freestylin for pondage

Holly Throsby's whimsical travel ditty tells us that, metaphorically, "so much depends on the shoulders and bends". After a week's camping with four Melburnians, I'm inclined to think that so much depends upon your choice of "bathers" or "togs". Readers will be tickled to know that your correspondent wore a cosi at Kosi, swimming happily as the dusk-feeding platypus amongst river trout and snow-polished stones.

The team and I drove south from our base camp at Geehi campgrounds to visit the Murray 1 power station to undertake an official inspection of the clean, green electricity-producing facility. You couldn't help but be impressed by something built in the mid-to late 60s that harnesses the water power dammed in the Snowies to fuel those turning turbines. There's plenty of megawatts in them there hills...

Down at Kancobhan (emphasis on middle syllable: kan-CO-bn) the most fearless of our group asked for directions to a decent swimming spot closer than the distant thermal pool at Yerrongabilly. Done. We were given a map reserved for expert flyfisherman and li-loers which led us to the top-most bit of the Kancobhan dam, however - this is where the fun started, as the dam itself was called by its more techinical name - "Pondage".

Skirting the pondage we disembarked from our humble 2-wheel drive vehicles and then entered a lacuna of tranquility and natural beauty. The tranquility was disrupted pretty much as soon as we rock-hopped around to a shallower bend in the river, but the sight of this place had us pleasantly gob-snacked: white rocks, large as yourself and then some, smoothed by the fast and high flowing river in winter were exposed now in summer. Water left behind in curves and furrows of the rocks remained stagnant but the rushing river was a shock to this lap swimmer's system: the water was only a shoulder shallow at times, but the current was that forceful down the little rapidways that freestylin' got you nowhere: there you swam, and there you remained, battling the current. The kind of holiday exertion you'd describe as exhausting and exhilirating.

Nearby a father, daughters and son combination family sunned themselves on the very idlable rocks. Mr Family told me that they'd be coming to this spot for 50 years. I awed politely and tested out the 25 metre run between the rapids and some metres beyond the bridge overhead. The water was green, deep and cool. I trusted the various parents swimming around who let their children and dogs (a labrador called Coco) take to the water, so I did too, swimming out my holiday frustrations (no butter for the mushrooms, no adequate refrigeration for the Riesling) and curing my lower lumbar of some quite nasty disc pinching...

Kancobhan? Of course you can! It's the Lourdes of the Snowies, folks. Pack your bathers and togs, Sydneysiders and Melburnians, and meet halfway for the summertime cure.

High Res New Year's

The custom of resolving to do better, try harder, as each New Year's (St Sylverster's day) swings around amuses me. Jews have a fairly rigorous New Years res-fest around the month of September that involves repenting for the previous year's sinnage and building up brownie points through prayer and acts of charity. Now wouldn't it be great if you could exchance brownie points for actual brownies? (The chocolate cake, not the girl guides.)

Back in training at the local pool, on this the second day of a so far very active and healthy year, I saw a leaflet (such a pleasanter and more alliterative term than "flyer", wouldn't you say?) promoting the forthcoming ocean swim at Manly beach, the Cole Classic. There's a 1km option with an entry fee equivalent to four schooners at the Beauchamp, just to put things in perspective. 1km of ocean-crossing action, nothing but cap, goggles and togs between swimmer and the big deep beneath. Can it be done? Will training on the safe side the shark bars at Redleaf Pool build up this swimmer's courage for a fenceless kilometre? My biggest fear, of course, is swimming slower than the hundreds of other meshuggeners and being left behind, solitary in the open sea and crashing waves, with only the channel 10 and 7 news crews filming my death by shark jaw from the safety of their choppers.

The only way to prevent this occurring is to increase my time, so that my 1 kilometre can be reduced from the current slof of 29-minutes to something a little briefer, say 25. Perhaps I could ask one of the pool attendants to drag a silver spray-painted styrofoam fin up and down the lane behind me?

Any fellow online diarists with a penchant for the salt spray and a 4th of February Manly challenge, do join me - I need a decoy.

