Goulburn … far too cold to sleep in the back, and next morning I was too embarrassed to take the ute for a
check-up. How could I admit my ignorance about what had been our problem? I had no idea what any of
those parts under the bonnet were called.
Then came Sydney and I wanted to take Mum to Mandalay to see where Stan, Aunty and I had
once stayed. Driving through the streets of Sydney was a nightmare. At one stage, as I was driving north
on York Street, Mum remarked how friendly everyone was … people were waving and calling something I
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couldn’t hear. I suggested they were being friendly because we had Victorian registration plates. That’s
when I realised I was driving the wrong way … York Street was a one-way street!
The next hurdle came when we were driving - in the left lane - at the northern end of the bridge. I
knew I wanted to go to Manly ... there were so many lanes, and the Manly lane was way over to the right.
Witches hats stood on the lines bordering each lane, obviously trying to tell me that the lanes were not be
crossed … but how would I find Manly if I went straight ahead? I swung the wheel sharply to the right … I
have no idea how many of those orange hats I scattered all over the road, but I made it to the right lane and
we were, at last, on the road to Mandalay.

After a hearty breakfast the following morning we headed north again on the Pacific Highway, stopping at
Port Macquarie for the night. We had both decided we needed creature comforts and had no intention of
sleeping in the tray of the ute. After dinner that evening we went to the movies and saw A Star Is Born with
Judy Garland and James Mason. The Man that Got Away became my theme song, it was such a hauntingly
beautiful song!
Stan and Aunty had recommended economy accommodation where they had recently stayed on
Upper Edward Street in Brisbane. It was no class but it was affordable and - as we were on the usual tight
budget - it suited us just fine. We each had a private room, and there was a communal dining room without
cooking facilities, where ‘takeaway’ food could be eaten.

How I found Dorothy’s accommodation amongst the steep maze of streets of Highgate Hill, I will never
know. I felt so very unqualified to drive on such steep, scary streets, but coped without experiencing undue
trauma. It was so good to see Dorothy again after so long. She had her bags already packed and ready to
go but suggested that before heading south, we should drive north a short distance to let Mum see the
Glasshouse Mountains. As I had never seen the area before, we did that, but on seeing the place I suddenly
had a strange, fearful feeling, about being so terribly far from home … it was the furthest north I had ever
been. I wanted out … I wanted to hit the road and get home again.
We spent the first of our two nights on the road in Grafton - where we arrived late on a very chilly
afternoon. The jacaranda trees were in full bloom and the city was a blaze of purple. We soon found a
reasonably priced hotel, with three separate rooms, and headed to the bar. All three of us were shuddering
with the cold … the barman said he would fix us drinks that would ‘warm the cockles of our hearts’... they
did ... It was our first and only time to drink Bundaberg rum and hot Bonox. Two of those concoctions
each were enough to knock anyone’s pants off. After a good solid evening meal we retired to our rooms
and slept the night comfortably. Our final night was spent in Melbourne where Dorothy stayed with
friends. Mum and I were staying with Aunty Alice, although somehow I ended up at a party at the home of
actor Frank Thring. Time has dimmed the memory of how I got to that party but I have not forgotten the
meeting with a young Dutchman named Arnold - Arnold Griesdorn. We exchanged details. On arriving
back in Ballarat we dropped Dorothy off at her parents home and returned our trusty carriage to Dad. He
hadn’t changed!
Dorothy and I had often talked of the future and made vague plans to marry, but not until I was
thirty years old … we thought there would be time to talk about that later.

Most evenings at that time, when I had to go out, friends would come to be with Mum. She was not a well
lady. When there was nobody available I would go out, wishing she would do it all over again and escape
her misery. I knew I would never again try to stop her.
Arnold the Dutchman would either come to Ballarat for a weekend, or I would go to Melbourne to
meet him - checking in at the Hotel London where I would fold my pyjamas neatly and place them under
the pillow. I lost so many pyjamas by doing that, as I would leave the following day without having worn
them. Mum was frequently annoyed by my forgetfulness as my supply of pyjamas diminished.
Sydney was in my heart, however … that’s where I bought my clothes, and I wouldn’t have my
hair cut by anyone other than a certain Continental hairdresser, a short distance down William Street from
the Cross. Every few months I would get permission to take a Saturday morning off from work - John
would drive me to the airport in Melbourne - and one hour later I would be in Sydney. I had my regular
accommodation at the Cross, just across from the Fire Station on Victoria Street, where I stayed on each
visit for £2.10 per night. My first stop on a Saturday morning would be the hairdresser, then there would be
a frenzy of shopping. By now I had a small circle of friends living in Sydney and would - when time
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permitted - spend an evening with one of them. On the Sunday I would take a flight that would get me
back to Melbourne in time to connect with the evening’s Adelaide Express to Ballarat … poorer but
satisfied.

I took Mum on a short visit to Sydney where we went all juvenile and went to Luna Park, after which we
intended taking a ferry back to Circular Quay and our hotel. As we were about to board the ferry, I quickly
hid behind Mum … a very drunk Shirley Butler - the girl from the episode at Lang Park - was staggering
ashore. I guess I needn’t have worried as she was in no condition to recognise anyone. Not long after we
returned to Ballarat I read a newspaper article about a murder in Sydney … the body of a young woman,
Shirley Butler, had been found at Milsons Point beneath the Harbour Bridge. Her killer was never found!

Vern had transferred to Melbourne and was replaced by Graham Sullivan - which was fortunate for me as
we got on famously and worked well together. He joined me in Apex and, after he married Mary, Graham
and I would quite often have a few beers after work on Fridays. We would then drive to their place in
Wendouree, and I would usually stay for dinner, after which Graham would go to sleep in his chair, leaving
Mary and me to talk the evening away. It was a long walk home from Wendouree to 409!
If Mary wanted to go to any event and Graham didn’t, Mary and I would go together. I was fast
becoming a chaperone for married ladies, escorting Mary Ferguson when Vern didn’t want to go out, Beve
when John stayed home, and Yvonne when Pearce was unavailable. Even if I wanted a female partner of
my own I wouldn’t have time to find one. But I was more than satisfied with my lot.

I was working in a window one day when I heard tapping on the glass. It was Arnold - my Dutch lover - he
wanted me to go outside to talk. He was, he told me, on his way back to Holland and wanted me to go with
him. That was completely out of the question as my work, home and mother were all in Ballarat. I just
could not leave everything I knew, even for him. Despondently, he left. That was the last I ever saw or
heard of him. Easy come, easy go!
Life working under Graham went along very pleasantly and the Sullies soon entered my personal
‘social set’ as well. All went well until the day when I was found lying on the floor of the window that I
had been dressing, sobbing madly, in full view of the passing public. Graham took me home to the flat
where I was put to bed and a doctor was called. Life had caught up with me at last - I was suffering a
nervous breakdown.
Ever since Dad had moved in he had robbed me of my privacy and ruined my life. I had never
spent a solitary evening at home without having friends around me since he moved in. I couldn’t bear to be
alone with the man. I blamed him for my present condition. Mum arranged for me to be taken to the
beachside resort of Lorne to get away and rest awhile. That’s where I met the lady with whom I had an
unsuccessful romp on the beach … a sort of From Here to Eternity type thing.
One day - when on the road to recovery in Lorne - after a few hours of relaxing horse riding in the
forest, I returned to my room to find Uncle Bob, with Aunts Ivy and Alice waiting for me. They had come
to tell me that Uncle Viv had died and Aunty Elsie needed me. We returned to Ballarat where I helped the
aunt with the funeral arrangements and - on the morning of the funeral - I suffered a relapse and collapsed
again. I didn’t see the funeral. Under the supervision of a doctor I was ordered to rest and was in no
condition to do anything else. This time I was off work for six weeks. I would venture from my bed only at
night and would walk the streets in darkness … a zombie on the prowl! When friends came to see me I
would turn to face the wall and say nothing. I felt suicidal and wanted to escape from life. I later learned
that the problem had been depression.
When I was eventually well enough to return to work Mr Smith, the General Manager, called me to
his office and told me I was trying to burn the candle at both ends. He ordered me to cease working nights
at the theatre.
That’s how my life continued - all the good and the bad, the sweet and the sour of life. I told Dad in
no uncertain terms, that if he didn’t kill himself, I would. I didn’t have long to wait.

On the twenty-sixth day of July 1956, after finishing work at the usual time of 5.30, I walked home. Mum
was sitting at the table by the window in the kitchen having a cuppa - Dad was out, thank God! I sat at the
table with her, talking about the events of the day, enjoying her company while silently dreading the arrival
of the creature from hell. Six o’clock was his usual time to come home. He was late. Mum and I had our
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dinner and did the dishes. Mum went to her room … I went to mine. I lay there thinking of how, when I
had gone home for lunch that day, Dad had been there. That was most unusual and out of character. He
was walking out as I entered, he turned to me and - for some strange reason - said: “Make sure you always
put the toilet seat down when you’ve finished - a lady might be the next to want to use it!”

Without rhyme or reason, Mum and I met in the small passage beside the light-well - our words overlapped
each other. Mum said, “Something’s happened to your father!” while - at the same time - I was saying,
“Something’s happened to Dad!” So sure were we that something had happened, we phoned the farm …
Beverley said that Dad had been there that morning and had taken a length of hose from a shed. He had
said “Goodbye” to baby Craig - who, at the age of eight months was in his playpen - and left. We phoned
Dad’s two Ballarat-based brothers: Uncle George said that he had seen Dad at the bowling club that day; he
had paid a debt of two shillings to one of his friends and departed. Darkness had fallen! I drew the curtains
closed around the light well. We heard heavy footsteps slowly climbing the stairs - it was Dad’s other
brother, Uncle Bob. He blurted: “The police have found him, in Victoria Park … he gassed himself in the
car!” Mum screamed, Uncle Bob began to cry, and I couldn’t believe my good luck - there would be no
need for me to go to prison after all! My silent prayers, if any, had been answered.

Because of the stigma associated with suicide, Mum didn’t want Grandpa to know that Dad was no longer
living with us. That he was - in fact - dead! I had to run to grandfather’s home early the next morning to
steal the newspaper from the front lawn before he was able to read the death notices.
Both John and I were called to the funeral home for positive identification of the body. It didn’t
look at all like the father we had known … he was smiling, with lips slightly parted in a supercilious smirk.
We were both a little miffed when we noticed his gold-filled tooth was missing and went back to 409 to tell
Mum about it. She told us that he had had it removed fifteen-to-twenty years earlier. I guess we hadn’t
seen him smile for a long time. Either that or we hadn’t bothered to look at him much.
Between that time and the funeral is a blur. Some came to offer their condolences, some to tell us
how lucky we were. The bank manager called in to say that we would be far better of without the bastard.
The only single person I recall visiting with good words to say was a big, blousy woman, who introduced
herself as Blossom. We had never heard of Blossom before. She went on and on with: “Sandy did this”
and “Sandy did that”. She gave Mum a few stale-looking sandwiches and told us how very upset she was
to learn that Sandy had died but she hadn’t had time to cry. Neither had I! And neither would I! Nobody
was able to tell us anything further about Blossom, who she was or where she came from.
After I had been to the bank to sort out some of Mum’s financial problems, I was walking in
Lydiard Street when I was accosted by an elderly man who used to drive a taxi and - in my early teenage
years, when I was about fifteen or so - would try to coax me into his cab. He would say that he would like
to get me into bed - how crazy can you be - why would anyone want to get me into his bed? And what
could anyone do in bed, or in the front seat of a taxi for that matter, other than sleep? I would usually lower
my head and keep walking. But now, on this day, I knew exactly what he had meant and I did not lower
my head - I had learned a lot of those interim years and he had been drinking; he asked why I had always
refused to go with him. “Your father used to like it!” he said. Aaah … so that’s the reason why Dad would
shave his legs and Mum would have to pluck the hairs from his chest. I never said a word to Mum about
the incident in Lydiard Street.
Mum was too upset to attend the funeral - I don’t know what happened to John and Beve - but I
was the only member of the immediate family to attend, and I went only to check the screws, and make sure
he didn’t escape from the coffin.

