Leatherman™ multi-tool pocket-knives currently have a magazine ad running which always makes me feel a little…inadequate. The photo is of a handyman, tool kit in hand, ringing a doorbell while the caption reads something like “Take back your life”. The message being that you aren’t really a man if you need someone else to come and fix things for you and if you simply had a Leatherman™, you’d be able to fend for yourself. I don’t have one although Dear Wife has. (A pink one). However being realistic, it wouldn’t make the slightest difference if I had. When it comes to those little jobs around the home, I’m what might charitably be called “useless”.
It’s not that I haven’t tried. It’s just that through no fault of my own simplest tasks turn into disasters of biblical proportions whenever I try to tackle them. I’m well aware of the adage, “Measure twice, cut once”. But for me it’s more a case of “Measure 16 times, cut it too short anyway, spend the rest of the afternoon trying to find another piece”.
Take the time my sister misguidedly decided that as I was living rent-free at her place, I could build a box enclosing the bathroom pipes prior to her hanging new wallpaper. Her fiancé-to-be outlined that plans and they seemed straightforward enough. Four long pieces of wood running from floor to ceiling, with cross struts every foot or so for support.
Putting the uprights in place took less than a day, although the cross-struts proved to be a little trickier. Three of the first four I cut turned out to be about 1/8 of an inch too short, and I was in danger of running out of wood. When I came to drill screw holes, I found the electric cable of the drill didn’t reach and it took me almost a full day’s walk to obtain another. On day three I dropped the chuck key through a hole in the floorboards, spent the rest of the day finding a replacement and had to put the job on hold while I went to visit friends over the weekend. Fiancé-to-be took advantage of my absence to finish the job in about 90 minutes.
In Arizona we decided the outside of our house could do with a fresh coat of paint. This hadn’t been done since it was built, and the yellowish walls with brown trim must have been ugly even then. The first day I learned that not all paint rollers are created equal. A rough surface, such as the stucco plaster of our walls, requires a much courser roller that the (indoor specific) one I was using. Not only that, but after eighteen years of Phoenix sun, the stucco had the characteristics of a bath sponge. It was sucking the paint off the roller by the gallon, without the color changing in any noticeable fashion. After 8 hours of solid slog, I’d barely covered 2 walls.
The trim was just as bad, with the added bonus of yards of intricate work under the eaves, requiring hours of neck wrenching toil. My week’s vacation came and went with the job barely started. I kept doggedly at it although I suspect most people could probably have completed the task in less than the 2 ½ years it took me. (Although technically I never did get finished as the front door was still an attractive shade of gray undercoat with masking tape when we sold the house some four years later.)
One task which almost went well before fate stepped in once more was when I replaced a bathroom faucet. This is a comparatively straightforward task, even for me, in that all you have to do is loosen a couple of bolts, lift out the old unit, drop the new one into place and tighten the new bolts. The old metal pipes were to be replaced with modern, flexible plastic ones, but even that was simply a case of unscrewing the nuts at either end. It’s true; I did need to make two more trips to Home Depot in the course of discovering that the pipes were of different lengths, and the one I should have returned was, somewhat predictably, the other one. Even so, in less than a morning, we had a shiny new faucet, installed and functioning and all without a suggestion of bloodshed. It was perhaps the ease of this project that led me to get a little giddy.
The package came with a new plug attachment, and looking at the old, stained one, I decided it would be the work of moments to replace this too. Quick explanation for British readers (or Americans who’ve never had occasion to look): Here plugs are usually a chrome disc which fits in the hole. A metal bar runs vertically down from it into the drain and by means of a wee arm, attaches to another metal bar which in turn, runs vertically up through the middle of the tap unit. Lifting or lowering a button on the top allows you to open and close the plug. In order to attach the arm of the new plug to the bar of the new faucet unit, it’s easiest to simply unscrew the top section of the plastic drain, so you can see what you’re doing. No real problem until I came to re-attach it and discovered that rather than unscrewing, our old, decrepit drain had simply snapped off at the thread. Right on a bend, right by the wall. Several panic-stricken conversations with people who know about these things established that the broken joint couldn’t be mended and the only way to replace it was to dig it out of the wall. As the lowest professional estimate we received was $600, we knocked something off the price of the house when we sold it.
