Weeds of a Different Kind

While hovering over a strip of islands so small they aren't bothered to be named on the informational flight map, the man next to me translates his Vietnamese paper.

"See this guy. He's a good guy. He's a doctor and he's going to jail," he points to a picture of a man flanked by soldiers. Summing up the situation he says, "Communists stupid!" He spits more than says the words.

He generously shares mandarins and homemade sweets with me throughout the flight. He not excited to sit for 14 hours and, as the only other person in the row, I'm his only target for conversation.

He starts one by interrupting my typing. He tells me he has seven years worth of prisoner of war stories.

"You can write that!" he gestures to my screen.

I've been trying to write a blog entry for weeks, and used the flight time to try and hammer it out. He has mistaken me for a professional writer. I kind of like that.

"Bang bang bang," he explains further, firing an imaginary gun, "they capture me."

His accent is so thick we make ourselves understood mostly in hand gestures. He takes me to be Australian and thinks my parents are crazy for choosing to live in America.

"Nice place to work, visit, but I never live there."

He arrived in Australia by boat. I think he explained that he made two attempts. I lost part of the conversation while I imagined getting back on that tiny boat knowing the hair-raising journey that lay ahead; unsure if you'll be turned away again. That is, if you reach your target. The seas in that area aren't forgiving. You wouldn't want to try a third time. Luckily or unluckily, my comrade in air was able to use his history as POW to pass immigration.
"I write a story on paper, they let me in. That's it. Simple."

He continues to expound on the stupidity of communist countries, proudly pointing out there are only four left. He gestures wide, encompassing his unseen countrymen:
"We have our freedom!"

He has lived in Melbourne for nearly 30 years, but clearly kept his ties.

"How many pages that be?" he asks, pointing at my unorganized paragraphs on the screen, holding his fore finger and thumb apart just enough to hold 200 pages.
"Too long!"
He laughs at his own joke. He goes back to his reading. I go back to my typing.

I feel like I missed an opportunity in not using the 14 hours to chat with a man so interested in sharing his experiences. I should have asked questions and showed interest and encouraged his monologue. But ten hours into my 32 hours of travel, and not having slept the night before, I just couldn't muster the hand gestures. Not to mention that I just finished reading Every Man in this Village is a Liar: An education in war by Megan Stack. I'd had my fill of war stories.

Stack relates her role in reporting on various Middle East conflicts from 9/11 to the bombing of southern Lebanon in 2006. She was adventurous, disillusioned, disheartened, and in danger. It is an intense read. One account follows her as she dodges bombs on a coastal road south of Beirut. The journey ends at a village that was only seconds ago laid to waste. The town was strewn with injured, dead, and dying. The damage is so bad the red cross can't move the ambulances to those in need. They crawl and stumble over the glass and rubble strewn streets. The journalists' professional facades fail and they run to help the inhabitants, mostly women and children who, Stack implies, were intentionally encouraged to stay put by political entities set on making their cause stronger.

After reading this passage, I lifted my head from the pages to take a break from the immense pressure this description lays on you. The happy weekend travelers who shared my train car were on their way to Melbourne to visit family and friends.

"Thanks grandma," I heard, and,

"Tickets please!"

People going about their everyday business completely oblivious to the fact that we had just escaped a war zone.

They probably are oblivious, I thought cynically. How many people here know someone who have ever remotely dealt with these sorts of issues?

I thought back over the people I've met who fit the category. Stories of amazing life struggles. Most of which are not "stories" as in they happened in the past, but are "stories" as in developing plot lines. People who accept miserable compromises to gain a slight advantage. People who have no other choice than to make due. Some, like my Vietnamese friend on the plane, will find a way out. Others will be exactly where they are today.

For the rest of their lives.

These are not nameless people on heart-wrenching TV commercials. These are people I know.

This is essentially Stack's message as I understand it: America's political actions are affecting real people. She helps us to know them like she did, so they are relatable individuals instead of faceless grouped entities.