That evening, when an understandably saddened Mum and I were sitting in the lounge, I said: “No good
sitting here brooding about it, Mum … let’s go see a film!” Mum asked: “Do you think we should?” Why
not … it’d be better than sitting here looking at each other.” We went to see Alfred Hitchcock’s comedy
The Trouble With Harry. I had no prior knowledge of the plot - a body had been found in a clearing and
from beginning to end was a steady stream of people - including Shirley MacLaine in her very first film -
who thought they were responsible for his death. Harry was forever being buried, dug up, bathed, reburied,
and so forth. It was hilarious! As we left the theatre, Mum said she hoped no-one we knew would see us.
Of course, when she had recovered from the shock, she would tell friends of the great film she had seen:
What’s the matter with Harry?
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Ken contacted me to say he could get me a position working

on a cruise liner but I had to decline the offer as I felt that - as
Dad had so recently died - I couldn’t very well leave Mum
alone. It was with a certain degree of envy that I saw two of
my workmates from Myer go overseas on their separate
holidays … envy because I felt I would never have the
opportunity to travel. Both went to the United States, lucky
buggers, while I stayed behind, still drawing. One of these
was a self-portrait with my face as a large billboard,
disintegrating with age. Another was a stylized piece
depicting my life, with the hand of fate hovering overhead,
pointing to the grave where I would rest without ever having
travelled.
Then, my beloved grandmother died peacefully in her
sleep. All the aunts gathered to comfort Mum and I had the
job of laying pennies on Grandma’s eyes to keep them
closed. I thought so highly of that wonderful lady and didn’t
want to lose her!
For the next two years, whenever Grandfather came
to the flat and asked: “Where’s Alex?” we would tell him
that he just missed him … he’s just gone out. Grandfather This is how I pictured myself in the 1950’s … larger
than life … disintegrating with age
was failing fast - he died in 1958, unaware that Dad had died
two years before him.

Mum was still having fits of depression while I was doing my level best to enjoy life as best I could. My
promise to meet Mac, the airman, became lost in a jumble of thoughts and activities. It wasn’t until years
later that I remembered, and by that time I felt it was too late to make contact. Regrets? I’ve had a few
but - as Frank Sinatra once sang - too few to mention. I’d done what I wanted to do and, in most cases,
saw it through without exemption. Neglecting to contact Mac was my one big regret.
A very elderly Dickensian character by name of Jim Mason was the night watchman cum
caretaker at Myer and it was thought that he had never had a holiday in his life. It was rumoured that he
had never opened a pay envelope in his life either. Mr Gordon Smith asked if I would take over the job
for one month to give Jim a well-earned break. I could find no reason to say ‘no’. A room in what had
been - until Myer bought the property - the Town Hall Hotel where Eric had lived, was furnished
sufficiently and comfortably enough for me to live in for the period. The ex-hotel was connected to the
Myer store by a Florentine-style bridge that spanned an arcade entrance, housing the Display and
Advertising Departments. My home for the next four weeks was on the premises, accessible to me only
through the main body of the store.
With every new phase of my life, I had moved closer and closer to my place of schooling and
now, employment. When I first started working I had to travel from the farm to Ballarat daily. When I
was living with Grandma I had about nine blocks to walk. When I was living at the Commercial Hotel I
had one block to walk to work. Now I was actually living on site! When I agreed to take over Jim’s job I
didn’t know that one of his daily tasks was to clean the disgusting, stinking, grease-trap of the store’s
coffee shop. Each evening when I lifted the covering, I would gag, and had to brace myself against
vomiting. I would have to patrol the four floors on the store several times during the night, and work my
own normal hours during the day, being paid individually for both jobs. I lunched each day with Mum -
about one hundred metres away - and had my evening meal with her before returning to my isolation for
the night.

I had met a young RAAF chap by name of Ricky who had at times come to the flat for one of Mum’s
home-cooked meals. One night while I was living at the store, my phone rang - it was Ricky - he had
missed the bus that was to have taken him back to the camp. Could he come and sleep for the night? How
Gordon Smith found out about it I do not know, but I was called to his office the following morning and
told - in very abrupt words - that I was not allowed to have anyone stay overnight, men in particular.
Patrolling at night in semi-darkness, with lifeless fashion models posing in various locations
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throughout the store, I would at times hallucinate and think I could see someone moving in the dim,
diffused light. I refused to carry a torch as I felt it would alert any intruder and give my location away.
There was one night when I heard the crash of broken glass. I left my bed and went to
investigate. When I got to the ‘bridge’ there was broken glass, shattered on the floor beneath a skylight.
“Oh, my God,” thought I, “There’s someone in here … someone hiding in the blackness.” Very quietly,
I completed full coverage of all four floors, pausing at times to listen, but heard nothing further. I
returned to bed and notified the G.M. in the morning and, on inspection, it was found that there had been
an intruder who had made his escape through a side door that could be opened from inside.

During the time I was acting night watchman, Mum was asked to take a live-in position as carer for an
elderly Jewish lady. She didn’t like the job, and didn’t like being away from home either, but we could
do with the money. I was earning a little over ten pounds each week, paying five of that in rent. Mum
had a little set aside for a rainy day and this was that day. When she finished her short stint at being a
carer, she came home again and offered to pay the rent in full - we were then able to live reasonably
comfortably. About one month later Jim, who I had relieved so that he could have a holiday, was sitting
on a seat on the footpath when an out of control car left the road … Jim was killed on impact. At least, I
felt, I had allowed him to have his one-and-only holiday.

A sixteen-year-old, fair-haired, blue-eyed lad named Ken - who worked in the Menswear Department at
Myer - lived at the Ballarat Orphanage. We had formed a friendship. He told me he had reached the age
where residents of his age had to leave the orphanage and go out into the open world. He had nowhere to
go and was looking for somewhere to live. I discussed his predicament with Mum, who suggested we try
to adopt the lad. Although this was unsuccessful, he said he would like to live with us. We had the space
- why not? I traded my divan for a double-decker bunk bed and he moved in. For me it was wonderful -
I felt I had found a new love in my life.

Ken was a delightful young person who - through the eyes of a stranger - could easily have been blood-
related to me; he was immediately accepted into our little family. He, too, was interested in art, and we
had similar tastes in music as well. Strangely, the first film we saw together was Tea and Sympathy.
One of the only things we didn’t have in common was tennis. Although I never saw him play, I
heard he was quite good on the court. He developed an interest in ballet and enrolled at a ballet school
above the Britannia Theatre in Sturt Street. I would occasionally go to see the class in action and met the
teacher, and a young chap named Neil Case. Another new phase was about to enter my life. When the
time came for rehearsals for a ballet Neil was about to produce and direct, he needed someone for the
character-acting, non-dancing role of the Headmistress in Graduation Ball ... a part that was always
played by a male. Would I do it? Why not! I had heard that ballet school was where girls were girls and
most of the boys tried hard to be … I decided to give it a try.
As rehearsals continued all cast members were responsible for making their own costumes …
mine had to be a full-length period dress with billowing skirts befitting a headmistress of the old school.
One evening Mum and I were invited to the home of Ken Grove - my school-days barber - his wife and
small son, Robin who is now high up in Melbourne’s academic world of art and music. Noticing my
absence, Mrs Grove asked: “Where’s Graeme?” Without even considering her reply Mum, in all
innocence said, “He couldn’t come … he’s home, making himself a new frock!” She neglected to add:
‘For his part in Graduation Ball’. That was not the sort of publicity I needed at this stage Mum!
The show went ahead and, for a few glorious minutes, I had the entire stage of Her Majesty’s
Theatre - the largest stage in Australia at the time - all to myself. I loved it!
In October of 1959 I had a character part in Petrushka and the duel roles of The Duke, and Dr.
Coppelius - the toy maker and magician who tried to bring one of his creations, a doll named Coppelia, to
life.

During this period, Ron - who had been our dancing instructor - and his wife, Maurine - an old school
friend of mine from Dana Street, had become very active members in the National theatre, also known as
The Ballarat Little Theatre. They needed someone to play the role of the angry Police Inspector in
Arsenic and Old Lace … would I be interested? “Absolutely!” On opening night, I had an unfortunate
bout of gout, and could hobble around only with the aid of a walking stick … the role called for an angry
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police Inspector … believe me - I was angry alright -

and in shocking pain.

Ron was about to direct the Moliere farce That

Scoundrel Scapin ... a period piece set in 17thcentury
Naples - I was offered the role of Octavio. The play
was a comedy but - through a series of unforeseen
events - I turned opening night into something much
funnier than intended. I swear, God made me do it! My
first accidental piece of comedy was as I was running
onto the stage and my costume became caught on a nail
in the wings and I was brought to an abrupt stop,
As a detective, I inspect a body in “Arsenic and Old Lace”.
tugging furiously, in an attempt to free myself.
(Audience laughed.) The next was when the female
romantic lead and I were embracing on a park bench - which was actually a long wooden stool with legs
about eighteen inches in from either end - and when the time came to draw ourselves apart, we couldn’t; the
hairpins in our highly coiffured white wigs had become so entangled … we couldn’t break away from each
other. When we eventually managed to disengage ourselves, lover girl had moved too far towards the left
of the stool - (Octavio moves to right stage) … I stood. My end of the stool went up, lover girl went down,
falling arse-over-tit with legs high in the air. (Audience nearly hysterical.) Later in the performance the
two of us became involved in a heated argument When I was shouting angrily at my leading lady my
dentures flew out - right across the stage and, without thinking, I dropped to the stage and scrambled on all
fours to retrieve them. (Audience almost peeing themselves with laughter.) The second night went
smoothly, although not as funny as opening night.

Ricky, my young Air Force friend, was now living in Sydney and working at Readers’ Digest. I received an
invitation in the mail requesting my presence at his 21st birthday party. I apologised because I would felt I
couldn’t travel so far for a party. I mailed my apology - had a second thought - and on the morning of the
party John drove me to Melbourne where I caught an afternoon flight to Sydney. A surprise guest knocked
at the door … Happy Birthday, Ricky!
Young Ken had flown the coop and gone to Sydney to live as well. He came back to Ballarat to
spend his 21st birthday with Mum and me, and told me that he had been involved in an affair with the son of
one of Sydney’s media moguls. When the affair ended, he was given his own menswear shop at Kings
Cross, and a new car as a settlement. He was later killed in that same car on Parramatta road, Sydney. I
held onto his Certificate of Baptism for years, as I have never been christened, it was the only such
certificate I had ever seen.