We had a handyman in the house this week, as it happens, who for $40, fixed our sliding glass door (without using a Leatherman™) so it opens smoothly once more. We’re thrilled to have it working properly even though it was a short-term fix and he tells us we’ll need to replace the door eventually. Following this, he endeared himself to me for ever when, without even knowing my track record, he advised we have it professionally installed as “old houses like these can often cause unexpected problems”. Yep, I like the way that man thinks.
As further proof that he and I are kindred spirits; he left his crowbar behind when he went. Now, I wonder what needs doing around the house that I could use that for.
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Drumming Up The Sun
As you may know, today marks the Winter Solstice in the Northern Hemisphere. The longest night of the year, the solstice has been celebrated by ancient peoples the world over to mark their gratitude for the fact that sun has once more, risen and wheel of the year is complete. The Winter Solstice marked victory of light over darkness or the end of the cycle of death and decay and the beginning of a new cycle of light, growth and life. It has traditionally been a time for people to celebrate the gradual lengthening of the days and the regeneration of the earth.
Solstice comes from the Latin “sol stetit” which means “The sun stood still.” The sun rises and sets progressively further south on the horizon in the Northern Hemisphere as Winter Solstice nears. For approximately 6 days in late December (and again in late June, the Summer Solstice), the sun appears to rise and set in almost the exact same place on the horizon, hence the name.
The ancient Chinese believed that at sunrise on Winter Solstice, the yang, or masculine principle, was born into the world and would begin a 6 month period of ascendancy. The Hindus (who based their calendar on lunar cycles) held festivals on the solstices and equinoxes too. In India, people greeted the Winter Solstice with a ceremonial clanging of bells and gongs to frighten off evil spirits. In Britain, my old stomping ground, the Druids celebrated the overthrow of the old god, Bran, by the new God, Bel, at the time of the December solstice. Today, here in the Front Range of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains, a group of Pagans, Wiccans and other earth-lovers gather at the Red Rocks Park, outside Morrison to participate in Drumming Up The Sun.
Red Rocks Park is a phenomenon created by the forces of nature over the course of some sixty million years. Iron red rocks exploded from the bottom of an ancient sea bed before wind, heat and cold, in addition to our friend the sun combined to sculpture the rocks in a thousand different ways. In 1932 the city of Denver began the process of adapting the natural features of the park into a vast open air theater. Other than the construction of arced rows of seats, this was a comparatively simple process as nature had already done most of the heavy lifting. Three hundred foot monoliths, called Ship Rock and Creation Rock flank either side of the amphitheater and combine to provide near perfect acoustics. Along with the panoramic view of Denver and the western plains, the setting is breathtaking.
This year marked my third Drumming Up The Sun ceremony after I learned of it by accident while eavesdropping on a conversation between two hippies in a coffee shop. In 2002 my friend Kris and I arrived in the middle of the night having no clear idea of what time things got started. It gets chilly during the night in Colorado at this time of year and by the time the sun finally raised its head over the horizon, we were as relieved as any ancient must have been. Although the sky was mostly clear, a thin band of cloud lay on the horizon and obscured most of the sun’s arrival but a wafer thin strip remained clear enough for us to watch its initial appearance. Last year a winter storm sent flurries of snow gusting along the amphitheater steps and the clouds prevented us from determining the exact moment when sunrise occurred. However, we were able to tell from the glow behind the clouds that the event had indeed happened and life would continue for another year.
Driving down the hill this morning, I anxiously scanned the night sky which appeared to be clear but once things began to brighten in the east, saw that once more, a strip of cloud was going to block the view. The good news was that the promised winter storm appeared to be holding off for another day and the temperatures were nowhere near as low as previous years. That said; I was still glad to be wearing every item of warm clothing I possess. Apparently everyone else felt the same way as most of the other people there were shapeless masses in the dark. A couple of years ago a young lady was doing a routine with flaming torches dressed in an outfit so scanty it nearly had me stepping on my tongue but sadly, she was nowhere in sight this year. Two people were dancing with flaming torches, but they were dressed for comfort rather than effect.
