KUNUNURRA

We had a good meal down on the wharf at Darwin - at Christo's. World Renowned For Our SeaFood, the sign said, and it was pretty good. The octopus I ordered was delicious. Not the effete baby octopus we have come to expect Down South, but healthy chunks of really mature beasts.

It was good sitting in the shade with the warm sea breeze blowing, watching two rig tenders dock. We had a bit of a laugh shouting ribald resonses to the tannoy enhanced queries of the skippers - all rather silly really, but we were having fun and relaxing and everyone else was working.

Later in the afternoon we drifted back to won and browsed through the art galleries. Terry chose a fine X-ray painting of a barramundi. I picked up a souvenir flint knife for myself. I never realised how sharp those knives are. Then we headed off to the airport through the heat haze of the afternoon.

There is a limited selection of flights from Darwin to Perth. We were lucky to be on a flight with only one scheduled stop - at Kununurra. Some drop down at all the patches of civilisation in the vast Kimberely area, taking seven or eight hours for the trip. We would do it in five and a half hours unless there was a full load and a head wind. Then we would have to land at Port Hedland to refuel adding another hour to the journey.

Check in was slow, but then so is Darwin. An unfortunate young German mother with a child on her hip was trying to check in at the counter next to us, with a ticket to Kununurra, but wanting to go to Broome. The duet grew more strident with each interchange. " I vish to go to Brrroome, ja!" "Yer ticket's for Kununurra" "But my husband he said the ticket it was for Brroome." "Well, it's for Kununurra" "But I must get to Brroome." "Yer ticket's fer Kununurra". The variation on the theme did not vary much. And was still going when we left for the comfort of the Frequent Fliers lounge.

Terry had the window seat so I could only catch occasional glimpses of the scenery passing by below. Amazing country at the Top End. Miles and miles of buggar all. Mud flats, with strips of water winding through them. Each full of salties - salt water crocodiles and nothing else.

And then the contrast of the Orde River Irrigation Scheme as we lowered into Kununurra. Enormous green fields, square and regular. All shades of green. Thousands of kilometres from the nearest market, there is about half a million acres under irrigation, growing chick peas, beans, mangoes, squash. All part of a grandiose political gesture aimed at opening up the north at a cost of millions.

The airport itself is an interesting experience. A large, overheated concrete box, reminiscent of a Third World airport. Red earth all around it gets tracked in. An enormous old air-conditioner grumbles and groans in the corner, circulating the air and cooling it marginally, but perhaps the fans do more to keep you cool than it does. Thank You For Being Patient, says the sign next to the strip of steel bridging the ditch between the airport building and the car park, where a nondescript Japanese vehicle, in a somewhat pre-used condition has a banner proclaiming that this is where you collect your Avis car. The airport is being up graded, presumably in response to deregulation of the airways. There is only one carrier in the Far North at present.

Frau Weber and her child have made it this far, but all passengers for Broome have to change aircraft here. She battles with the check in staff. Her conversation lost in the din of shrieking children of who are hurtling around the building and the general hubbub associated with the arrival and departure of the two flights which, today, justify the existence of Kununurra airport. It seems though that, unless there is is a no show, she and her child are destined to spend two more days in Kununurra - the next flight to Broome is on Thursday. She sits, disconsolate, on her substantial pile of luggage.

You would think that this far North and West, even though today is a cool day at about 38+, everyone would be wearing hats, but there are only two or three. A couple look like tourists in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the third! What a sight. An Aboriginal stockman, standing about 6' 5" in his high heeled boots and about six foot wide at the shoulder, silver buckled belt around his trim waist and a white straw stetson on his head, contrasting with the rich, deep blackness of his skin. The full blooded Aborigine has a blackness which is so different from the blackness of the Africans. Matt is the best description, I suppose. He looks a bit uneasy and it seems that he has never been on a commercial flight before - "Can I sit anywhere, mate," he rumbled when we came to board the plane. I showed him where his seat number was on his boarding pass and he studied it long and hard. I wondered how literate he was, but he found the right seat. As he went down the aisle, Terry said that he would hate to meet him on a dark night - I said that if he wasn't smiling you would never see him coming, his skin would absord all available light.