*    *    *

My previous blog never came together because I couldn't make it anything other than what it was - a complaint-fest. My problems are slight and seem selfish to even mention as compared to those I'm trying to describe, but for the sake of elaboration, and because it was nearly finished, I will:

In perusing the Heywood DSE records, I learned that blackberries bushes are hunted down and exterminated with pesticides. That's right: good, sweet, tasty, fun-to-pick-on-a-lazy-summer-afternoon blackberries are a weed. This was yet another example of things that I think about as "good" or "innocent" but are problematic for Australia. Not just a problem, but actively harmful: i.e. causing extinction.

I became fixated on this realization. Think about it for a minute: you are in a place so totally foreign that anything you recognize is hurtful; anything familiar is imported, a stranger, and in some circles, highly unwelcome. This realization begins to weigh on you until you start to think that you too are a weed, a stranger, an unwelcome thing. After all, you are just another immigrant in a country that simply cannot support a large population. You are part of the problem.

What can you possibly do to counteract your "immigration footprint", you ask? Maybe be the best at what you do professionally…?

"Then I will be contributing, right?" you may think hopefully.

Well, any job you take is an opportunity taken from an Australian citizen. Any child you mentor, any volunteer activity you pursue, ANYTHING you attempt, will be done with a different view of the world. Not that those views are wrong, but they are decidedly wrong for Australia. And in a country that is still struggling to find its unique identity (and save it's flora and fauna from foreign invaders), you are only mixing the pot.

I just learned, literally two seconds ago, you can't compost fruit because you encourage the habitats of parasitic insects like the European wasp. I cannot describe the frustration at learning that something you think is a good habit is actually bad. Everything has to be re-learned. Everything!

Unfortunately, complaining about this subject didn't seem to make a very good blog. Especially while reading Every Man. Stack devotes a chapter in the book to describing a similar "I'm such a foreigner" feeling. This made me feel less alone, but not particularly better.

*    *    *

The difference between Stack's experiences of hardship and those of the people she describes is that at the end of the book, she changes assignments. Her war time experience was temporary, while the people she met cannot leave. It is their home. Even if they manage to leave, they are foreigners not by choice, but by displacement.

Us travelers by choice, we strangers in foreign lands, we choose to be where we are. You can get close, gain an understanding, but you can never know the country or the situations like those who live with it everyday. You cannot understand the endless, continuous, weighing struggle to put one foot in front of the other while having mud, proverbially or actually, slung in your face.

For my part, I was reminded, with a swift kick in the pants, that anything I face pales in comparison.

Stack makes no pretense at having an explanation for the mayhem she encountered. One desperately wishes that she will end with some nuance of hope for the future, but she does what journalists do: presents the facts, albeit with a more personal view than generally allowed in the newspapers. But it's her perceptive and comprehensive view of reactions on the ground that provide a captivating narrative. Really captivating. Raw reporting without the impersonal angle; the people she knew, the things she perceived as she saw it. I didn't sleep for days as I hung on every written word.


Everyman in this village is a liar: An education in war
Megan Stack, 2010
Scribe Publications
ISBN-13: 978-0767930345

NAIDOC Ball

Last weekend I found myself with an extra ticket to the Victorian NAIDOC ball, the highlight event that ends a national week of celebrating Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities.

Now I've attended quite a few Society of Women Engineers banquets and am very familiar with the pomp and ceremony of a formal affair, but I couldn't help gawking at the Martha Stewart like center pieces.

"Don't you do this sort of thing in the US?" I was asked, "Not even for your prom?" I don't know about you, but my prom was nothing like this. Or half as fun.

One friend described what I should expect: "It's just a black fellah get-together that ends in a piss up".

Turns out that was pretty accurate. Since this was the Victorian (ie local, not national) ball, it felt more like a formal family picnic. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. There were some out-layers. For instance, I couldn't decide if the people at my table just didn't know anyone or if they missed the memo about the point of the gathering - to celebrate. Needless to say, I didn't spend long at the table trying to figure it out. Things were too interesting everywhere else for me to spend time delving into their personal history.