I’m not sure who was in charge of setting the tempo but even though everyone was playing their own rhythms the beat was unmistakable. The sound swam around the amphitheater and, magnified by the natural acoustics, simply roared out into the night. Bongos, tom-toms, bodhráns, tambourines and plastic buckets, all throbbing and pulsing to a heart quickening beat. And it wasn’t only drums. Maracas, castanets, cowbells, rainmakers and one guy with a didgeridoo were all contributing to the atmosphere.
One thing about clouds is that they make for spectacular sunrises and this one was a doozy. Fiery streaks of red, orange and gold blazed across the sky and for a long time, an airplane contrail glowed like an arrow of molten steel. It gets light long before the sun actually appears of course, but we were here to drum up the sun and the beat went on. We all knew that if we were to stop, then maybe, just maybe, the sun wouldn’t come up this morning so we were carrying a lot of responsibility.
The drumming had been calm and relaxed for well over an hour but as the sunrise approached, the pulse quickened and increased in volume with the sound of over a hundred drums pounding in unison. We whooped, we hollered and we drummed as loud as we knew how. Eventually, just as it has done every solstice through the millennia, the sun made its appearance in an inferno of golden light. The clouds prevented us from seeing the whole orb, but enough was visible for us to know it was definitely there. We’d done it.
We aren’t the first people to use Red Rocks for solstice ceremonies. Colorado’s original residents held their rituals there too, and some of their descendents were in the crowd this morning. The tradition had been maintained and the wheel of the year will continue to turn.
Happy Solstice everyone.
Solstice comes from the Latin “sol stetit” which means “The sun stood still.” The sun rises and sets progressively further south on the horizon in the Northern Hemisphere as Winter Solstice nears. For approximately 6 days in late December (and again in late June, the Summer Solstice), the sun appears to rise and set in almost the exact same place on the horizon, hence the name.
The ancient Chinese believed that at sunrise on Winter Solstice, the yang, or masculine principle, was born into the world and would begin a 6 month period of ascendancy. The Hindus (who based their calendar on lunar cycles) held festivals on the solstices and equinoxes too. In India, people greeted the Winter Solstice with a ceremonial clanging of bells and gongs to frighten off evil spirits. In Britain, my old stomping ground, the Druids celebrated the overthrow of the old god, Bran, by the new God, Bel, at the time of the December solstice. Today, here in the Front Range of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains, a group of Pagans, Wiccans and other earth-lovers gather at the Red Rocks Park, outside Morrison to participate in Drumming Up The Sun.
Red Rocks Park is a phenomenon created by the forces of nature over the course of some sixty million years. Iron red rocks exploded from the bottom of an ancient sea bed before wind, heat and cold, in addition to our friend the sun combined to sculpture the rocks in a thousand different ways. In 1932 the city of Denver began the process of adapting the natural features of the park into a vast open air theater. Other than the construction of arced rows of seats, this was a comparatively simple process as nature had already done most of the heavy lifting. Three hundred foot monoliths, called Ship Rock and Creation Rock flank either side of the amphitheater and combine to provide near perfect acoustics. Along with the panoramic view of Denver and the western plains, the setting is breathtaking.
This year marked my third Drumming Up The Sun ceremony after I learned of it by accident while eavesdropping on a conversation between two hippies in a coffee shop. In 2002 my friend Kris and I arrived in the middle of the night having no clear idea of what time things got started. It gets chilly during the night in Colorado at this time of year and by the time the sun finally raised its head over the horizon, we were as relieved as any ancient must have been. Although the sky was mostly clear, a thin band of cloud lay on the horizon and obscured most of the sun’s arrival but a wafer thin strip remained clear enough for us to watch its initial appearance. Last year a winter storm sent flurries of snow gusting along the amphitheater steps and the clouds prevented us from determining the exact moment when sunrise occurred. However, we were able to tell from the glow behind the clouds that the event had indeed happened and life would continue for another year.