It became a ritual for John and me to meet at Craig’s Hotel when I finished work at noon on a Saturday.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette on you, would you, Osc?” It was a standard greeting. He
frequently called me Osc - a throw back from my motorcycle days when I was known as Oscar. He was
constantly on the bludge for cigarettes - that’s why I tried to limit our meetings to one day a week - I
couldn’t afford to give away too many cigarettes. Anyone who had wised up to him would take one from a
pack, and pass it to him singly; otherwise he would empty the pack. When one cigarette was given, he
would put it in his mouth and ask: “Got a light?”
One of John’s best mates was our cousin Robert Ross - son of Dad’s brother George and wife Elsie.
I had two Uncle Bobs, and two Aunty Elsies … one of each on both Mum’s and Dad’s side of the family.
On Saturday, October 31, 1959 we met with cousin Robert to have a few celebratory drinks at Craig’s Hotel
in celebration of his wedding on the following Saturday. At about 1 p.m. Robert said he was going to
lunch and offered to give John a lift to his car. I declined a ride as I only had a little over one block to walk
home. Mum and I had just sat down to lunch when the phone rang … Robert was dead! He had been killed
while driving home from the hotel one week to the day before his wedding. What about John? I wondered.
I had seen them both drive away together from the Hotel. The accident had happened just a little over one
block from our flat at 409. What we didn’t know at the time was that Robert had dropped John off at his
car, and then, just beyond the next corner, he was killed.
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Uncle George had left the hotel very soon after we three and, as he was driving home, he noticed that there
had been an accident - “It looks like Robert’s car,” he thought. He stopped and crossed the street to the
mangled wreck of the car to find his only son dead. He and Aunty Elsie Ross were left with only one
child, cousin Helen - I also had two cousins named Helen.

One of my junior staff at Myer came to me with a clipping from a newspaper where - in the Positions
Vacant section - there was an advertisement wanting qualified young men to be trained as teachers in The
Territory of Papua & New Guinea, and he wanted to know what I thought about it. He said he was
interested in getting another job as he had no hope of advancing over me. I told him not to be so stupid -
not daring to admit that I didn’t know where the place was. Of course I had heard of New Guinea, where
‘our boys’ had fought during the war, but had never been sufficiently interested - or had time - to find out
where it actually was … up north somewhere, that’s all I knew. “Forget it, Ron!” I said, and kept the
cutting. When I arrived home from work I told Mum about it and she suggested I should phone and make
some enquiries. I did, and then without asking for time off, I took the train to Melbourne for an interview.

I sat before a panel of five who rapidly fired questions at me: “Could you live in a bush material house
without electricity?” “Could you live in a remote mountain area without neighbours?” “Could you look
after yourself if you were ill?” “What action would you take if you lived in a village that was being
attacked by a neighbouring tribe?” Allowing a brief period for thought, in each case I answered: “Yes!”
How was I to know what living conditions were like in a native hut in a country I didn’t know anything
about? But grandfather had always told me tales of overseas countries and adventure so I was determined
not to miss this golden opportunity. After about an hour of interrogation I was allowed to leave. “We’ll
be in touch!” was all I was told. I felt I didn’t have a hope in the world and returned to Ballarat and
fronted up at work the next day as usual, worrying myself sick that Graham or someone else, would have
phoned to see if I was ill. They were so accustomed to me being ill, nobody had worried.
With the passage of time, it is difficult to recall in detail the events that took place that summer
when 1959 melded into 1960. Fully confident that he had no future with Myer, Ron Collins left and -
together with his family - returned to England.

Aunty Elsie McGee had been trying to get me involved with a member of the opposite sex ever since I had
reached puberty. She was still trying even though I was now twenty-eight years old. She had the daughter
of friends of hers in mind and was determined to get me married off. The girl’s parents sent me an
invitation - complete with a ticket for reserved front-row lounge seating - to join them at the theatre one
evening in Melbourne for the stage presentation of the new musical spectacular My Fair Lady. I didn’t
want to go but - out of tact and consideration for the meddling aunt - I did. I was determined not to like
the show, and I hated sitting next to the daughter who, to me, had a personality rating of zilch. I would
have preferred to be on stage with professor Higgins. The show was spectacular but I was determined not
to like it, so I didn’t. Outside the theatre I thanked them as politely as I was able, declined their invitation
to supper, and left to go back to my hotel room, but on the way I was way-laid, and that made for a much
better night.

I had been offered a part in The Moon Is Blue and rehearsals were at an advanced stage when I was
awakened by an early morning call one day early in May of 1961: “Are you still interested in that
teaching job in New Guinea?” Somewhat stunned and stupid from sleep, I replied that I was. “Can you
be ready to depart Australia on Monday of next week?” Whew … next Monday? I had so much on my
plate as far as activities were concerned. “Yes!” I replied.
“Mum!” I called, “I’ve been accepted for that teaching job in New Guinea!”

I walked to work that morning and told Graham that I would be leaving at the end of the week. He told
me to sit in his office and think it over until I could talk sense and left me there, alone with my thoughts.
When he returned I assured him that I would be leaving … nobody in their wildest dreams could have ever
imagined that I would ever leave Ballarat.

I had to cancel The Moon is Blue rehearsals with the Little Theatre.
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I had to resign from Apex.

I had so many friends to say goodbye to.
The only thing I hadn’t considered was the most important one of all - Mum! But it had been Mum
who had talked me into applying for the position in the first place.

I contacted Pat - the mother of my god-son - to tell her what I had done. My main concern was the heat, as
at school we had been taught that the tropics were always hot. I was a winter lover and did not like Ballarat
summers at all. As Pat had lived in Malta she assured me that I would like the climate, and assured me that
the tropics were always warm, not hot.

This brings us to where, at the end of my last day at Myer - a very emotional time - Mr W. Gordon Smith,
in his farewell speech to me, had said: "No matter where in the world you go, you'll meet someone who was
either born in Ballarat, or someone who has lived there!” How true those words have been. I didn’t realise
at the time that they would come back to me years later, on the other side of the world.
Pearce Morgan, manager of the Fashion Department, told me that when I felt like returning to
Australia after my two-year contract, the job of Manager of the Fashion Department would be mine if I
wanted it. It was something nice to think about - I would have dearly loved the job - but I stayed in Papua
New Guinea for twenty-seven years instead of two. Pearce had died in the meantime and I was far too old -
and far too divorced from the fashion world - for the position by time I returned.
That week after resigning from work was not good. I worked every day and attended a farewell
party every solitary night for the entire week. I was tired out - I was exhausted - and felt I had a slight case
of alcoholic poisoning. Did I really want to go to some unknown country where I knew nobody? How
would Mum survive? And what about my beloved Barry? My artistic, tanned, bodybuilding, Harry
Belafonte look-alike Barry, with whom I had spent so much of my time. I was terribly confused, and the
situation got worse with each heavy night and each passing day. He was thrilled for me while I was
worried for him. Friends were congratulating me for having the guts to get out and go. Aunty Alice phoned
to tell me she had never known such a selfish and ungrateful son.
I penned a hurried note to Barry, the contents of which have never been shared with anyone until
now but, as the words have been burned so indelibly in my mind since 1961, I would like to share them
with you. The body of the note read:
No matter where you go in the world, no matter who you are with, I want you to know that no-one
will ever love you as much as I do right now.
I put it in a sealed, stamped and addressed envelope that I gave to Mum to either mail or give to
Barry personally, after I had departed Australia.

All packed up and ready to go, Barry came running up the stairs - he handed me a white envelope and told
me not to open it until I was on the ‘plane.
John drove Beve, Mum, Aunty Elsie and me to Tullamarine Airport where I was met by a
representative from the Department of Foreign Affairs who gave me my airline ticket, and a few papers,
and wished me well. I then proceeded to the Departures desk, deposited my 40 lbs (18kg) allowance of
luggage and received my departure card with seat allocation. My Melbourne relations were all there to
farewell me as well. As I had traces of a cold coming on Aunty Elsie gave me a packet of tissues to use,
saying that I could throw them out the window after use. That woman was so terribly, terribly ordinary!

I left the departure area and walked out across the tarmac - with my entire savings of £40 in my pocket - to
the waiting plane, never once turning my head, and waved goodbye over my shoulder as I walked. I didn’t
want anyone to see the tears.
When I was finally seated, I opened Barry’s envelope - inside was a photo of himself, standing
ankle deep in the ocean, holding his surfboard, with a short, simple, meaningful dedication on the reverse.

I cried as I read the inscription: “To Graeme, with best wishes always. Your pal, Barry. 1961” He
meant so much to me. What had I done to my life?

I left Australia at the age of twenty-eight without ever having the chance to say ‘goodbye’ to Dorothy.
 295

“To Graeme, With best wishes always.

Your pal, Barry. 1961”
296
 297

THE TERRITORY OF PAPUA & NEW GUINEA 1961

With tears in my eyes at the thought of leaving, I sat in the ‘plane, wondering what I had done to my
idyllic lifestyle. Ahead lay the unknown. “I said to the man who stood at the Gate of the Year give me a
light so that I may see into the unknown …” In a way, it was frightening. I had left behind everything
and everybody I knew - everything that was familiar to me - everyone that I loved and, with an underlying
element of nervous excitement, I was heading towards a whole new life. In order to take my mind off
myself momentarily I rummaged in the seat pocket and found a map of The Territory of Papua & New
Guinea. My ticket told that I was flying to Port Moresby with a connecting flight to Rabaul - pronounced
ra’bowel. Rabaul? I had heard of it, but had no idea where it was exactly. With the map in front of me I
began my search at a mid-way point on the north coast, then traced down around the sharp point at the
right-hand end and around to Port Moresby … Rabaul was nowhere there. I followed further around the
south coast until I reached a dotted line that was the border with West New Guinea. Back to my starting
point, tracing my way westwards along the north coast. Not there either! Things were getting desperate!
I traced northwards around an island called New Britain and there, right up near the upper-right corner of
the map was Rabaul. I suddenly realised I didn’t want to go there - it was too far from home - so very far
from home. It was a long, long way!
We had departed Melbourne late on a Monday morning and touched down in Port Moresby the
following morning. I have no recollection of any landings, if any, along the way … my brain was
befuddled. The aircraft was a slow, lumbering, propeller-driven Fokker Friendship.

As I walked across the tarmac towards the terminal at Port Moresby, I decided Pat had been wrong. Not
only was it hot, it was a steaming hell. I felt it would have been easier to drink the air than breathe it!
Jackson’s Airport was a corrugated iron shed, with a table at the back where ladies of the Country
Women’s Association were giving out free tea, coffee, and biscuits. Had there been a flight to Australia
waiting at the terminal I would have gladly taken it and gone home again … two-year contract or not. As
I was considering my options the call came for passengers to board the flight to Rabaul - a much smaller
‘plane this time - a small, twin-engine, noisy, un-airpressured Cessna that had side-saddle seating … a
canvas seat running lengthwise along either side of the ‘plane with luggage and cargo stored on the floor
in the space between our feet. It was extremely draughty and very cold. We flew from Port Moresby,
northeastwards over the Solomon Sea towards my final destination.
Arriving at the small airport of Rabaul was an interesting experience. The aircraft banked sharply
and suddenly turned left. As it did so, I looked directly down into the yellowish crater of a smoking
volcano … Matupit - pronounced Matapee. In the middle of the crater’s floor was an awful act of
vandalism … a famous Australian rock band of the time had used lumps of dark earth and small rocks to
spell out their name. Sheer vandalism! We landed smoothly enough and taxied to a stop at the small
terminal building. I knew I was going to like Rabaul from the moment my feet touched the tarmac and I
smelled the air. Pat’s words came back to me again, when she had assured me that I would like the
climate. Rabaul wasn’t anywhere near as steamy as Port Moresby. That had been an unpleasant, isolated
unwelcome.

Rabaul was the chief town on the Gazelle Peninsula at the northern tip of the island of New Britain. Until
1941 it had been the capital of the Territory of New Guinea, and had been evacuated in 1937 because of a
volcanic eruption and heavily bombed by the Japanese during World War II. The town was built in the
caldera of a volcano … one side of which had collapsed during an eruption, allowing the waters of St
George’s channel to flow in, creating Simpson Harbour … a haven for Japanese shipping during that
terrible war.
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We were met at Rabaul airport by an Officer from the Education Department - all very pukka in his whites
- a code of dress that we newly recruited Public Servants had to adapt as soon as we could get to the shops
to buy ‘regimental’ clothing … white shirt, white shorts, long white socks with a free choice of shoe
colour - although white was preferred - but I felt I would have looked like my Matron aunt Alice and been
sent to work at the hospital if I wore white shoes. As it was, we all eventually looked like a team of lady
bowlers.
The air in Rabaul was an indescribably sweet’n’sour blend of aromas from the copra dryers -
copra being the dried ‘meat’ of coconuts from which coconut oil is produced - and the sulphuric steam
escaping from the nearby volcanoes; heavily scented frangipani bloomed everywhere. All these aromas
blending with the humidity could best be described as a ‘clinging’ atmosphere.