The evening started out seriously. There were some introductory speeches - the obligatory Welcome which was extra special that evening because the elders leading the welcome had just been honored nationally. My memory fails me on the national Australian honor granted to the first woman, but the second elder I'd been introduced to earlier in the evening and now will never forget: Auntie Carolyn was named NAIDOC Elder of the Year this year. Earlier this week, I found myself confronted with her profile again when a friend showed off the art exhibit she is included in at the Footscray Community Art Center. Auntie Carolyn is one of the three elders involved in the project. Clearly a force in the community.

There were also memorials - Lionel Rose, an influential community leader passed this year.

There was dancing. The big hit of the evening were the young dancers dancing the mosquito dance. The whole room laughed as one while the little ones, aged 5 - 12, faked frantic itching from the unseen pests.

There were more speeches after that based on the evening's theme of "Civil Rights - Still A Fight", but local conversations quickly drowned out any sense of organization. The party spirit in the room could not be contained. People amused themselves, ignored the organizers, and waited for the dance floor to open. When they kicked us out of the convention center at midnight, we moved to the Crown Casino where time doesn't exist and the party never ends. I heard stories that some people continued through to 6pm Monday. I'm amazed at the stamina, but was myself happily tucked into bed by a modest 4am Sunday morning.

BBQ and Birds

This week I've seen enough rainbows for a life time. Heywood is part of what is called the Green Triangle - the part of Victoria that didn't suffer from the recent droughts.

It was another wet week and we carted boxes from the shed in between rain drops. I was worried we'd be trapped in the motel room again all week, but in fact this week flew by. This was helped by a number of factors:

For starters, I had a short week. It's time for round one of fun-with-visas. First step: Find a lawyer.

Secondly, the archive work is progressing well and the shed is just about half cleared. Nothing raises the spirits like spring cleaning gone well.

And third and most tasty, the power went out on Monday. I missed this bit of excitement, but I was back to work in time to learn that the meat in the fridge had started to defrost. The field crew, it was explained, expects to be well fed during the firefighting season, and, that time of the year having just passed, there were about 50 choice cuts of beef in danger of ruin. We can't let that go to waste can we? Wednesday we had lunch.

In a side note, it's bird mating season. At home, this means waiting to see those cute little sparrows feeding their eager young. But folks, we are in Australia and there isn't much cute around here. To compensate for the harsh environment certain birds nest in open fields so they can see predators coming. When agitated they swoop at the offender, targeting the eyes and using spurs on their wings to maim and send creators of all sizes running away whimpering.

One of these birds is nesting in the DSE office yard.

The first week we spend terrified that our eyes were going to get pecked out.

Last week we learned that this particular bird - the masked plover - doesn't actually strike it's targets; "its just trying to scare you" said the local newspaper article. I stopped fearing this species and became terrified of accidentally disturbing Magpie parents nesting on our route back to the hotel. Those guys are out to get you.

This week we were brave enough to take pictures. Well some of us - this is my colleague's hand defending herself as she bravely makes a run for it (bird in background).

The poor birds spend so much time defending their young they are hardly on the nest. We don't think the little ones will make it so we are just dealing with the swooping until they abandon it and try again at another spot. I feel badly that the parents are always so agitated, but the thought struck me at one point that this may be the only time that I can safely "we were here first. "

Weeding

Active train tracks we walk over to get to work. 

One of the documents I ran across this week explained the best way to go when dealing with an invasive pine in a native forest: hand removal.

Weeding in a forest.

Puts 250 archive boxes into perspective, doesn't it?

This week my archiving partner and I spent bonding with the inhabitants of the office. The field workers whose space we have invaded keep offering to take us on drives around the country. The people in the office have offered to set up security access so we can use the kitchen facilities after hours (there being none in the motel). It's country hospitality at it's best.

I'm just jumping at the chance to use that hospitality to experience some of the unique experiences available only in the Aussie bush.

One of my goals for this assignment is to get the field workers to take me for a ride in one of the big toys. There is no guarantee that they'll have cause to use them while we're out here, but as the 3 week project has been extended to at least 6 the odds are looking up.

Anyway, I've gotten close.

The big guns.

Heywood DSE

Familiar view: records in need of rescue.

I spend this week (excepting the 10 hours of round trip travel) appraising 20 years worth of office records for the Heywood branch of the Department of Environment and Sustainability.