Driving down the hill this morning, I anxiously scanned the night sky which appeared to be clear but once things began to brighten in the east, saw that once more, a strip of cloud was going to block the view. The good news was that the promised winter storm appeared to be holding off for another day and the temperatures were nowhere near as low as previous years. That said; I was still glad to be wearing every item of warm clothing I possess. Apparently everyone else felt the same way as most of the other people there were shapeless masses in the dark. A couple of years ago a young lady was doing a routine with flaming torches dressed in an outfit so scanty it nearly had me stepping on my tongue but sadly, she was nowhere in sight this year. Two people were dancing with flaming torches, but they were dressed for comfort rather than effect.
I’m not sure who was in charge of setting the tempo but even though everyone was playing their own rhythms the beat was unmistakable. The sound swam around the amphitheater and, magnified by the natural acoustics, simply roared out into the night. Bongos, tom-toms, bodhráns, tambourines and plastic buckets, all throbbing and pulsing to a heart quickening beat. And it wasn’t only drums. Maracas, castanets, cowbells, rainmakers and one guy with a didgeridoo were all contributing to the atmosphere.
One thing about clouds is that they make for spectacular sunrises and this one was a doozy. Fiery streaks of red, orange and gold blazed across the sky and for a long time, an airplane contrail glowed like an arrow of molten steel. It gets light long before the sun actually appears of course, but we were here to drum up the sun and the beat went on. We all knew that if we were to stop, then maybe, just maybe, the sun wouldn’t come up this morning so we were carrying a lot of responsibility.
The drumming had been calm and relaxed for well over an hour but as the sunrise approached, the pulse quickened and increased in volume with the sound of over a hundred drums pounding in unison. We whooped, we hollered and we drummed as loud as we knew how. Eventually, just as it has done every solstice through the millennia, the sun made its appearance in an inferno of golden light. The clouds prevented us from seeing the whole orb, but enough was visible for us to know it was definitely there. We’d done it.
We aren’t the first people to use Red Rocks for solstice ceremonies. Colorado’s original residents held their rituals there too, and some of their descendents were in the crowd this morning. The tradition had been maintained and the wheel of the year will continue to turn.
Happy Solstice everyone.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire
As you’ve probably heard, Christmas is coming up shortly. This was always a challenging time when we lived in Phoenix because the temperatures were generally hovering around the 80 degree mark and although the locals tended to walk round in sweaters and ski jackets while bleating about the cold, it’s difficult to get in the Christmas spirit when the air-conditioning is grinding away. Christmas is supposed to be cold and ideally, snowy. Everybody knows that. Which is yet another reason why we’re happy to be living in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. There’s a very good chance it will be both.
Where I lived in Britain it didn’t tend to be snowy on Christmas either although there was a very good chance it would be wet. This was always particularly galling to the kids who received bikes come Christmas morn. In fact one of the great traditions of Christmas day was to go out “New Bike Spotting”. It was fairly easy really. From about 8am onwards you’d see dozens of kids wobbling along the street on gleaming bicycles, outfitted with water bottle cages and water bottles (probably with water in them), fingerless cycling gloves and on special sightings, a Tour-De-France style cycling jersey.
In order to find traditional Christmas scenery in Britain, the kind you see on the Christmas cards, you’d have to go back to Dickensian times. At the time he was writing most of his successful stuff, Britain was experiencing a series of particularly harsh winters, the likes of which haven’t been seen since, no matter what Grandma says. The river Thames in London was reportedly frozen for weeks at a time and fairs were held on the ice. Apparently it was thick enough to build bonfires and roast whole oxen, which must have been a sight to see if only to learn how much ketchup you’d need for a whole ox, not to mention the size of the bun.
Curiously, in Australia where Christmas is celebrated in the middle of summer, this image of snowy, frosty scenery still holds good. Darwin, with its tropical climate, doesn’t have winter at all, just a wet season and a dry season but even there, store windows are decorated with fake snow from November onwards. That takes on a very surreal quality when the temperature is 95 degrees and the humidity is approximately the same as a full bath sponge. Apparently they read Dickens in Australia.