We were driven through palm-lined streets, then north on Casaurina Avenue, through the ‘downtown’ area
to Rabaul itself. We then turned left into Malaguna Road continuing along until reaching the College that
would be home for the next six months. The newly formed Malaguna Teachers’ College had practically
taken over the Technical School, the students of which had been moved to other quarters - harbourside -
while we took over their dormitory blocks. In our induction speech we learned that Rabaul had a
population of approximately 15,000. It had an aura of being a peaceful, idyllic tropical paradise. I soon
made friends - the first of whom was a young, ruddy-faced chap by the name of Eddie … Eddie
McCormack from Mansfield in Victoria ... five years my junior.

Coming from a very large and very comfortably

furnished flat in Ballarat - with total privacy to a small
six-by-twelve roomette with partitioned walls that didn’t
reach the ceiling of the large dormitory that I shared
with nineteen others - was a shock to the system.
Fortunately with the lifestyle I had led, home for me had
always been where I unpacked my bags. The first thing
to be unpacked and placed on top of my small chest-of-
drawers was a tall carving that I had made. It depicted
two embracing figures from part of the banister of the
old Town Hall Hotel when it was being demolished … I
had called it Barry and me.
L to R: Ron Duncan, Eddie McCormack, Peter Bieseman
and Graeme Ross on the steps of a dormitory at
Malaguna Teachers’ College, Rabaul, 1961 Meals were served in a communal mess ... HMAS
Cerberus all over again? ...but at Malaguna the food was
better - far better - excellent in fact, and rather than being sloshed onto metal trays, it was served at the
tables, on crockery, by staff who wore nothing other than an above-the-knee length laplap - a length of
fabric wrapped around and tucked in at the waist like a sarong. Mornings began with a breakfast of
freshly picked pawpaw (papaya) with a quarter of muli - lime or lemon, cereal, and a cooked breakfast
with toast and tea or coffee. I hadn’t had it this good since leaving the Commercial Hotel nine years
earlier!
Classrooms needed no airconditioning as the floors were raised above ground allowing a cooling
underflow of air - walls were waist-high. Above the low walls was open space making for a wonderfully
picturesque view out through palm trees to the harbour itself, with the Beehives - twin volcanic cores -
reaching up from the depths of the harbour. One day shortly after we first started, there came an ominous
rumbling that seemed to be rushing towards us from the south - the palms began to sway rhythmically -
and suddenly everything was jolted … an earthquake shook the classroom. My first time, but definitely
not the last! We had been sitting in the classroom peacefully when it struck. Amazingly nobody left their
desks … lessons continued as usual. Earthquakes - gurias - are considered an act of God - and the only
loss I suffered was a head from my carving of Barry and me. I had used my inheritance to carve it - the
pocketknife that Dad had bequeathed me. One of us had lost our head. That carving had been my link
with the past, now it was broken. The time had come to put the past behind me and start anew.
Initially our one-and-only evening out for the week was on Fridays when those so inclined would
walk the mile-or-so along Malaguna Road to the Ascot Hotel, on Casaurina Avenue. It became a habit
that after a few drinks, Eddie and I, together with a new acquaintance, John Morton would, after drinks,
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walk towards the airport to a Chinese café where our limited budget would allow for a meal of sweet and
sour wonton noodles - the least expensive value-for-money item on the menu. This habit continued until
John decided he was ‘out’ of the system … he had been offered a job with a local aircraft company and left
after refunding the £200 bond that we were each obliged to repay if we failed to fulfil our two-year
contract.
Our first session of practice-teaching was at a village school just before Kokopo, where we would
be taken by bus south, out and over a build-up of ash from the time when Vulcan had erupted in 1937. The
wheels of the bus would stir up a dense cloud of choking volcanic dust, and the earth trembled with every
vehicle that passed along the road. Just before Kokopo was a spot known as Submarine Base … a vast
tunnel in which the Japanese had been able to hide and carry out maintenance on their submarines during
the war.
With the loss of John, Eddy and I became involved in playing pool, and there were occasional
nights when we would be driven to Kokopo, where our team played.
One Sunday Eddy and I took a taxi to Matupit Island that had become connected to the harbour rim
one time when the earth moved, forming a causeway. We gave a villager a few shillings to paddle us in his
canoe to the shore of Matupit volcano where we landed. Greenery was growing on the lower slopes but as
we climbed higher, vegetation thinned and eventually became non-existent. The earth from here on was
dead, dry, white and clayish. On reaching the rim we gazed down into a scene from hell, where mud-pools
bubbled and vents gave out streams of sulphuric gases. We were looking into the depths of Dante’s
Inferno! A rope was secured at a point on the rim of the crater so we descended to the floor below. It was
warm down there … in patches far too hot to touch. We stayed long enough to scatter the rocks far and
wide - the rocks that the rock-band had used to leave their graffiti - until no trace of wording remained and
then, worrying that the shoes would be scorched off our feet, we climbed out of the crater again and
returned to the college.

Eddy received word that his father had died of a heart attack. Mrs McCormack requested he not fly down
for the funeral as there was no possibility that he would get to Mansfield, Victoria in time and, as she had
two other sons and a daughter nearby, she would prefer him not to break his studies. He was devastated …
we would go for walks, outside the college grounds at night, in silence. It was always pitch black in the
street outside the rear entrance, nothing other than twinkling stars, and occasional specks of street lighting
could be seen through the leaves of the surrounding trees. We would occasionally get a surprise when we
heard “Night Masta!” a greeting in the blackness from an unseen person walking silently on bare feet, who
melted into the night.
This brings me to the point where one day, after a shopping trip alone in town, I needed to get back
to the college in a hurry and was having difficulty getting the non-English-speaking taxi driver to
understand where I wanted to go. A young Manus Island student named Luke - from St Mary’s High
School at nearby Nordup - asked if I needed help. I explained my problem and was somewhat alarmed
when I heard him give the instructions: “Kisim masta igo long arse-end long college.” I didn’t think that
was what I actually wanted at the time but climbed in with my shopping and off we went - driver and I. He
dropped me off at the rear entrance of the college. I later learned the translation of the command was: Take
the master to the back entrance of the college! That wasn’t what I thought I had heard ... something
disgustingly naughty and socially unacceptable!
Meanwhile, back in college, sitting one-to-a-desk with a lecturer and blackboard ahead … I was,
after fifteen years of working, a student once again … a strange experience but one to which I readily
adapted. We had a different lecturer for each subject, and all the subjects one would expect at a teachers’
college: In English, I excelled; Mathematics, passable; Environmental Studies, not bad; Sport - damn-it-all
- hopeless; Spelling, brilliant; Music, rather good, and with Blackboard Work … I was the first-known
student to achieve a 100% pass. Fred was our Music teacher and everyone loved him. I quite
unintentionally nearly caused the death of Fred one day when, at question time towards the end of the
lesson, he asked: “Any queries?” I shot my hand up: “Yes, me!” I thought he’d have a heart attack! He
very nearly died laughing …

Fred taught each of us how to play the recorder … some of us average, and some definitely poor. Gretel,
our prep teacher, would have us sit on the floor singing songs like Itsy bitsy spider, and The wheels of the
bus go round and round, round and round, round and round … bouncing up and down as we jogged along
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in our imaginary bus, accompanied by some seriously good demonstrations of steering. We learned how to
be children again, and to think at that level. For some, that wasn’t at all difficult. In later years I would -
using that same recorder - teach over ninety male students to sing, in six-part harmony - The Riff Song, and
Sleepy Lagoon to name two. Their combined voices were sensational!

It was a six-months period of extremely long days, hard work and - for the first time in my life - I had to
study … really study! I was determined not to fail and have to return to Ballarat. I couldn’t bear the
thought of the shame of failure!
One day during our first month of training, just after class had finished for the day and all had
returned to their cubicles, commonly referred to as rooms, I was sitting, studying, when I heard what
sounded like gunshots. Others came running, all asking the same question: “What was that?” Another
volley, followed by another - the more inquisitive among us ran to the main entrance then around and -
when we reached the corner at Malaguna Road - we could see an angry mob with hundreds of Highlanders
storming in our direction. A shot was fired; I saw a native woman fall to the footpath. I ran back to my
room and sat at my small portable, manual typewriter, giving Mum a first-hand account from the war zone
but - as there was no Internet at the time, and mail took more than a week to get to Ballarat - all I was
actually doing was entertaining myself and keeping out of harm’s way. As the college was across the street
from the Shell fuel depot - and nobody was sure what was likely to happen - an order came to evacuate the
college in case the depot was sabotaged. I continued tapping at the keys, keeping Mum up to date. It was
the fist time I had witnessed the shooting of a fellow human being. The excitement was short lived,
however, as it had been just a regular occurrence, a normal, day-by-day routine outburst of hostilities - a
letting-off of steam between Highlanders and Sepik labourers. This time because a Highlander had tickled
a Sepik woman on the bum - so we were told - in the market. No account was given as to what he had
tickled her with. This sure was going to be an exciting place to live! Airline posters would one day carry
the banner heading: ‘Papua New Guinea … the land of the unexpected!’ I was to learn that those posters
didn’t lie.

One day, as a break from studies, we were all being taken on a cruise to the nearby Duke of York Islands in
the St George’s Channel that separated New Britain from New Ireland. During the evening of the night
before the cruise a few of us decided on a foot race into town - about one mile - to the New Britain Club
where there was a swimming pool. First in wins! I was first to reach the pool but, unable to find the light
switch in the darkness, and being determined to be first in the pool, I stripped down to my undies and did a
near-perfect swallow dive into the deep end. A few days later I was told that I called: “Don’t come in,
fellers … there’s no water!” a split second before crashing head first into the concrete bottom of the pool.
I awoke next morning to find myself in the Namanula Hospital where the Matron - whose brother
had become a paraplegic as the result of a similar accident - was fussing over me like a mother hen, and a
delightful young Tolai boi - a native of the area - was sitting at the foot of the bed, holding the big toe of
my left foot. He would leave that position only to walk down into town to buy me lollies, or to sleep. One
thing he would not do, was bring me a mirror. On my fourth day I managed to get my hands on a small one
and saw what appeared to be a face, with two bloodshot eyes showing in a panel of dried, black blood.
That, and a broken nose, was all I had to show for my achievement in winning the race. I was very, very
lucky as I suffered no serious injuries and spent a week in hospital - I never did get to see the Duke of York
Islands!

One of the students, Howard Mason, did something I would never have thought of - he chartered a ‘plane.
That was beyond my range of comprehension at the time. He chartered one that took a group of us from
Rabaul to the first-ever Mount Hagen Show in the Western Highlands of New Guinea. Thousands of
Highlanders had walked for many days, down deep valleys, through rivers and over high mountains to
participate in this inaugural event. Many had never before seen white people. The beat of kundus and the
chanting of thousands of voices, droned out across the rugged terrain. Hundreds of Birds of Paradise had
been slaughtered to create the highly colorful, exotic headdresses. There were thousands of ornate spears
and the fascinating Hagen axes, with lines of dancers performing their peculiar, rhythmic bobbing motions -
lines so long that they eventually became lost in the surrounding crowds. Their black bodies, glistening in
the sunlight, made even blacker with the applications of pig-fat that they used to keep the cold night air
from their almost completely naked, muscular bodies. Wide bark belts held loincloths that ran between the
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legs and were tucked up between the belt and body at front and back then draped over the belt to protect
their modesty. At the back they had - arse-grass - a bush plant would often be tucked upwards under the
belt, with the leaves hanging to presumably keep the flies at bay. The stench of the pig grease was
beyond belief in the heat of the day! Seeing that show was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that I am so
fortunate to have witnessed. We slept in tents that night and flew back to Rabaul late the following
afternoon.