Heywood is just north of Portland; some four hours down the coast from Geelong. It's small and pretty remote. Mobile internet devices don't work here. I spend most of the after work hours trying not to imagine all the spam mail choking my inbox and re-learning small town survival techniques like watching copious amounts of TV and pre-writing blogs to be posted later.

Heywood downtown at rush hour (3 cars).
The pizza place is also the video store.

My in-work hours aren't terribly exciting. Record's management isn't something I'm passionate about, but I really like the idea that I'm contributing something more than cafe customer service.

This is my first assignment renting myself out to a temp agency that specializes in knowledge management. I'm told that most of the requests they receive are for government records management type assignments. This particular project is the result of extra funds as the end of fiscal year approaches. Since these records are on the more aged side my goal is to strike a balance between appraising the records according to strict records management rules and getting the job done. On our arrival I sensed tension from the field crew (whose crew room we have over taken for the project) towards the office dwellers. I suspect they may have missed out on some extras so they could clear the storage shed. I'm determined that the money be seen as well spent. The pile of boxes needs to be visibly improved to justify our presence and keep the office peace.

The New Gobble

The coffee shop I work at is making some business changes and today I did a dangerous thing - I volunteered.

The cafe has a new blog. I jumped to attention.

"Yes! Brilliant idea. Leave a camera with me. I will find you today's story."

This is what I DO! Or did. For 6 months on a deserted island we came up with wonderful weekly blog stories. And they were great stories. And people loved being a part of the stories. And we got new museum members.

Within the half hour I had 3 good ideas and pictures to go along with them. Rule of blogging - don't be caught without your camera.

Brody-Heath Visit, the Highlights

My parents and my aunt and uncle were the first brave visitors to tackle the 32 hour 'round the world travel from New Jersey to Melbourne. We spent a week overcoming jet lag and touring Melbourne. And what do you do in the sporting capital of Australia, except enjoy the footy? Simon acted as liaison for much of the Melbourne trip.

 

We had great seats. How do we know? Because Prime Minister Julia Gillard was in our section! 

She was very good about the attention from the crowd and posed especially for my picture.

 

It's fair to say we had a good time, even though the team we were routing for, the Richmond Tigers, lost. It was a good win for Julia's Bulldogs though - she might not have had such a big smile if they weren't playing so well.

Next up was a trip down Great Ocean Road to see the 12 Apostles. This is us stopping for a photo op in Torquay:

We took a bit too long dallying at the various sights along the way and had to make a mad 3-hour dash to get to the 12 Apostles before dark. We didn't make it. 

See those white caps in the back ground? They are washing up against the Apostles. 

Wait... let's try some photo magic: 

Nope, still can't see them. But, as mom said: Who gets to see the 12 Apostles by moonlight? Thankfully it was full moon that night.

The next day we drove over to Sovereign Hill to experience mining in 1860 country Victoria.

 Uncle Gary and Dad mining for flakes. 

I was across the river teaching 6th graders the finer points of gold panning. 

It was the best part of the day.

Uncle Gary loved every minute of it.

We also had an impromptu lesson in Woosley's - an English manufactured, but Australian founded car company. Building the car kept the Australian manager in charge of perfecting Mr. Woosley's London manufactured sheep sheering equipment busy in his spare time.

I'm afraid I missed the rest of the Melbourne trip since I still had to work that week. I popped in and out often enough to hear stories of the Old Melbourne Goal, the Koorie Heritage Trust, being driven around the Melbourne Grand Prix Circuit, and eating cakes in St. Kilda.

After all that hard tourist work, we arrived in Cairns. This is the only picture I have from Cairns. I was too busy enjoying everything to worry about taking pictures.

The best day was the day on the Great Barrier Reef. We all wanted to go again the next day, but the rain forest beckoned. I don't have pictures from that either.