So for me to experience a full on, traditional, old fashioned Christmas, I had to wait until I moved to Colorado. Even then, it wasn’t until I joined the Colorado Isle of Mull/St Andrew Pipes and Drums band and went along to our annual performance at the Georgetown Christmas Fair. Victorian streets piled with (real) snow, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, funnel cake, cherubic schoolchildren caterwauling through Christmas carols, sleigh rides and of course, yours truly, banging on a drum. What could be more traditional than that?
The band has performed at the Georgetown Christmas Fair for the last 21 years and some members have made every single one. It’s only my second and I’m still very much a rookie, although a little bit more experienced than last time out when I could only play two tunes. My repertoire is up to five now although I still use the term “play” somewhat loosely. Nonetheless, I’d been practicing hard all week and was determined to put on a good showing.
I packed my spare drumsticks; I took care to ensure my uniform was complete, from bonnet to sock flashes; I left in plenty of time to find a parking spot and I even took along my practice pad so I could do some last minute rehearsing while I waited. The only thing I forgot was my drum carrier, which is the harness that sits on your shoulders and from which the drum hangs while you’re playing. Bonnets can be borrowed. Sock flashes can be borrowed. Even drumsticks can be borrowed. But there’s never a spare drum harness and other than the drum itself, it’s most essential (and irreplaceable) piece of equipment a drummer has. And mine was sitting in the living room at home.
As usual, Megan the Drum Sergeant came to the rescue. After calling me a bunch of what I thought were quite unkind names, she rummaged in her bag and produced two canvas slings. These are simply straps which go over one shoulder and clip onto the drum. They’re used by tenor drummers as not only are their drums considerably lighter, the playing angle is somewhat different from the snare drum I play. I’m told that in the old days, snare drummers used slings as well. I’m also told that in the old days people were a damn sight tougher than me and I’m sure that’s true too. Quite simply, the weight of the drum dug the canvas deep into my shoulders and it hurt like hell. One over each shoulder, clipped to opposite sides of the drum, kept it reasonably in front of me but didn’t help at all once we started marching. The bloody thing was bouncing all over the place and it was all I could do to hit it, much less play the same tune as everyone else.
Fortunately, Georgetown’s main street is only a couple of hundred yards long and we were soon in the Community Center where the real gig was to take place. The only problem here was lack of elbow room as we’re a big band and this was a small Community Center. We also had to allow space for the Highland Dancers who were joining us on stage although (again, fortunately) many of them were extremely tiny. I kind of like playing in these sorts of conditions because when I do screw up, I have a built in excuse. “Hey, it’s not my fault - the people on either side of me keep bumping my arms.”
Even so, it was warm in such a small space and we were all quite happy when the last note was played and we headed out into the fresh air. The powdered sugar makes funnel cake an impractical delicacy when wearing a black dress jacket. I’m not really that fond of roasted chestnuts. And between you and me, I’m no great fan of children singing. But with the Victorian setting, the snow on the ground and the spirit of goodwill to all men in the air, you have to admit that for a traditional, old-fashioned, British Christmas, you can’t beat small town America.
Where I lived in Britain it didn’t tend to be snowy on Christmas either although there was a very good chance it would be wet. This was always particularly galling to the kids who received bikes come Christmas morn. In fact one of the great traditions of Christmas day was to go out “New Bike Spotting”. It was fairly easy really. From about 8am onwards you’d see dozens of kids wobbling along the street on gleaming bicycles, outfitted with water bottle cages and water bottles (probably with water in them), fingerless cycling gloves and on special sightings, a Tour-De-France style cycling jersey.
In order to find traditional Christmas scenery in Britain, the kind you see on the Christmas cards, you’d have to go back to Dickensian times. At the time he was writing most of his successful stuff, Britain was experiencing a series of particularly harsh winters, the likes of which haven’t been seen since, no matter what Grandma says. The river Thames in London was reportedly frozen for weeks at a time and fairs were held on the ice. Apparently it was thick enough to build bonfires and roast whole oxen, which must have been a sight to see if only to learn how much ketchup you’d need for a whole ox, not to mention the size of the bun.