There were three rules that all were ordered to abide by - No. 1: fraternising with, or supplying alcohol to
the natives, was discouraged; No 2: visiting the Kuo Min Tang Club in the Asian part of town was
definitely taboo; and No 3 was a definite no-no - contact with single females was absolutely forbidden. I
noticed there was no ban on contact with males. A locally based lady doctor, Dr Clifton-Bassett,
condemned the government for bringing so many single and presumably over-sexed young men to the
country and banning any form of contact with the local ‘maidens’. She claimed that it could only lead to
undesirable practices within the community, and suggested that some form of amendment should be
made. I could see nothing wrong with the law as it was, but I had always been such a law-abiding young
gentleman.
Some evenings we - Eddie and I - would buy a carton of beer and, under cover of darkness,
smuggle it to a nearby slipway where fishing craft were repaired by native labourers. It was illegal, so
we had to do it! The other was the Kuo Min Tang Club - a place we would never have dreamed of
visiting until we knew it was illegal to do so - but we never did return there - a most undesirable horde of
roughneck, scruffy, Asian labourers, seamen and peasants, many of whom were no doubt crew on
visiting shipping. We were rebels, ahead of our time! That was two of the forbidden rules taken care of
… neither of us was in the least bit interested in breaking the third. I intended trying everything in life
once and - if I liked it - I was prepared to go along for the ride and follow the Mortein advice… When
you’re onto a good thing, stick to it!

Some Sundays after mass I would join Eddie to sit and talk with Father Francke, a most interesting
elderly individual who had lived in the country for many years. Other times would be spent walking,
climbing and exploring the high hills that formed part of the northern section of the caldera, where the
underground seismographic station with its sensitive equipment for recording all volcanic activity was
situated. To the left of Tunnel Hill Road was the more interesting section where, after walking through
native gardens where many previously unheard-of foods grew in profusion - pawpaw, bananas, yams,
taro - I was amazed to see native children picking and eating cucumber, direct from the garden. I had
always been brought up to believe that unless it was peeled, scraped with a fork, and most often steeped
in vinegar, it was poisonous. We would climb high into the dense undergrowth to places that were
riddled with tunnels that had been dug by the Japanese during occupation. I became friendly with a
young Tolai lad who - if Eddie was unavailable - would accompany me in my exploration of the unlit
tunnels where, at times, we would have to hold hands and feel our way along the walls until a speck of
light appeared. It was an uncanny feeling to realise that not all that many years ago these very tunnels
had been home to countless enemy Japanese soldiers.
We discovered wrecks of aircraft that had been shot down during the war, and the remains of
anti-aircraft guns rusting in the dense foliage. Down on the other side of this range was the village of
Nordup, and St Mary’s High School where Luke was a boarding student. Occasionally I would carry my
newly purchased battery-operated portable stereo record player - with detachable speakers - the first of
its kind in the country. We would take a few records, a picnic lunch and our snorkels, and spend hours
sitting on the sand in the shade of a palm tree or frolicking in the warm, crystal clear waters of the
Bismarck Sea where a multitude of colorful corals and fish abounded. There was also the submerged
wreck of an aircraft, completely encrusted with coral. On most Sundays a small group would gather,
always with the particularly well spoken Luke, whose English was excellent. Then, as the afternoon
drew to a close, we would have to gather our bits and pieces, climb up and over the range again, and
return to college. This was life as I had never expected it could possibly be.
December was rapidly approaching, bringing with it Presentation Day and the closure of ‘E’
Course - as we were known. The pressure was on our music teacher/choirmaster Fred, and his rag-tag
choir, to present a stirring rendition of what we considered was a most inappropriate song for the
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occasion - Going Home! That was the last thing in the world any of us wanted to do after six months of
such intensive training and study.

We were asked to select the District to which we wished to be posted, but our choice could not be
guaranteed ... all so very like the days leading up to National Service, ten years previously. Eddie and I
decided that we wanted to get as far away as possible from Australia. We studied the map of the Territory
and there we found it - right up at the very top - two degrees south of the Equator, the largest island in the
Admiralty group of islands was Manus - pronounced maa-nus. We both agreed that would be our
destination, and it was.
Five out of the twenty on the course were posted to Manus Island where we were expected to
complete our two-year contracts. Before departing Rabaul we were told that we would not have any
electricity so I bought the ultimate kitchen appliance, a gas operated bench-top cooker, with two burners
and grill, and two gas cylinders. With my battery-operated stereo player, gas cooker, and a ball-type
typewriter, I was ready for anything the world could throw at me. My new adventure was about to begin.
If we had any ideas of being close to each other on the island, we were mistaken, as the island of
Manus was about fifty miles long and averaged seven miles wide, with only one short road … we would be
scattered at various locations around the island of Manus itself, and out to remote surrounding islands.

The little known Admiralty Islands are a group of about forty islands, forming the northernmost District of
what was then known as The Territory of Papua & New Guinea in the Bismarck Archipelago, the country
would - after Independence - be renamed Papua New Guinea.
None of this was known to us at the time when we came to a stop, adjacent to the tiniest airport
terminal I had ever seen … to be perfectly honest I hadn’t seen all that many airports before - Melbourne,
Cairns, Sydney, Brisbane, Port Moresby, Rabaul, and now Momote on Los Negros Island, somewhere in
the South Pacific Ocean. Los Negros was connected to the main island by a short bridge across a narrow
channel. Lorengau was the only township in the District.

After all the grilling and questioning in Melbourne in 1960, and the extreme spit-and-polish during the
course at Malaguna, I was fully prepared to enter the world of the Colonial elite. We were somewhat
shocked when we were met by a particularly scruffy, permanently pissed person named Percy - Percy
Jensen - the District Inspector of Education, who ordered four of us into the back of a waiting Jeep …
Esther Strunk, one of two female missionaries on the course was allowed to sit in front with Mr Jensen.
The rest of us sat in the tray at the back.
At the time there was only one road, a coronus - crushed coral - road in the entire District. We had
a most uncomfortable hot and dusty trip along the road that ran from Momote, across a bridge at Loniu
Passage to the main island of Manus, winding our way beside beautiful palm-fringed beaches, at one stage
past towering cliffs on the inland side of the road, up and over hills, then finally down to the township of
Lorengau, then on to the end of the road at an Evangelical Mission. Others from the Mission were waiting
for Esther - then we four were taken back to Lorengau to the home of Mr Jensen and his wife. Two - Gus
and Klaus - shared one room while Eddie and I slept on mattresses on the floor. Mrs Jensen prepared an
excellent dinner after which, because power went off at 10 p.m. in Lorengau, we quietly went to our beds.
When we awakened on our first Manus morning we were met by Mrs Jensen, with bags at the
ready, waiting to say “goodbye” as she was leaving … she never returned! After breakfast we were taken
down to the administration centre that consisted of a few buildings left over from the war … a small
primary school, post office, police station, and one large quonset hut for the heads of various government
departments, where we were welcomed by the District Commissioner, Mr Jim O’Malley. Then we met the
effervescent Mrs Stephanie Reason, secretary to Mr Jensen. These were to become my most frequently
associated-with people for the next seven years.
Percy hadn’t done his homework very well … schools had closed for the year, and here he was,
burdened with four freshly trained and anxious teachers, bursting at the seams with energetic anticipation,
and no schools to send them to. The very eccentric Gus - Gustave - was sent to the village of Pere of
anthropologist Margaret Mead fame - on the south coast. She wrote a book about that tiny village with the
particularly misleading title of Growing up in New Guinea based on her findings from living in that one
tiny village on the southern coast of a very remote island. Klaus was sent to the extreme isolation of
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M’Buke Island, several miles off the south coast, so isolated in fact that he almost went insane, and was
the only one the of the four of us to be sent away for evaluation, and eventually be issued with a
Certificate of Sanity. Eddie and I were packed off on a small coastal boat to the island of Baluan, also off
the south coast, where we were to stay with Bob, the resident teacher who hadn’t expected us, or planned
on having uninvited guests, and his food supply was running low. Eddie and I found ourselves unwanted,
living in the greatest isolation we had even known, with no electricity - TV was unheard of in those days -
we were not welcome, we had no food, no contact with the outside world, and no reading matter either. I
found some pasteboard at the school that I cut into fifty-two 3.5” x 2.5” rectangles, hand-drawing all
necessary details so as to create a deck of cards with which to entertain ourselves.

While we were on that island we met with Paliau Maloat, the leader of the infamous Cargo Cult, a thorn in
the side of the Missions and government officialdom alike. He had a great following of devotees who,
under his instructions, built large houses to hold all the cargo in which - if they followed him - all the
cargo that the white men had been diverting from the native population, and keeping for themselves,
would miraculously be deposited at night. Everything that the White Man had would one day be theirs
without working for it. He was a very big man in the eyes of his people.
Everything was new to us and - as we had loads of spare time - we would go walking each day, on
foot tracks through the native gardens, smelling strongly of the daka vine - the green pepper plant that is
used for chewing with betelnut - to the spot at the eastern tip of the island where further passage was
impossible, as that was where the path ended. One evening the village people - not those Village People -
put on a special feast for Eddie and me. We were seated at a card table with the only two chairs in sight,
feeling like complete asses. We were entertained by singing and dancing - both particularly
unentertaining - and then presented with plates holding nothing other than plain cooked taro. We tried to
eat as a sign of appreciation but just couldn’t get it down.
Two days before Christmas a boat came to take us back to Lorengau where we were put into a
one-man donga to stay. We really didn’t know anyone well enough to get an invitation to Christmas
dinner and so, as Lorengau had three shops - two Chinese stores and an Edgell and Whiteley one - we
went shopping and managed to buy a frozen chicken and a primus stove. Somehow we managed to cook
the chicken on the primus. Christmas morning was spent playing patience with my homemade deck of
cards. At noon we shook hands and wished each other a Merry Christmas, then massacred the chicken
with our bare hands and went back to playing cards. Since that day - Christmas has never had any
particular meaning for me - except for memories such as these.
Being stuck in Lorengau, the days were passing by with meaningless regularity. We walked out
to the Evangelical Mission at road’s end one day where Esther invited us to stay to dinner … after which
we were subjected to shocking boredom where everyone sat in a circle around the walls, on straight-
backed wooden chairs. Conversation was strained and stilted until Eddie noticed a dog in the centre of the
room, scratching itself with its hind leg. Making an effort to start a conversation, Eddie remarked: “Isn’t
it amazing what a dog can do that people can’t?” All eyes turned to the dog that - by this time - had
turned its attention to licking its privates. Nobody said a word. There was a stony silence. In absolute
embarrassment the two of us excused ourselves and walked back to Lorengau in the darkness, chuckling
all the way.
Eddie managed to get out to his school on the island of Loamat while I, with only about fourteen
miles to travel along the north coast, could not get transport. I was the only one of the new trainees that
had been unable to get to his school. One day I had a remarkable stroke of good luck when I happened
upon Luke, who had helped me with the taxi in Rabaul, in the street … I told him my problem. He went
to Paliau who had his own canoe tied up in the river. I told him of my boredom and disappointment at not
being able to get to my new school at Liap … that was just what he wanted, a chance to show what he
could do to help in times of need and humiliate the administrators who sat on their butts and
procrastinated. He arranged with Luke to take his canoe and me to Liap. Although it was a large canoe I
felt very unsure as my possessions were loaded on board … all my personal possessions and household
furniture, together with bed, dining table and chairs, a copper, all my food for six weeks, and a kerosene
operated refrigerator. Loading was finalised just as the sun set in the west … out beyond where I knew
my home was waiting for me.
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I had a feeling of excited uneasiness as the canoe was pushed out into the blackness of night. I was
concerned about the craft overturning or sinking with the heavy load it carried, and could imagine all my
possessions sinking into the depths of Seadler - German for sea eagle - Harbour. All I could see when
looking towards land was the blacker than black silhouette of mountains set against a background of deep
charcoal sky and ocean. I was aware that I didn’t know Luke all that well … I wondered at Paliau’s
feelings towards intruding white men, and could not fathom how anyone could know their location in that
inky blackness. Luke told me to keep looking towards the coast to see if I could spot a small whitish
building that resembled a house. Then, amongst much shouting, we turned sharply left, riding on the crest
of a wave that took us at breakneck speed surging over the reef, beaching us on the shore. All hands
manhandled the heavy cargo ashore, putting whatever they could indoors. In amongst my possessions I
found my pressure lamp and managed to light it. The first thing to organise was the gas stove, soon we had
a kettle of hot water boiling for tea, although cups were very scarce until more unpacking could be done.
Luke and friends organised and lit the refrigerator for me, and assisted with the unpacking of my store of
freezer goods that would have to last until a supply boat came in six weeks time.