I can tell you about my "pretty good" birthday swim. The last really good swim I had was a year ago in Grand Turk for my birthday. I swam with a flock of squid that day. This time around I saw 4 sharks. One as big as me. It was crazy awesome. I swam down to check it out and it swam up to check me out. I got back in the boat - shark wins. Turns out it was just a grey reef shark - they can get up to a pretty good size, but I wasn't able to identify it as a harmless reef shark right off the bat. As far as I knew it was an aggressive and territorial bull shark and I was out of there. Even if the fish weren't panicking, I certainly was about to. I needed a rest. Then I hopped back in and showed off it to my mom as if I wasn't worried at all.

It was also a really hard swim that day. The currents were up and the swells were high and you spent almost as much time worrying about drowning as enjoying the wildlife. The fish were HUGE and the coral colorful. There was a lot to enjoy. I pitied the less experienced snorkelers because it wasn't an easy day on the water - I loved every minute of it and took it as a personal birthday present from the ocean. Death-defying swims are the best! The wildlife count clocked in at:

• 4 sharks - one of which a gray reef shark bigger than me, one Wobbegong (that I spotted!), and two were white tipped reef sharks 
• a nautilus shell
• a 6 foot cowtail sting ray 
• a 4 foot parrot fish 
• a school of unicorn fish
• a 3 foot wrasse
• numerous giant clams 
• a school of 3 foot tuna (dinner!) 
• a fleet of barracuda resting at the bottom of the sea
• and I swam with a huge school of needle fish (one of my personal favorites)

Spotted Wobbegong, http://dsc.discovery.com/sharks/shark-pictures/spotted-wobbegong.html

 

 

Next on the itinerary was Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park. I was ridiculously excited to be in the Northern Territories. Most people who make this trip stay in Alice Springs and do the park as a day trip, but I really enjoyed sleeping in the shadow of the mountain, as it were. It was really the middle of no place, extremely isolated and strangely home-y. The staff who work here have to make a 7 hour round trip run to the chemist. Sounds like fun to me!

I learned two things from this part of the trip.
1) If you are going to do the sun-rise viewing do Uluru for first light then go watch the show over at Kata Tjuta.
2) No one has a good reason for climbing the rock. I asked them. After being toured around by Elder Ezekiel, who spent the whole time touring us around like it was his backyard, I realized that you don't trounce your neighbor's petunia's and it's the same sort of thing here. Though - I'm sure a better analogy is "you don't walk on my alter, so I won't walk on yours". The path for the walk goes right up the path the first Mala people took so the tribes don't walk there. And neither should you.

Me holding Kata Tjuta at sunrise - means "Many Heads".

Valley of the Winds Walk, Kata Tjuta - at the beginning.

Valley of the Winds - doesn't look real does it?

Valley of the Winds Walk - only half way there. We thought we were nearly done. 

 Imagine doing this is summer!! In winter it was hot and uncomfortably long...

Mom's LL Bean shoe fell apart. The sole came off.

The rock formations were awesome.

I stopped taking pictures at Uluru when we left the guided tour. While we were on the tour we were allowed to enter a cave (with TONS of cave paintings!) that almost no one except the rangers see, but after you leave the hospitality of the elders saying "yeah yeah, it's fine" there are signs everywhere pointing out sacred spots that you aren't supposed to photo. Here's a couple from the safe bits:

Lots of flies on the Base Walk around Uluru.

Uncle Gary pretending to be a kangaroo on the Mala walk. Near where the giant mole made all those holes.

Uncle Gary in the cave that no one gets to see. I'm so glad he got to experience this :-/

Me and my well traveled Aunt and Uncle at Uluru at sunrise.

 After the ocean and the desert, Sydney was a walk in the park. We were so tourist-ed-out we spent a lot of time chasing our tails. But we did manage to see the big ticket items while we enjoyed the last bit of our Australia tour:

On the steps of the Opera House, bridge in the background - got them both in one picture!

Afternoon tea by the Opera House, in view of the Bridge, called "The Giant Coat Hanger".

Light festival all along the Harbour during the month of May/June.

View of Harbour from the Bridge - we walked up the Pylon.

Platypus (bottom right) at Sydney Aquarium.

Sydney Aquarium, if he was a small child, they could put it on a poster.

I swam with a shark that size in Cairns.

Last night in Sydney, at the Opera House Cafe.

Argyle Club, right where I left it, with the really cool urinals.