Curiously, in Australia where Christmas is celebrated in the middle of summer, this image of snowy, frosty scenery still holds good. Darwin, with its tropical climate, doesn’t have winter at all, just a wet season and a dry season but even there, store windows are decorated with fake snow from November onwards. That takes on a very surreal quality when the temperature is 95 degrees and the humidity is approximately the same as a full bath sponge. Apparently they read Dickens in Australia.
So for me to experience a full on, traditional, old fashioned Christmas, I had to wait until I moved to Colorado. Even then, it wasn’t until I joined the Colorado Isle of Mull/St Andrew Pipes and Drums band and went along to our annual performance at the Georgetown Christmas Fair. Victorian streets piled with (real) snow, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, funnel cake, cherubic schoolchildren caterwauling through Christmas carols, sleigh rides and of course, yours truly, banging on a drum. What could be more traditional than that?
The band has performed at the Georgetown Christmas Fair for the last 21 years and some members have made every single one. It’s only my second and I’m still very much a rookie, although a little bit more experienced than last time out when I could only play two tunes. My repertoire is up to five now although I still use the term “play” somewhat loosely. Nonetheless, I’d been practicing hard all week and was determined to put on a good showing.
I packed my spare drumsticks; I took care to ensure my uniform was complete, from bonnet to sock flashes; I left in plenty of time to find a parking spot and I even took along my practice pad so I could do some last minute rehearsing while I waited. The only thing I forgot was my drum carrier, which is the harness that sits on your shoulders and from which the drum hangs while you’re playing. Bonnets can be borrowed. Sock flashes can be borrowed. Even drumsticks can be borrowed. But there’s never a spare drum harness and other than the drum itself, it’s most essential (and irreplaceable) piece of equipment a drummer has. And mine was sitting in the living room at home.
As usual, Megan the Drum Sergeant came to the rescue. After calling me a bunch of what I thought were quite unkind names, she rummaged in her bag and produced two canvas slings. These are simply straps which go over one shoulder and clip onto the drum. They’re used by tenor drummers as not only are their drums considerably lighter, the playing angle is somewhat different from the snare drum I play. I’m told that in the old days, snare drummers used slings as well. I’m also told that in the old days people were a damn sight tougher than me and I’m sure that’s true too. Quite simply, the weight of the drum dug the canvas deep into my shoulders and it hurt like hell. One over each shoulder, clipped to opposite sides of the drum, kept it reasonably in front of me but didn’t help at all once we started marching. The bloody thing was bouncing all over the place and it was all I could do to hit it, much less play the same tune as everyone else.
Fortunately, Georgetown’s main street is only a couple of hundred yards long and we were soon in the Community Center where the real gig was to take place. The only problem here was lack of elbow room as we’re a big band and this was a small Community Center. We also had to allow space for the Highland Dancers who were joining us on stage although (again, fortunately) many of them were extremely tiny. I kind of like playing in these sorts of conditions because when I do screw up, I have a built in excuse. “Hey, it’s not my fault - the people on either side of me keep bumping my arms.”
Even so, it was warm in such a small space and we were all quite happy when the last note was played and we headed out into the fresh air. The powdered sugar makes funnel cake an impractical delicacy when wearing a black dress jacket. I’m not really that fond of roasted chestnuts. And between you and me, I’m no great fan of children singing. But with the Victorian setting, the snow on the ground and the spirit of goodwill to all men in the air, you have to admit that for a traditional, old-fashioned, British Christmas, you can’t beat small town America.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Lost in the Bush
Enthusiastic as I am over the concept of social drinking, I balked a little when the aboriginal handed me the can of Scotch and Coke. It was after all, only a little after 7am which is early, even by my standards. However, I rationalized that it wasn’t really all that long since I’d had my last drink and even though the sun was high in the sky, I hadn’t been to bed so technically it was still late at night, not early in the morning. Plus, as we stared down at the truck firmly embedded in the sand, it was obvious we weren’t going anywhere for a while. I popped the top and took a swig. It was warm and tasted vile but what the heck.