There is not much to do, once you have looked at the two relief maps which fill the northern wall. The showcase advertising local points of interest and crafts is fairly bare and badly in need of dusting and re-arranging - maybe they feel that there is no need to attend to this until the building works are completed. Mango masks are an advertised souvenir - bearded Pan faces leering at you, made out of half a mango pip. Just the thing to remind you of a long weekend - and any weekend would seem long, I guess, in Kununurra.

FAR CATHAY

I wrote this bit years ago when I was still in the corporate world. I was trying my hand at an observational piece - my son Matt who was good enough to give me a bit of guidance said my normal diary bits at that time were somewhat boring

Stretching my legs after the nine hour hop from Melbourne, in anticipation of the rather longer journey to London ahead, I wander through the departure area of Hong Kong airport during the three hour layover before take off. People of all races mill around, some browsing through the duty free shops, others obviously heading for their flights. In the quiet eddies outside the main stream of humanity there are bodies stretched out on the floor, apparently fast asleep and oblivious to all around them. They are clearly not as concerned about their departure time as those who stand, agape, before the flight monitors.

I head back to the comparative quiet and cool of the First Class lounge. Australia and England are locked in an Ashes series and play in the Lords' Test should be starting about now. A television set mutters to itself quietly in one corner, but no matter what channel I switch to, there is no news of the cricket. Maybe the locals are not really that interested, even though they live in what is still a British colony. I try the business centre, but they just grin and offer me the financial screens which flash the latest prices on exchanges all over the world.

A seat by the window gives me a good view of the non stop activities of this bustling port. Aircraft roar in and out through the narrow approach and exit chasms. With land at such a premium there is not the luxury of having open space around the aiport. This constriction is also reflected on the ground, where aircraft are taxiing here and there, apparently missing each other by inches. I play "spot the tail fin" for a while, trying to see how many logos I can recognise, but tiring of this, especially as I am losing, I turn my attention to the crowd around us to see how they deal with the ennui of transit.

Some are doing what airlines encourage all passengers to do - eating and drinking. I cannot recall a flight anywhere when food and drink was not supplied. We even used to get it on the short hop from Kariba to Harare where the poor overworked hostess barely had time to dish out the food, pour the drinks and clear up between take off and landing. That was what Eric designated a one drink flight - he used to prefer five drink flights. I have in fact been on some flights where the aircraft were too small to have any staff other than the pilot but they still insisted on ensuring that passengers did not starve or die of thirst, handing over a picnic pack with the boarding pass.

At the next table two expats are intensely playing an incomprehensible card game. Not a word is exchanged as they slap cards down, bet and collect, sphinxlike in their concentration. In my imagination, I can see them, stuck in some far distant part of what used to be the British Empire, sweating under the punkahs, gin and tonic at hand playing this marathon and seemingly pointless game.

Normally there are very few children in these lounges - passengers more crusty than I have been heard to remark loudly that they should actually be banned. The family which now arrives gives credibility to that belief. Like a breaking wave, they roar in, spreading themselves into my territory, interrupting my reverie. Annoyed as I am, I think it might be an interesting exercise to try and work out where they are from and where they are going to.

I only have a brief glimpse of the man in the family. He looks a bit swarthy and wears a hat, but, having lead his flock through the hazards of the departure lounge to this oasis of quietness he disappears. He leaves behind him half a dozen children and a thin, rat faced woman who seems to have no control over the little blighters. Dark hair stretched back tightly on her skull, her bright red lipstick emphasises the pallor of her skin. Ignoring her brood, who are scrambling over the furniture, knocking over glasses and generally behaving like a pack of hyena pups, she lights up a cigarette, gazing around her in some agitation.

Her eyes light up when she spots an old Eurasian woman puffing up in the rear, hanging on to yet another brat which is bellowing its lungs out. The noise of their passage spreads a wake of turned heads and sour faces tut-tutting through the lounge. My first thought is that this must be grandmother, but not so. This is the East and this is the amah - nanny not Nana. As she arrives, rat face bales out. Maybe the man and the woman, obviously the parents of this pack, find them as trying as the rest of us, maybe they have to go to the rest rooms. Whatever the reason, they do not appear again until just before their flight is called.

Another amah appears and the noise subsides gradually to a dull roar. The nannies and the kids communicate in American accented speech and I notice that the young boys are wearing yamulkas. So that makes them a Jewish family, probably from the Phillipines - yes, the father was wearing tropical gear, which made the black hat more incongruous. Obviously not too Orthodox, else they could not be flying on their Sabbath. But where are they going to? The children are wearing anoraks and padded leggings, but this is the northern hemisphere and it is summer up here. Maybe the parents are consigning them all to Tierra del Fuega - it should be pretty cold down there by now and that would not be a bad idea, as an alternative to infanticide.