I slept the night on a bare mattress while everyone else curled up on the concrete floor. At first light my
helpers wished me well and departed. Before leaving, Luke stood at my front windows and pointed to his
island of Ahus, directly across the placid waters of Seadler Harbour to the north. That was where he was
born, raised and lived until going to the Mission School at Nordup.
After my helpers had left me, I spent the day unpacking and organising my worldly possessions
before going out to explore my surroundings. My small, two roomed, unlined, unpainted fibro house was
set less that ten paces from the beach in a virtual garden of Eden. About the same distance to the left, at the
back, was an accidentally self-flushing pit toilet that - quite by accident - filled with water at high tide and
drained at low tide. A small school consisting of two bush material classrooms was about fifty yards to the
west, and a small freshwater river ran down from the mountains, directly towards the bay, where it turned
and flowed a short distance parallel to the coast behind the school, before turning again and flowing into the
open sea.
The tide was low and so I spent some time collecting shells in the shallow water, then as
the tide began to rise I had to leap from coral head to coral head with my collected treasures … all went
well until three or four fins came swimming towards me; I yelled and pelted all my collected shells at the
fins and raced home.

The day passed by in blissful peace. That night was somewhat unnerving as, for the first time ever,
I was seemingly, absolutely alone. The large floor-to-ceiling louvered windows in both rooms were
without curtains, and to avoid anyone looking in I would turn out the light and sit in the darkness with my
transistor radio my only connection with the outside world. Unfortunately for me, I had seen Psycho
shortly before leaving Australia and found my first night very scary trying to sleep under a mosquito net.
At times there were muffled voices passing by outside and I could see dark figures walking by, silhouetted
against the moonlit waters of the harbour .

The village of Liap was at that time situated a mile or so to the west, on a narrow sandy spit. It was a very
pleasant walk along a one-man-wide track through the palms, and eventually opened onto a wide sweeping
curved beach with steeply sloping sands that formed a sort of velodrome. At one stage I came across a
toddler walking ahead of its mother … when the child saw me it shuddered, froze, screamed and ran
shrieking back to its mother, arms wrapped around her legs. It had never seen a white person before. As
neither of us spoke the language of the other we could do no more than smile and wave a friendly greeting
in passing - the child still screaming in terror. In the village I met some of the elders and there was great
excitement as I was the first white teacher they had seen since the one who had lived in the area before the
war. Parents emerged from their thatched houses to meet me, while children huddled behind their mothers,
not knowing what to think of this ghost that had appeared in their midst.
My assistant teacher, Theo ToWarkia - a Tolai from the Rabaul area - arrived with his wife and
three children, the oldest two - both girls, were school age while the son, Albert was a mere infant. Theo
had already been teaching at Liap for a couple of years and his knowledge of the locals was invaluable.
Initially we had a young female teacher who looked after the Preps and, unfortunately, many of the
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village men after hours. All the school children were aware of her nocturnal activities and, although it
caused much amusement, I wasn’t amused and had to have her transferred. This left just Theo and his
family and me.
Aware of my family trait of drinking, I had made a self-imposed law whereby I would not have
any alcohol in the house. This would make me very unpopular with any visiting Patrol Officers who
complained to the hierarchy in Lorengau that I would never offer them anything other than tea or coffee to
drink. That suited me fine as I only needed occasional callers who came to see me for myself, and not
freeloaders who came only for the grog. I was fully aware of the law that forbade natives to drink.
Strangely - one evening Theo invited me to his house and it was he who offered me a drink - he
was apparently testing me. He passed me a glass, we clicked glasses, I took a mouthful and spluttered,
“What’s in this?” He apologised for not having much beer on hand - he had to dilute the little he had with
equal parts of salt water and methylated spirits. That was the first, last and only drink we shared!

In January of 1962 enrolment day came along, and with it the problem of working out names of
prospective students as only the older children who had been attending school spoke any English. As all
the littlies had similar haircuts, and all were so damned gorgeous, it was impossible to work out what sex
they were without having to rausim laplap - as we had been taught to do at college. Fortunately Theo was
an old hand at that. Also, until this time, very few of the native children had two names … Theo helped
me work out our own version of how names would be spelt, then he would try to ascertain which they
preferred, father’s name - or grandfather’s - as a surname.
We divided the children into two groups … he took the three junior grades and I the three senior
grades. Anyone obviously above what we took to be about fifteen years of age was sent home. Some of
the older students were in their late teens and early twenties and had no hope whatsoever of coping with a
school environment. It was not an easy decision to make as all were desperate to learn, and all had hopes
that the great white master would impart his worldly knowledge to them.
These were wonderful days, and with every word they uttered in English, I knew I was
responsible for having taught it. Theo’s command of the language was about Grade Three level.

Mum flew up mid-year - I met her at Momote- but didn’t recognise her until she was inside the terminal
building. She was the only white woman to disembark. In a little over twelve months she had aged
dramatically, lost a lot of weight, and was very gaunt. The Liap villagers had built a very nice bush
material house for her in the school grounds, about twenty yards from my place. She adapted readily to
her new home and had no fear of the occasional snake that took shelter in her house. There was one
morning after she had washed her hair and had it up in huge multi-coloured plastic rollers … one of the
little girls ran to her and said, “Oh, Mrs Ross … you have such pretty hair!” Sadly for me, Mum’s visit
was only for a few months as she was offered the position of housekeeper for the recently widowed
District Inspector, Frank Boisen, to care for his daughter in Rabaul. Aunty Ivy arrived a week or so after
Mum had departed as she thought it would be nice to spend some time with Mum … she was awfully
upset to find, after having travelled so far, that Mum was no longer with me. Ivy stayed in Mum’s house
and returned to Australia when I went South at the end of the school year. We picked Mum up in Rabaul
and took her to Melbourne.

There was drama one day when Theo learned that some of the village children had eaten a cuscus, and had
washed their hands at the school’s water tank. Theo was almost beside himself … he was crying because
he was certain that if his own children drank from that same tank, where cuscus eaters had washed their
hands, they would become ill and die. By taking a bowl of water from my home tank and setting it near
the school tank where everyone could wash their hands, I worked a little magic to overcome the drama. A
simple matter of pouring a little Dettol into the bowl, and letting Theo see the power of my magic as the
water turned white - it did the trick. Everyone washed their hands in my magic potion, the spell was
broken ... his children lived.
One Saturday my off-sider suggested that we take the children on an excursion inland, upstream
to the waterfall. It was rugged going. Most of the way we had to walk in the river itself, climbing and
tripping over slippery rocks and dodging overhanging vines. Eventually we came upon a wonderful sight
… a sparkling pool of the freshest water possible, with a waterfall that fell some thirty feet into it. Being
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young and adventurous I couldn’t resist the urge to climb to the top on the falls - that’s where I slipped
and fell, splashing into the water below. I had previously told Theo that I couldn’t swim. All and sundry
dived in to drag me ashore, with Theo almost beside himself, saying over and over, “I’m sorry Mr Ross,
I’m sorry Sir!” until I told him not to worry as no-one would hold him responsible. “It’s not that, Mr
Ross,” he said, “Where would we find another European teacher?”

I found I was responsible for submitting reports on teachers at neighbouring schools as well as mine. One
in particular was of interest as he was teacher No. 2 in New Guinea - an old timer named John Pusahai -
who was in charge of the small school at Lowa. I enjoyed the walk to Lowa, following our small river
upstream a little, then through a huge area of an overgrown pineapple plantation where the fruit grew like
weeds, through an old experimental coffee plantation, and a grove of bamboo - an area that the natives
wouldn’t go anywhere near after dark as they thought it was inhabited by evil spirits due to the cracking
sound the bamboo made at night.
On this, my first official visit to the school, I arrived to find all children sitting regimentally at
their desks, looking vacantly at a blackboard set out with the day’s lessons, all of which was for students
of far more senior years. The Preps, for instance, in their first year of school, had a board full of Spelling
and Mathematics suitable for about Grade IV. Each student had a book and pencil and had no idea what
to do with either other than scribble. John was giving a Social Studies lesson on soos … it had me
fascinated. Soos … I had never heard the word, maybe it was something in his own dialect. Then he
asked me if we kept people in soos in Australia, as we did other animals. It was then that I realised he
meant zoos. How does one evaluate such a teacher? And how could the children be expected to learn
from him? He invited me to his house for tea and to meet his wife I noticed several inches of cheques
spiked on a six-inch nail on the wall. I asked why, and he told me they were for his old age. He had never
cashed one cheque since he began teaching, and had no idea that - at that time - cheques were invalid after
six months. I suggested he needed a radio to keep abreast with current affairs and he said, “We don’t need
a radio Sir, we got a sewing machine!” Prestige was all important in the lives of Manus Islanders … a
sewing machine was their status symbol, making him a leader in the eyes of the local people.

My friend Ken, who I had first met outside the Hotel London eleven years previously came to stay awhile.
Unfortunately he developed a virulent form of dengue fever - Ross River fever - and has been in ill health
ever since. Fifty-five years after our first meeting, we are still in touch.
Ever since leaving Australia, Barry and I had maintained regular correspondence … he even
suggested that I visit him in England. I was giving the matter serious consideration when I heard from a
friend in Melbourne who had seen Barry - he was living back in Melbourne - address unknown! I flew
down to Melbourne hoping to find him and eventually located him working in an outlet store in South
Yarra - he looked terrible, his beautiful olive complexion was all red and blotchy. He said there would be
a letter awaiting me when I arrived back on Manus … the letter never came. Years later I received word
that he had died of an AIDS-related illness at the home of his parents in Ballarat.

I had little time to converse in adult English and as my transistor radio had gone to God - as Eddie would
say - and I couldn’t hear any English either. I had no idea what was going on in the world outside the
school area. I had heard that vague tales of Indonesia taking over West New Guinea. If there was a war, I
was unaware of it, but at night I could hear loud, distant booming that I took to be bombing or fighting. It
turned out to be nothing more sinister than the Bismark Sea crashing onto the outer reef.
The children of Manus Island were delightful in their innocence - one morning I was asked if I
had come to Australia in a sailing ship - another little one wanted to know how people could get into those
little airplanes that they had seen only as tiny specks in the sky when flying high overhead. And there was
an unforgettable classic during a morning talk when a small girl stood up and, in her very best English,
proudly said, “When I was walking to school this morning, I saw a woman pissing on the beach!” Very
good, Melien! Everyone give Melien a clap, please!