Crazy lil' thing called rain

One of my odder habits left over from the Maharishi days is to sit up with the rain. If it's a bucketing or merely drizzly night, my instinct is to keep the window open and pick out the sounds of individual drops hitting whatever natural and manmade surfaces await the landing of each tiny waterfall. That's what I'm doing now, hoping that the Tom Robbinsian practise of rain-worshipping will Seattleify me through the relentless drought.

While adventuring in the Koscioszko National Park recently my inner sensible shoes wearer forced me to turn back on the Alpine Way when the rain began forming itself into arrow-shaped snow pellets. It might have been snowing but there was nary a flake in sight, only bits of flavourless frappe being flung at the windscreen for all it was worth - and that's a lot, to the thirsty farmers of our rural sector. It did occur to me that banning the household bath in favour of a statewide return to communal baths, a la those Romans and Turks, could really work wonders for our water shortage issues, not to mention a decrease in stress and anxiety due to the constant access to massage, seaweed scrubs and wallowing around in steaming baths and on tiered, wooden seating.

There'd certainly be some sore jack- and jilleroos wanting their massage and footbaths on Boxing Day Night, following the antics I saw up at the Jindabyne oval. Your faithful correspondent had the pleasure of attending the annual Jindabyne's Man From Snowy River Boxing Day Rodeo.

Roe-dee-oh (same emphasis as in "radio"), or Roe-day-oh (with emphasis on second syllable)? I hear you ask, and that's the first of many burning questions, I'm sure.

Roping steers? Bareback bull-riding? The bucking broncos were the stuff of nightmare, with the crazybrave riders purposefuully allowing their muscles to turn limp in order to rock along atop the unbroken beast. I watched, complicit in the cowboy's dangerous self-dehumanising: it's weird to see a person become just a check-shirted bag o' bones on top of what is usually such a docile means of transport and cow-catching.

My favourite event was among the first few on the program: the women's undecorating. No, this did not involve the removal, piece by piece, of one cowgirl's hot pink jodphurs, pink ribbon (at the end of one very taut plait) and camelly suede Akubra; nor did this involve the removal of any articles of clothing or accesorisation about any of the cowgirls' persons. Rather, the undecorating being done was of steers - the cowgirl races out from the corale alongside the swift little male cow in order to grab a blue ribbon stuck on its back. Most of the 7 competitors undecorated with flair but it was a Braidwood cowgirl, Nicole Amywho really cut a dashing figure in the dirt of the arena. Matching black boots, jeans, hat and horse, teamed with a flashing smile, pale lime green shirt and the obligatory thick plait, conspired to draw my attention at the outset; but her horsewomanship as she cantered sportily around the arena between Undecoratings really impressed me, and any jilleroo fancier with half an educated eye would agree with me that the Braidwood Cowgirl was totally worthy of undecorating.

Another delicious moment during my day at the Roe-Day-Oh was my request at the barbeque-kiosk for a simple onion "dog" or sandwich without the "hot" or the "steak" part. Not bothering to explain my predeliction towards kosher meat when beyond the bagel belt, I simply asked for the vegetarian option. Now if you have never experienced the collective stare of four beefy(!) men volunteering over a hot grill for the good of a local family fundraiser slowly turning towards you waiting for you to order, desire, guzzle and in all ways appreciate their meat on offer, only to have their joint efforts dismissed by some tofu-eating treehugger from the city, then you have never known true fear.

I, Mitzi G Burger, however, am afraid of virtually nothing, and looked these good blokes frank(furt)ly in their faces not expecting understanding or consolation. I simply asked for an onion sandwich with whatever salad and mayo they had on offer, and commented on my iminent camping trip and the desire for some cooked tucker, vegetably-restricted as that may be. The larrikin lad at the counter offered me my meatless treat for nothing, and I sensed something distinctly country in that gesture, something a little like mixed shame and tenderness - shame that they could not instantly provide the hospitality required for the occassion, and tenderness towards she who would not succumb to the lure of the marinated and tenderised (or simply charred.)

It was then with onion-induced tears in my emotions' eyes that I thanked those men, and returned to the grandstand for the next event. Take note, doms, subs and fetishists of all inclinations - for here was the "Team Roping", and the skill and dexterity of these cowboys and cowgirls was a sight to behold.