Mother suddenly materialises, drink and cigarette in hand, causing an eruption of offspring, all jostling for attention. She snaps orders to the amahs who shoot off, taking only the smallest one, who cannot yet walk. The noise level rises again as the brood realise that they have a free hand, with their controllers out of the way. The amahs re-appear with a load of drinks and snacks which they distribute like zookeepers at feeding time. The riotous assembly subsides and snuffles its collective way though the goodies.

A flight is called and, on cue, father appears, as harassed as when he arrived, draped with cabin baggage. The flock rises, takes up stations in a wedge like formation and heads for the exit to the collective relief of those lucky enough not to be sharing their flight. Quiet descends. I go back to my contemplation of those around me and the clock ticks on. Only an hour to go now.

HARRY AND THE HIPPO

          I was looking for a file in my somewhat chaotic and crowded filing 'system' when I came across this piece which I wrote years ago. It is based on a true incident, but I tried to give it a bit of local colour for a competition I thought of entering. Never did it. Didn't have the courage to expose my inexpertise. Couldn't care now - I'm among Friends and some may find it amusing.        

Harry nearly went overboard when he hooked the hippo.

The two of us were in Zimbabwe on secondment from the ATO – Australian Tax Office. Part of what the local businessmen called The A Team, sent across to help the new government stop the tax dodgers in their tracks.

We had a fair bit of time off and every spell we could we headed up North to Lake Kariba. What a place, I tell you. Nearly 250 kilometres long and sixty wide, it was stuffed full of fish and it had a game reserve down one side of it. You could loll back in your boat when the fishing was quiet and watch a herd of elephant or buffalo drift by. Plenty of antelope too and the occasional lion or leopard. It was only 365 kilometres up to the Lake from Harare, no traffic and no speed limits - well, there were speed limits, but no cops to enforce them - so we used to make the trip in about three hours flat.

So this particular weekend, Harry and I shot through when we knocked off at lunch time.  We'd arranged to meet a couple of our pals up at the Lake - Bob and Jim. They owned a charter boat between them and usually brought along some of their mates for these weekends. These blokes all had two things in common - a love of grog and a love of fishing. I'm not saying we were invited along because we had a good supply of duty free, or because we were in the tax office, but Harry and I agreed that it didn't do us any harm either. And it saved an awful lot in boat charter fees.

We made it to the Lake soon after noon and half an hour later we were out on the water, heading for a creek where the fishing was usually tops. Well, maybe we did leave the office a bit before lunch.

Getting there an hour before sunset gave us plenty of time to get out in the dinghies to catch some bream for tea. Harry and I shared a boat with one of the crew - a local bloke called Manzi. He was the best fisherman I ever met and you knew that when he was with you, you'd come back with a full keep net.

Manzi guided us into a great little bay. There was a patch of weed in the corner and that usually meant some fat bream. We rigged our rods, got our lines into the water without any delay and settled back, rocking gently in the boat, waiting for the first bite. As we sat there, I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a patch of the weed which seemed to rise every now and then. I thought nothing of it and concentrated on my float. As I did so, I noticed a twin line of bubbles moving rapidly out of the weed. Before I could ask Manzi what kind of fish caused these bubbles, Harry's reel started to scream and his line stripped off at an incredible rate. He leapt to his feet - not a good idea in a light dinghy - and, swearing like a trooper, managed to regain his balance just as a hippo surfaced not twenty feet from the boat, wearing his hook as an earring and his float as a pendant. Its bellow indicated that it was not happy with these arrangements.

"Break the line, sah," urged Manzi as he frantically started the engine. Harry needed no urging and as the hippo submerged the line snapped. Manzi slammed the boat into gear and I wore Harry in my lap as he finally lost it. We shot out of the bay, going like a Bondi tram, trying to untangle arms and legs, happy to leave the hippo to it.

That evening, as we sat and watched the sun go down, we told our tale to the guffaws of the local mob. But Bob didn't laugh much. He just sat there thinking and when we had done he quietly said to Harry, "You know, Harry, I reckon you could have landed that if you hadn't tightened your drag so much."