The evening had started out promisingly enough. A bunch of us from the backpackers’ hostel had set out to the bar to sink a few cold ones with the locals. The company was excellent and even though it was karaoke night, we were having a blast. Because of Broome’s location in Australia’s North West, it tends to attract a fair number of travelers on their way either to Darwin at the top end or down the west coast. Australia doesn’t have too many roads and generally, you’re either traveling this way, or the other way. As there are only a limited number of places to stop, you tend to make friends with the people going in your direction due to the fact that you’re meeting up with them repeatedly. Although I’d already been in Broome a week, I’d decided to it my base for Christmas, now only a few days away. Several others had made the same choice, each as determined as I, to have a good time and the sense of camaraderie was strong.
The night before had been something of a session and several of us had resolved to take it easy this evening. It never turns out like that of course and when somebody suggested we move on to the local night club, the agreement was unanimous. Back to the hostel to change flip flips for trainers, shorts for jeans, T-shirts for collars. Being backpackers, we didn’t all possess such elegant attire or if we did, being backpackers, it was currently somewhat pungent. So the more fastidious among us found themselves in the positions of being able to trade clean clothes for goods or services. I myself obtained the loan of a very smart white shirt in exchange for the promise of a meat pie, to be delivered at a later date.
Once in the night club, the evening merely picked up speed. Brimming with beer induced self-confidence I was trying to make headway with a drop-dead gorgeous Swedish girl called Kattus, “as in catastrophic”. I never really got anywhere but at this stage in the evening she was hanging on my arm in a manner that suggested all kinds of delights to come. It was probably due to her looks rather than mine that a bunch of Australian lads invited us all to a party on the beach. We had no real idea where the beach was, but not to worry – we piled into the enclosed back of a pick up and off we went, singing and joking as we bounced through the bush. You can’t have a beach party without a fire but rather than follow the time honored tradition of collecting driftwood, our driver simply drove over the wooden safety marker posts at the side of the road and once they’d snapped off their bases, threw them into the back with us.
The fire was soon ablaze and the remainder of the night was spent joking, gossiping, skinny-dipping, drinking and somewhat predictably, losing Kattus to a muscular Australian surfer dude named Shane. By the time the velvety night turned gray with the first suggestion of dawn, most people had crashed, either by the fire or off in the dunes somewhere. I was still awake, but tired, stiff and somewhat cranky. So when Shane announced he was giving someone a lift to the nearby resort, I invited myself along, thinking he could drop me back at the hostel. I’d have a shower, catch a few hours in my nice comfy bunk and be awake and refreshed by the time the others straggled home from the beach.
Congratulating myself on my forward planning, I hopped in the back and in a few minutes was on my way back to bed. Or rather I wasn’t. Shane wasn’t a local and it turned out that he’d assumed I would be able to give him directions. Not only did he not know how to get to town; he had no idea how to get back to the beach where we’d left everyone else. Neither of us was familiar with the area, we had no map and within a few minutes were unable to determine where even the resort was. We weren’t helped by the fact that the highway system around Broome is a network of dirt roads surrounded by scrubby bush without a landmark in sight. Quite simply, we were lost.
I’ve no idea how many miles we covered cruising up and down but we seemed to be driving for hours. Occasionally we would pop out and find ourselves beside the ocean but never anywhere we’d been before. Eventually we came across the family of aborigines who were at the far end of several cases of beer. They were more than happy to take us to our beach, if we would only help them get their truck started. Thirty minutes later we were on our way and the only problem now was that they didn’t know where our beach was either. We’d simply exchanged cruising up and down the dirt roads, for crawling on and off an endless collection of identical beaches. It was only a matter of time before we got stuck and it was then the drinks came out.
I got back to my bed eventually, although not until nearly lunchtime. I got a kiss from the adorable Kattus, but not until three days later when she and Shane were an established couple. And I got grease on the borrowed white shirt so it ultimately cost me more than a meat pie. But I also got the chance to drink Scotch and Coke from a can at seven in the morning, with a party of Australian aborigines, while watching the sun come up over the Indian Ocean.
So all in all, it wasn’t a bad night.