The animal and human politics of the Rodeo arena are problematic, which is not to say that I didn't honestly enjoy myself. For probably the same reason that for hundreds of years the Spanish have loved to watch the drama and occassional gore in the bullfighting ring, I am now fond of the rodeo - and I think part of the reason is to do with boot-clad babes wielding ropes and crops, and all this is taking place outdoors, fuelled by lungfuls of fresh mountain air.

GAN - Great Australian Novel (species), type #3

What has been retained most clearly, following a Decemberful of winding down on the work front and the summerial wringing out of humidity-drenched kaftans, is a big, juicey novel. A novel so clever and careful in its construction that one longs for the earnest realism of the 19th century novelists to find itself back in favour (as if.) Realism in fiction these days can be magic, sur or a matter of poetically suggested perspective.

What I have read, "Highways to a War" by Christopher Koch (author of "The Year of Living Dangerously") does what I suspect the majority of the sad lot of us aspiring writers wish to do and feel guilty for wishing it, and that is the glorification of the beautiful. Apart from being a measured and insightful view on South-East Asian geopolitics and the bloodshed that went with it in the late 60s and 70s, the novel is about a spunky, square-jawed Tasmanian photographer who disappears inside the Khmer Rouge's Cambodia in the first year of their regime. Mike Langford is a memorable character for more just the blonde sideburns, sly wink and ice-creamy good looks. He is something supernatural, touched by a luck so bizarre that he survives land battles throughout the Vietnam war, working as a news cameraman and stills photographer alongisde the South Vietnamese army and the Americans. Unlike the colonialist eurotypes and Americans, Langford is more interested in the idea of Vietnamese (and later Cambodian) sovreignty, rather than simply the brute opposition of Communist rule for Democracy's sake. Langford is a hopelessly idealistic character whose photographic ambition and talent thrust him beyond the mere clash of ideologies. His passion for the humanity at the heart of these "hot" Cold War conflicts yield him the love that was denied him back home in staid, sleepy Tassie. Flipside, of course, our Aussie Battler, gunning for the underdog, becomes a sacrifice himself, enmeshed in a system of intrigue that he would never have suspected was about to tighten around him, like the Khmer Rouge's gradual advance on the capital that Langford and his local lass Ly Keang are unable to save.

Creepily, the Khmer Rouge are referred to as "The Others" - for anyone who has become wilfully addicted to the TV series, Lost, just a mention of those soundless, brutal, ninja-like figures advancing stealthily through the Hawaiian-like jungle is daunting, and I wonder whether the Lost writers got their idea from some Khmer Rouge-related research?

Langford's a spunk, deadset - heroic. His experiences in Vietnam and Cambodia are related to the reader through audio-diary and recounts from the photographer friends he left behind in Thailand. The description of daily life is sumptuous and detailed, with the most intriguing and nail-biting episode related when Langford and his two closest photo-pals are captured as POW's by the North Vietnamese and forced to march the Ho Chi Minh Trail with their captors. The Captain is a model Communist peasant-soldier, and when he makes his soldiers return some chickens they had stolen from some nearby surly villagers, and they get on with their boring old rice uncomplainingly, that's when Langford and company realise the north would win the war.

I've been reading Highways to a War as a bit of imaginative and historical preparation for my iminent visit to Thailand, but its also pretty worthy for future consideration as a teaching text: Cold War? Hero's journey? It's all sounding rather Good Night and Good Luck-ish.

Whatever the book is - 60s nostalgia, horror at the world's failure to prevent the Khmer Rouge's assaults on humanity, opium-drenched whiffs of bygone Vietnophilable eras - it's unquestionably a GAN - Great Australian Novel.

So Many (book) S(h)elves

Amongst the worthy of my Finnegans Wake Reading Group i count my co-Bloomsdayer and author, the creative non-fictionalist Gabrielle Carey.

Carey's new book "So Many Selves" is the ideal Christmas/Channukah present for any fellow florale children eho - like me - came of age in the psychadelic '60s. Carey's three essays do explain her rebellious and unpredictable youth of feminist surfing, baby-oil drenched share-housing and the grim climb up (or should that be down?) the ladder of lechery that is the television and broadcasting entertainment industry. Carey narrowly avoided becoming a "TV personality" and for all we know, had she not fled the country and taken up with a monastery full of Benedictine blokes a la Snow White (minus dodgy apple), Carey might have been roped into a double act with Tim Bailey the channel 10 weather man going strong now these past few hundred years of his eternal blonde youth. To both of their credit they would have made a dashing and flirtatious couple.