All expatriates were expected to employ native staff as a way of boosting the financial situation of the
local economy - I found a wizened little weed of a fellow named Sehi in Liap village whose teeth were
blackened from years of betelnut, lime and daka chewing. He had a perpetual drool of red saliva and was
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a quick-talking confidence man through and through. His daughter was the one I had to get rid of due
to her nocturnal activities. A few little tales: Once, when I complained to Sehi of betelnut stains on
my clothes, he assured me that he didn’t chew betelnut … the birds did! He had seen them flying over
the clothesline, spitting it out as they flew overhead. There was another time when my supply of
canned meat was being rapidly depleted. Walking in the back door one day I noticed him walking out
the front door with two cans … “Hey, yupela kisim kaikai igo go long wanem hap? “Hey, where are
you taking that?” I asked. “Mipela I bin putim igo long hot san, na san i bin kukim liklik!” “I’m
putting it in the sun to make it a little bit hot!”
Another morning talk, this time by one of Sehi’s many children: “I like eating onion! I never
ate onion until Mr Ross came to this school!” So that’s where my onions were getting to! Another
morning talk: “I like sugar in my tea. I had never had sugar in my tea until my father started to work
for Mr Ross!”
Kids say the darndest things! Mrs Byrne, of Edgell and Whiteley asked how it was that I, who
claimed to seldom use sugar, was using more than any family in Lorengau? And speaking of Mrs
Byrne -the mother of our present Mayor of Cairns - she spread the story far and wide of the time I had
sent one of my six-weekly orders to the store ordering a quantity of toilet paper … ‘non-skid,
preferably’. She found it amusing, but I was dead serious - I have always detested those squares of
shiny greaseproof paper-like stuff that you used to find in public toilets. If I had to order in quantity, I
wanted quality to go with it. I liked quality and I wanted the best. I also knew that everything I
wanted to do in life, I would one day achieve.

There was one time when a group of we teachers happened to spend a night on the Edgell and
Whiteley-owned island of Pak. Pak was entirely a coconut plantation and, during the afternoon when I
was sick to death of sitting, with nothing to do other than drink, I borrowed a bicycle from the
plantation manager Gus Doddridge, to go for a ride. I can’t remember for the life of me how it was
that on that day I discovered the skeletons of two Japanese soldiers, recognisable only by their dog-
tags. They were covered by years of fallen vegetation. I carefully scraped away the rotted leaves with
my bare hands and found that one had the remains of a rifle butt between his feet with the barrel
resting on the ribcage, pointing towards the skull. I hurried back to the plantation house and - not
wanting to disturb the heavy drinking session that was in progress - grabbed a copra sack from a shed
and returned to my interesting discovery. Foolishly, I bundled both skeletons into the one sack, tossed
them over my shoulder, and rode back to the others. Fortunately authorities in Lorengau were able to
piece them together and give them a decent burial on the hillside near the High School.
This Gus - a cricket fanatic - lived alone in a two-story weatherboard known as the haunted
house. Whenever there was a cricket match on he would tune his radio in, don his creams, set up the
wickets on the front lawn and, with bat in hand, play the game stroke by stroke. Isolation can do
strange things to a person … so can cricket and the tropics! But on this day there was no cricket and
Gus held our attention by telling of the ghost that lived on the island. He had often seen this ghost of
an evening, perched on a branch of a tree near his cricket pitch. He showed us all where, on the stroke
of midnight, the double front doors would open and footsteps would be heard at they made their way
up the creaking staircase, turning to the right at the first floor, then pass through a doorway into an
empty room. The wall to the left of the door in that room was completely wall-to-wall wardrobe. One
could step over a low partition into the wardrobe, the right-hand end of which was a door that had
been cut from the outer wall in the hope that one night the ghost would open the door and fall to its
death on the ground below. Now, I’m not saying that Gus was a nut or anything like that, but I found
this tale to be just a little too much. After dinner the evening was spent draining the fridges of
whatever beer was left, with Gus telling how, in the old days, the house had been built over a path that
had been used by resident priests. I have no idea how they came into the story. I evidentally poo-
hooed the tale and, as the clock neared midnight, Gus defied anyone to follow the footsteps upstairs
and into the wardrobe. I told him I didn’t believe in ghosts and would take him up on his dare.
About eight of us were sitting, with eyes glued on the front door as the clock began to strike. I
couldn’t believe it when - on the twelfth stroke - the double doors silently opened inwards and
footsteps could be heard walking slowly towards the stairway. There was the occasional creaking of a
step, further and further upwards until the landing, then the sound of the steps turned to the right, then
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turned left into the bedroom. I took Gus up on his dare and without any light other than that reflected from
the room in which we were sitting, I made my way up, turned right, felt my way around to the left, then
hand over hand made my way in total darkness to the open wardrobe. I stepped in., feeling my way along
to the end of the hanging space to the left, then back to the door in the wall. If there was a ghost in there he
must have been scared shitless by my presence and vaporised. I made my way downstairs to find the group
ashen faced and, I’m sure, nobody had taken another mouthful in my absence. I’m not going to say that
isolation had got the best of Gus, but if there was a ghost, it must have taken me - with my pasty whiteness
- as a kindred spirit and vanished. I often think of that ghost, and
sometimes catch a fleeting glimpse of something disappearing around a
corner ahead of me. Being utterly agnostic, I have no fear of spirits of
the dead in any form.

The year 1962 sped rapidly by with very little interference from the
outside world. Of course there were the six-weekly deliveries of supplies
and mail. An envelope arrived with familiar handwriting … it was from
Dorothy with only one word, “Why?” There was no return address. I
never heard from her again.
When the school year finished, I was allowed my first six weeks
holiday since departing Australia nineteen months earlier. After going
down with cerebral malaria, Mum had returned to Ballarat and was living
at 409 again. There was so much to tell my friends. In order to catch a
flight south, I had to get a lift to Momote airport - departing Lorengau at
about 2-or 3 a.m. - then fly to Rabaul, Port Moresby, Brisbane, Sydney
and Melbourne, then catch a train to Ballarat. Air travel had sped up
considerably since I first left Australia. That meant arriving Ballarat at
about 10 p.m., after a very long and very tiring day. The view from my front door showing
Mum had arranged for many of my old friends - of the New Ahus Island on the other side of Seadler
Harbour.
Year’s party-going variety - to come as usual. Most thought I would be
home to stay as my two years were nearly up. The strangely disturbing thing about this reunion was that I
expected everyone to be interested in where I was living, and pestering me with questions about the
conditions and lifestyle in Papua & New Guinea, but all they were interested in talking about was work -
work and what they had done last Saturday night. Understandable, in a way, as no one really knew where
Papua New Guinea was, and they weren’t particularly interested in
knowing either. Someone would ask, “What’s it like…?” and - before
I could answer - another person would interrupt the conversation;
“How’d’ya enjoy last Saturday night?” Some would even refer back
as far as to some of my old parties. I was an alien who had descended
from a faraway planet. We no longer shared any common interests.
On the morning of December 15, 1962 a small item in the Ballarat
Courier read:

MANUS TEACHER COMES HOME. BALLARAT, today. - A young

Ballarat man who left his work in a city store to become a teacher in
the territory of New Guinea has returned home after 13 (sic) months.

He is Mr Graeme Ross, of Sturt St., Ballarat, who is spending six

weeks at home before returning to his teaching post on Manus Island.

Although his nearest European neighbour is 14 miles away by canoe

Mr Ross says he is never lonely.

With a staff of two native teachers and 43 pupils aged between 5 and
A small stream meandered down from the 16 his work was full of interest, he said.
hills and flowed gently behind the school.
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At the end of term one in 1963, I walked the fourteen miles to Lorengau, passing through several crocodile
infested rivers along the way, and got to know a little better - and share a few beers with - the local
expatriate population. Whenever there were other outstation teachers present we would get together, as we
found common ground in speaking our peculiar and very juvenile form of English. With little or no contact
with the outside world, each and every one of us had reverted to the level of language that we were
teaching.

I met Mrs O’Malley, wife of the District Commissioner who, it was said, ran the island with Jim carrying
out orders from his wife. Mrs O’Malley was the district travel agent as well as the reputed Lady District
Commissioner. Initially I had thought of flying to England to see Barry but as he had returned to Australia
to die I had to forgo those plans. Mrs O’Malley suggested Indonesia … not too far from home, she said,
and not very expensive. It didn’t seem all that long back that Pat’s mother, Hazel, had suggested I go to
Djakarta for a holiday, but as that was outside Australia, it was too far for me to travel.
As Mrs O’Malley was working on a commission basis, she booked me first class. I left the
arrangements in her hands, giving all information she would need to arrange a passport, as I had never
before had need of one. She would arrange all reservations and necessary visas.

With a lovely new dinner set that I had ordered through Michael Wing You, I returned to Liap by supply
boat, taking my freezer goods with me.

It was with a considerable degree of excitement as the end of the year approached, and I made my way back
to Lorengau again where I was presented with my airline tickets and one very important document.
“Whatever you do, Graeme,” said Mr O’Malley, “don’t let this out of your hands. Hold onto it at all times.
Keep it in a safe place and never let it go!” The District Commissioner looked me hard and straight in the
eye as he handed me my very first passport with the all-important visa to enter West Irian (Irian Jaya).

As you have already read, although pre-paid, there was no first class on any of the flights I did on that trip,
but who would dare argue with a woman, especially the wife of the District Commissioner?

What have I learned in all these seventy-three short years? I’ve learned that the wheels of the bus do go
round and round, round and round, round and round, and the circle of life keeps turning!

I had no intention of writing a book of any kind as I sat in 2003, absorbed in reading “Home Is Where The
Heart Is” by Geraldine Cox. I contacted the author with intentions of sharing some parallel experiences
with her. (See note bottom of Page 3 and more on Page 34). Her reply enthused me to such an extent that
that very same day I sat at this computer with intentions of recording some of my travels, memories of
countries visited, the colorful characters I met along the way, and some of the interesting highlights that
happened for personal interest only. I had no intention of laying my life so blatantly open to all and sundry
but as the story unfolded I realised that if I was going to be honest, I may as well go the full monty. I could
not go on living a lie! All was going well until February of 2005 when I received a package from my dear
cousin Beryl, who sent me every solitary letter I had written her from 1961 to 1987. I then went back
through the main body of text, inserting extracts from those letters (in italics) that were relevant to personal
life and travel, as well as thoughts and observations on the changing conditions in Papua New Guinea with
the passage of time. All of these extras have some bearing on - and are relevant to - the original story.

That’s life!
 310

I photographed Luke’s aunt outside her home on

Ahus Island, directly across the harbour from Liap
 311

EPILOGUE 2006 -

That’s where The Quiet Country boy ended when it was initially released in August of 2006.
On Tuesday the 8th of that month Arnold and I began the fulfillment of all the vows that I had
secretly made about what I wanted him to experience while I was still living. We flew out of Cairns at 6.30
that morning after receiving an awful shock when checking in at 4.30 and being told there was no booking
for Arnold - our travel agent had booked him under the wrong name (as she had also done with his visa to
enter Thailand). I was nearly sick when told he couldn’t fly but at the last minute another attendant sorted
matters out by canceling all his reservations and re-ticketing him correctly. We spent a couple of hours at
Brisbane’s International Airport ... then continued on to Hong Kong where we landed during a period of the
worst air-pollution ever known. It was dark when we reached our hotel - the South Pacific - in the Wan
Chai area, very near where I had visited with Diana way back in 1972. Even the spectacle of Las Vegas
had not prepared Arnold for the lights of Hong Kong at night .