The evening had started out promisingly enough. A bunch of us from the backpackers’ hostel had set out to the bar to sink a few cold ones with the locals. The company was excellent and even though it was karaoke night, we were having a blast. Because of Broome’s location in Australia’s North West, it tends to attract a fair number of travelers on their way either to Darwin at the top end or down the west coast. Australia doesn’t have too many roads and generally, you’re either traveling this way, or the other way. As there are only a limited number of places to stop, you tend to make friends with the people going in your direction due to the fact that you’re meeting up with them repeatedly. Although I’d already been in Broome a week, I’d decided to it my base for Christmas, now only a few days away. Several others had made the same choice, each as determined as I, to have a good time and the sense of camaraderie was strong.
The night before had been something of a session and several of us had resolved to take it easy this evening. It never turns out like that of course and when somebody suggested we move on to the local night club, the agreement was unanimous. Back to the hostel to change flip flips for trainers, shorts for jeans, T-shirts for collars. Being backpackers, we didn’t all possess such elegant attire or if we did, being backpackers, it was currently somewhat pungent. So the more fastidious among us found themselves in the positions of being able to trade clean clothes for goods or services. I myself obtained the loan of a very smart white shirt in exchange for the promise of a meat pie, to be delivered at a later date.
Once in the night club, the evening merely picked up speed. Brimming with beer induced self-confidence I was trying to make headway with a drop-dead gorgeous Swedish girl called Kattus, “as in catastrophic”. I never really got anywhere but at this stage in the evening she was hanging on my arm in a manner that suggested all kinds of delights to come. It was probably due to her looks rather than mine that a bunch of Australian lads invited us all to a party on the beach. We had no real idea where the beach was, but not to worry – we piled into the enclosed back of a pick up and off we went, singing and joking as we bounced through the bush. You can’t have a beach party without a fire but rather than follow the time honored tradition of collecting driftwood, our driver simply drove over the wooden safety marker posts at the side of the road and once they’d snapped off their bases, threw them into the back with us.
The fire was soon ablaze and the remainder of the night was spent joking, gossiping, skinny-dipping, drinking and somewhat predictably, losing Kattus to a muscular Australian surfer dude named Shane. By the time the velvety night turned gray with the first suggestion of dawn, most people had crashed, either by the fire or off in the dunes somewhere. I was still awake, but tired, stiff and somewhat cranky. So when Shane announced he was giving someone a lift to the nearby resort, I invited myself along, thinking he could drop me back at the hostel. I’d have a shower, catch a few hours in my nice comfy bunk and be awake and refreshed by the time the others straggled home from the beach.
Congratulating myself on my forward planning, I hopped in the back and in a few minutes was on my way back to bed. Or rather I wasn’t. Shane wasn’t a local and it turned out that he’d assumed I would be able to give him directions. Not only did he not know how to get to town; he had no idea how to get back to the beach where we’d left everyone else. Neither of us was familiar with the area, we had no map and within a few minutes were unable to determine where even the resort was. We weren’t helped by the fact that the highway system around Broome is a network of dirt roads surrounded by scrubby bush without a landmark in sight. Quite simply, we were lost.
I’ve no idea how many miles we covered cruising up and down but we seemed to be driving for hours. Occasionally we would pop out and find ourselves beside the ocean but never anywhere we’d been before. Eventually we came across the family of aborigines who were at the far end of several cases of beer. They were more than happy to take us to our beach, if we would only help them get their truck started. Thirty minutes later we were on our way and the only problem now was that they didn’t know where our beach was either. We’d simply exchanged cruising up and down the dirt roads, for crawling on and off an endless collection of identical beaches. It was only a matter of time before we got stuck and it was then the drinks came out.
I got back to my bed eventually, although not until nearly lunchtime. I got a kiss from the adorable Kattus, but not until three days later when she and Shane were an established couple. And I got grease on the borrowed white shirt so it ultimately cost me more than a meat pie. But I also got the chance to drink Scotch and Coke from a can at seven in the morning, with a party of Australian aborigines, while watching the sun come up over the Indian Ocean.
So all in all, it wasn’t a bad night.
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