In an email I wrote to Ms Carey: "Perhaps I'm pre-menstrual but I cried from the Seamus Heany poem onward in your 2nd essay Reluctant Novice. Truly transcendant stuff - beautiful.
And your search for a middle-aged literary mentor made me roar with laughter.
Makes me want to open my pub called The Wasp and Lech. "

Now according to my new Native American practise of non-possession of material objects (something I learned from my quarter-Navajo boyfriend back in '67, which could explain why he never had his wallet handy at the crucial moments. Oh, that gawgeous Bryan Eaglefeather...he became a disciple at the foot of Robert Crumb over on the west coast and for all i know he's still mooching around the hippie shops on the Haight, flogging his Navajo identity-reclaiming zines...) upon receiving/purchasing new books my rule is to give one away thus keeping my personal library at repectable "bulging" capacity.

It could be time to yield up my treasured copy of Peter Robb's "Midnight in Sicily", to accompany my Boot-bound friend, Miss Bliss. Shod in slinky mules as a rule, Miss Bliss is bound for the Boot of Italy to become the HR Manager for a network of Pensione, health spas and youth hostels, including the fabulous Carpe Diem Hostel in Brindisi. MB will need to be thoroughly prepared for the souther culture that yielded some of the world's finest literature, underworld figures and ice-cream based deserts. "Midnight in Sicily" is THE book for that purpose and the sometime Darlo North-dwelling Peter Robb is the writer we kowtow to in this case. On last hearing Peter Robb was in Syria, immersing himself among the coffee and backgammon set in preparation for his next book. Oh, Pete, you old chimera: when will you materialise here again and disprove that Darlo North is the least life-threatening metropolitan enclave? You only have to step outside bonnetless and - bang! skin cancer.

Thus a hymnal for yet another ex-pat sounds.

E(l)P (Everybody Loudly 'Plauds)

Today I spoiled myself rotten at the local record store, got near red-eyed with fatigue flipping through the racks of vinyl.

I'm still not used to Compact Discs, even though I was at the party where a friend of a friend-in-law's twin sister used the prototype of the first Compact Disc to do her eye make-up and then as an ideal surface for the chakric allignment of her nose powder. Those were wild, wild nights, if you'll pardon an Emily Diskinsonism. Friends of mine who became parents to a range of crayon-wielding demon children have since told me their Etch-A-Sketch works just a well as the underside of a CD, in the logistication of their celebratory snuff. I imagine the movable ruler fixture would contribute well to the "Madeline"-esque idyll of all things being in "two straight lines" (come rain or shine.) It is nice to know my friends are getting good use out of their children's toys.

Amongst my purchases from today's musical splurge is an EP from a local band named the Damnwells. A lovely name for a troupe o' troubadros & one that had crossed my ears' path in listening to indie-friendly radio stations.

What caught my eye was the well-placed critic's pick sticker which on closer inspection turned out to be the record label's homespun simulation of a commerical label's "notice these bonus features" plug.

The bonus features in this case are two "killer tracks", the first being Track 1, titled "HCE (Here Comes Everyone)." I was intrigued. I am a sucker for anything with the initials HCE. This is the monogram of our favourite anti-hero over at the Sydney Finnegans Wake Reading Group.
His name is sometimes Humphrey Chimpden Earwicker and often stands for Here Comes Everybody or Haveth Childers Everywhere.

The song itself did not lift the room of my personal auditorium. Musically, the Damnwells play better than I could sing a Donazetti aria. Track 4 called Sleepsinging is rather a more tenderly lyriced and fingerly-picked ballad.

Nevertheless I am pleased and congratulate the group and their stage-motherly promoter for pointing me towards this treat, another example of the Joycean influence in contemporary culture. Now the Sydney FWRG would like to hear a follow up track named ALP which stands for HCE's wifey-lass named Anna Livia Plurabelle.