The following morning we did the obligatory tour of the island … I would not recommend it as it was so
rushed we had little time to see anything and, when we went up to one of my favourite views at the Peak,
due to the pollution, we could see little. We were allowed one-and-a-half hours to explore the markets of
Aberdeen ... we did it in twenty minutes as I had seen better, and far more interesting markets in several
Asian cities, then we sat on a hot, low, concrete wall in the shade of a tree and waited for our tour coach. I
was too tired and exhausted to do anything.
The next day was spent wandering in our immediate locality and I was somewhat alarmed to read a
banner in the street that read: TYPHOON ALERT NO. 1. What does one do in a typhoon alert in Hong
Kong? We walked back to our hotel and spent the remainder of the daylight hours resting in our
airconditioned room and, during the evening, it was mentioned on television that the typhoon had passed to
the North and it was that that had caused the pollution … something about inversion.

As promised to myself, I took him to Hong Kong Park - where I photographed Arnold sitting on the very
same concrete planter that I had sat on during my first visit with Anne - and to the Botanical Gardens. I
was in no condition to walk and climb and he had to take me by the hand and drag me up steep steps, much
of the way with me on all fours. My heart was playing up with the shocking heat and humidity, and
weariness. We spent many hours in shopping malls to escape the heat and, being on a concoction of two
blood thinners, I was constantly springing a-leak by being bustled and knocked about by pedestrians in the
busy streets. I would be unaware of the bleeding until Arnold drew my attention to it each time and we
would then have to return to our hotel where I would have to change my trousers and make a quick trip to
the laundry.
Something new to me was the underground rail ... fortunately a friend in Cairns had recommended
that we buy the Octopus Card at the airport to make travel and small purchases easier; they are a brilliant
idea, like pre-paid credit cards. We used our swipe cards to travel by train from Wan Chai right across to
Lan Tau Island and the giant Buddha that I wanted the lad to see. This holiday had been planned to fit in
with the opening of the new sky rail linking Tung Chung with Po Lin Monastery. Unfortunately, just
before we departed Australia, on the day the sky rail opened it malfunctioned and closed down on the same
day. When we arrived it was still not operating. At Tung Chung station I found a small bus that ran to the
monastery - about a 2-hour trip on a rough road that was still under construction. Once at Po Lin I realised
I was beyond my use-by date for climbing and was unable to climb so far in the heat. I spent the time
cleaning up the blood up and being patched up with Band Aids at a small store while Arnold made it to the
top alone. Another mission accomplished … he had seen the giant Buddha and climbed it.
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On our way back to our hotel we took a break from rail travel and stopped off at Kowloon where
the lad discovered a statue of his idol … Bruce Lee, in a typical martial arts pose. Another photograph for
his album of memories.

One evening I booked a harbour cruise and seafood dinner. While waiting on the wharf for the bost to
collect us, Arnold drew attention to my trousers … once again I was blood from waistband to down below
the knee. With no place to change, I had to spend the evening looking as though I had been the victim of a
bashing. The cool evening air on the water, and the wonderful dinner took my mind off my messy
appearance.
Although our last evening on the island was spent very pleasantly with Paul and Grace at their
apartment looking down on Happy Valley Racecourse, we were both pleased when the time came to depart
on our flight to Singapore … ten nights in Hong Kong in summer is about eight too many when the
temperature sat on 33 degrees Celcius every day (F90), and the daily humidity was 85% … it was most
uncomfortable.

Due to a mix-up with flight bookings we had to take a late flight to Singapore and it was right on midnight
as we passed beneath a clock as we were hurrying to Immigration. After spending some time searching for
our pre-paid pick-up limousine we learned that it had been to the airport to collect us from an earlier flight
so I had to pay for a taxi to the hotel where we arrived at 1.45 a.m., very weary and disorientated. The
Phoenix Hotel was beautiful and we had a superb room on the 7th floor. We fell into our beds and slept
soundly for what was left of the night.
How beautifully clean and peaceful Singapore was compared to Hong Kong … none of the rush
and bustle. After a late breakfast in the hotel’s Garden Restaurant which, oddly enough, was underground
and had no windows. They had tried to compensate by having a few delicate murals painted on the walls;
there weren’t even any potted plants! We spent our one day in Singapore wandering through the plazas and
shopping centres of Orchard Road and then, at 4 p.m. on Sunday, August 20 we boarded the SuperStar
Virgo for our long-awaited cruise. It seemed an age had passed since I had made my mind up that I would
take Arnold on a cruise … in fact, he was still Raymond when I had decided to do so.

Brochures had not done this magnificent ship justice! We entered the Grand Piazza and lobby to see the
most awesome sight that was the vast space with - on our right - twin staircases ascending on either side of
three huge golden stallions, behind which were three glass-bubble lifts that accessed all thirteen decks. To
our left was the Purser’s Office and reception areas where credentials were checked, passports had to be
left, and all passengers received their personal swipe cards that operated cabin doors and were used for
charging all meals and drinks while on board. No actual cash could be used during the six days.
Our cabin, on deck 9, was two decks up from the reception area and was referred to as an Ocean
View Stateroom with Balcony … twin beds, bathroom/toilet, telephone, tea and coffee-making facilities,
refrigerator, writing desk … the lot. While unpacking and hanging clothes we made time for tea for me,
and a good, strong, black coffee for Arnold before venturing out to try and find our way around. Until the
Virgo I had always prided myself on my directional skills but for the next few days we were constantly
getting lost, in fact, many were the times when we were in fits of laughter about the situation. The three
balcony accommodation decks were all identical and, unless you could see outside, there was no way of
knowing which way the ship was actually travelling … which was the sharp end, and which was the
blunt ...

What to do and see first was our major concern as there was so very much to explore. It all began by
retracing our steps to the Grand Piazza on deck 7 in order to get our bearings. Each deck had notices
explaining the facilities available on that particular deck. Deck 7 also had the Lobby Boulevard, the rather
exclusive Noble House restaurant, the main promenade, and two themed casual restaurants - The Blue
Lagoon ... an Asian bistro, and Out of Africa ... a Pub and Karaoke. Further forward was the Oasis and
Grand Oasis. Down towards the stern was sensational Lido … more of that later.
Down on deck 6 was a magnificent up-market restaurant - Bella Vista - that was the full width of
the ship, with glass windows right across the stern, and there was the Pavilion Room - a very exclusive
Chinese restaurant that we never managed time to visit.
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While exploring deck 7 I had noticed something that at the time I dared not mention to Arnold … in the
Lido at 8 that evening there was to be a performance by the Shaolin Monks. I kept quiet about that until
after we had enjoyed a good dinner in the Mediterranean Buffet on deck 12. We then had to race down five
decks and forward to the Lido where Arnold could read for himself the publicity for Kingdom of Kung Fu.
Oh, boy did his face light up! So did mine when we entered the vastness of the Lido that seated close to
2000 people. What he couldn’t read was: “The best of Shaolin Masters, never before seen on a magnificent
cruise liner. A multi-award winning cast of 30 acrobats, gymnasts and dancers from Europe, South
America and Asia. A truly captivating 60 minute show extravaganza featuring true world class
performance in a kaleidoscope of colours and choreography intricately woven into a breathtaking oriental
masterpiece.” I was able to read it, fortunately, and knew the lad had to see the show. He’s kinky about
Bruce Lee and all things Kung Fu! Nothing prepared me for the vastness of the revolving stage and the
many changes of scenery. Without doubt, it was one of the best shows I have seen … and I am not into
Kung Fu!

I was first to awaken on our first day at sea - made myself a cuppa - and settled into a comfortable chair on
the balcony. The sun was about to peek over the horizon when I was startled by the sudden sound of our
wide glass door being opened, and there was the lad with a coffee in hand. We sat there in our solitude,
enjoying the spectacle of sunrise on a day in which there was no port of call ... I had been wondering how I
would keep Arnold occupied without television. I need not have worried as we gave the rest of the ship the
once over that day, exploring the remaining decks but, before doing so, we made our way back to the
Mediterranean Buffet for breakfast , and investigated from there.
On deck 13 we found the uncovered Sun Deck, the Sports Deck, and Star Track; undercover was
the Celebrity Dicso (that we gave a big miss) and The Taverna.
One deck below was the Mediterranean Buffet (where we had breakfasted) and Mediterranean
Terrace, the sensational Grecian-styled Parthenon Pool, the Gelato Ice Cream Cafe that Arnold couldn’t
pass when he had smelled the aroma of coffee , and even at that early hour, I surprised myself by indulging
in a cholesterol free gelato. We both agreed not to over stress ourselves by entering the Universal Gym or
Aquaswim, but I allowed myself the luxury of a shampoo, haircut and massage.
Also on deck 12 we found an Activity Centre (for those who wanted to burn up some calories), a
Library, a Card Room, a Mahjong Room, The Den, and then we discovered where we would be spending
most of our leisure hours … The Observatory and The Galaxy of the Stars where we could sit in comfort,
looking down on the bow of the ship with a vista of more than 180 degrees out over the Gulf of Thailand.
One would have to do no more than raise a finger for table service …
This is where Arnold came face to face with a Philippino Tutankhamen that he just had to have his
photograph taken with. I’m sure he thought he had met the genuine reincarnate King Tut.

We then had to lower our standards and visit deck 11 … Amphitheatre, aft; then accommodation all the
way forward to the Captains Bridge viewing gallery, and Bridge. This could be accessed via a narrow
spiral stairway from the Observatory … it was very interesting to see how many officers sitting at screens it
took to guide the ship through those very busy waters.

Aft on deck 10 were Neptune’s Wet & Wild, Charlie’s Childcare Centre, Starlight Cinema, Video Arcade
and Computer World … none of which we used. And down one deck was our Home Sweet Home!

Day two was spent in the insufferably hot and humid Bangkok. As the Virgo was far too large to berth
anywhere near Bangkok a custom-created port was built many miles south near Pattaya; buses had to ferry
passengers to and fro. I would have dearly liked to stay on board but, after all, this was Arnold’s trip and so
we did the optional tour as he had never seen the Royal Palace or the Chao Phraya River.
During luncheon that day I was embarrassed beyond belief when a waiter drew my attention to the
fact that I was bleeding all over the chair. Arnold helped me stem the flow of blood and clean and patch me
up with dressings provided by the staff. I dared not let anyone know I was HIV positive.
Unfortunately we struck peak-hour traffic on our way back to the ship and we were more than two
hours late in returning. I was pleased to get back on board into airconditioned comfort once more.
 314

I should have known better but, as I had heard glowing reports of Koh Samui, and knew we would never
get this way again, I decided to do the optional half-day tour. The day was a disaster… not only was it
shockingly hot and humid but there was no organisation in getting passengers ashore. We were over-
crowded and sealed into lifeboats both to-ing and fro-ing. I have since claimed that Koh Samui is the worse
place I have ever visited, but there were highlights … we saw how a trained monkey could climb coconut
palms and pick the nuts from the trees, and the lad was able to have his photo with that same monkey sitting
on his arm.
Despite my age I am still the clown and, when they asked for a volunteer from the audience to have
a mammoth back massage by an elephant, I was the only one to oblige. And all the way back on the
lifeboat I found myself entertaining a group of Japanese tourists with my Kung Fu skills in an effort to
distract everyone’s attention from the discomfort.

One more wonderful day at sea and the cruise of a lifetime and my days of travelling were over!

I have decided I have seen quite enough of Asia.

Once again:

THE END

Our last night aboard the SuperStar Virgo was a semi-formal occasion