ONE DAY IN PHOENIX - JULY 1993

I could not help but wonder what the Hohokum people would have made of modern day Phoenix. They occupied The Valley for about five hundred years, during which time they built an incredible network of canals stretching over many miles. These canals trapped the run off water from the surrounding hills. With this water and drought resistant crops, the Hohokum culture not only survived, but developed in what is one of the harshest terrains on earth.

Some of the Hohokum canals still survive, almost a thousand years after their creators disappeared from the area, but they are not used to carry water now. Modern Phoenicians no longer depend on sporadic and unreliable rain for their survival. Their water is pumped up from deep artesian wells and leaps out of fountains, runs down artificial water courses, pours down waterfalls, jets out over the verdant lawns and gardens, is vaporised and sprayed out the eaves of outdoor areas to cool them down, and flows through thousands of swimming pools. The water glitters and shines in the desert sun as it evaporates. The seemingly arrogant defiance of nature feels almost blasphemous. From the air the beige desert stretches away in all directions, broken only by the darker loom of craggy hills. It starts to develop green polka dots where irrigated crops are grown in their circular fields. These spots start to amalgamate and evolve into a more conventional patchwork of fields as one lowers into Phoenix. On the approach run to the  the airport, trees appear with the lawns and swimming pools of suburbia.

The transition from the cool aircraft to the oven hot walkway is brutal. The shade temperature is well over 100 Fahrenheit, the normal summer temperature here, and there is little relief at night, since the thermometer rarely goes much below 90. The locals will tell you that the heat is not too difficult to deal with because the humidity is so low, and that is true to an extent, but there is also very little humidity in an oven when the dinner is roasting.

The city spreads and sprawls its way over the entire valley. There is not much traffic moving down the wide roads and pedestrians are rarely seen at all. Mad dogs and Englishmen may stay out of the midday sun, but most Phoenicians wisely avoid the morning and afternoon heat as well. The only exceptions seem to be the lunatic joggers who are observed from time to time, sweating their way to dehydration in the foolish worship of the great god Fitness.

By nine in the morning, the comparative coolness of the night has gone. An hour later, setting out from the refrigerator chilliness of the local office to walk two blocks to the Heard Museum is an interesting experience. There are no sidewalks for much of the way - who else but a tourist would walk when there are airconditioned cars to ride in? The road is lined with tall palms at first. Then, moving into the well preserved glory of what was the prime residential area of Los Olivos, before rude industry spread from the city, there are grey green olive trees. Stepping out of the welcome patches of shade cast by the trees, the direct sunlight hits like a hammer.

The reflection from the white-washed frontage of the museum hurts the eyes and glooms the interior until the crisp air inside cools the overheated body and vision returns. The dry desert air has preserved many of the artefacts of the people who lived in what is now Arizona. One of the display cases seems to be filled with boomerangs. A closer inspection shows that these are indeed throwing clubs, used for hunting, but despite what appears to be an identical shape to the boomerang, they are not designed to return to the thrower. The lack of weaponry on show seems to indicate that the Hohokum people were peaceful folk, who developed fine techniques in weaving, basketware and pottery. It is difficult to imagine how some of the elegant ceramic bowls were fired. They would have required a good deal of heat but there seems to have been no real source of fuel. The Hohokum culture flourished and died over a very similar time span to that of Great Zimbabwe. Like the latter, there are few clues as to what brought about their demise. The current view on both is that their population outgrew the ability of the resource base to maintain it.

 

View from The Phoenician

The Phoenician resort hotel sprawls opulently across the slope of the hill up on Camelback, a monument to the excesses of the 80's. The story of its development is a familiar one. A local entrepreneur with a seemingly unending flow of money from eager bankers built his dream and landed up in jail. There are special room rates at this time of the year to maintain occupancy rates, but the food and drink still maintain their stratospheric levels. A glass of the best French brandy cost the eight people who ordered it in the past 18 months no less than $450 each.

Camelback gets is name from the shape of the hills in the area and because the US Cavalry ran an experimental camel patrol in the area for some years. Robbers Roost  owes its name only to the tourist industry. Perched on a rocky outcrop with a magnificent view of the sun setting over the hills, this is the cowboy saloon in all its glory. From the live steer in the foyer to the whoopin' and hollerin' "serving persons". Drinks are served in jam jars and deep fried rattlesnake is the house speciality. A country and western band thumps out the music and line dancing lessons are free. The food is basic, but surprisingly good and dinner for sixteen people plus their drinks costs about the same as a tot of brandy at The Phoenician.

THE WISDOM OF A CABBIE

I was in Sydney a year or two back, talking to a Manchurian taxi driver from Harbin. I usually talk to cab drivers when I can - they have an interesting outlook on life. Some don't make it easy - the taciturn, ill tempered bums behind the wheels of the famed Yellow Cabs in New York certainly belie the myth of the cabbie's pithy wit and the London cabbies, isolated behind their sliding glass window are almost incomprehensible even when they open the glass, as Cockney accent strives against the rattle of their diesel engines.

But riding in an Australian cab makes it a good deal more simple. Real men, including women, are expected to sit up front emphasising the egalitarianism of this socialist country. Mind you, it is another thing finding a cabbie who speaks English - especially in Sydney. My Manchurian's English was pretty good, so we got to chatting about this and that - the weather, what wankers the forecasters were - I didn't discuss the cricket with him - as a warm up to what really interested me which is to say, how did he get into Australia. Turns out he was a student here at the time of the Tienamen Square fiasco - a mature age student by the looks of him.

What was it like, I wanted to know, having to leave your family behind when you flee as a refugee? No problem was his response - they are all here with me, mother, father wife and child. But people back home - to never see them? Only until next year he said, then I have permanent residence here in Australia, like my family, but cannot go to China until then. Why? What is the punishment for political defectors? Oh no - this as we pass the Chinese Embassy, where, he says, most of the guys are good except they have to work within the rules, something a lot of Australians do not understand - the problem is not getting in and out of China, but getting back in to Australia. Any other country OK to visit, but not China - if he get in and out there, he not refugee.

And so talk turns to living in Australia and what a great country it is despite the fact that no one wants to work very hard and cannot understand why an educated Manchurian would want to knock himself out to earn more than just enough to pay for bed and beer and if the young people honoured the old and had more sense of responsibility, how much better the country would be. And we move on to the pain of leaving your home, how you miss the familiar sights and smells and the feeling of belonging and the fact that you will always be an alien in this foreign land - even if you are white like me, and speak a language closer to Australian than the Manchurian cabbie.

SUNDAY IN NEW YORK

This was written following a business trip to New York in June 1993 - before I went fishing in the Catskills. Gay Pride Marches were nothing new - I had lived in Sydney where the largest Gay Mardi Gras Parade takes place each year. But this one was so unexpected.

An overcast morning greeted me as I let the holland blinds rise. Spots of rain, glistening streets. I settled back to read through the several kilos of the New York Sunday Times, with supplements.

Some hours later, with the weather looking marginally brighter, I thought that a short walk through Central Park might help get the stiffness, brought on by an eight hour flight the day before, out of the bones.

The Park looked great, in full summer leaf. Fewer bums than I expected. One of them reckoned I was an easy target and whined for his dime. His heart did not seem to be in it though - maybe it was too early in his day. When I ignored him he muttered after me, "Hey I take Mastercard, Amex and all major cards, you know!". I came across a lovely glade, where the juxtaposition of the looming hotels above the tree line and the tranquillity of the trimmed lawn and neat pond made an interesting photo opportunity. I did not take a shot though. As I positioned myself for the best view, I was saddened to see, floating in the pond the corpse of a crane. What made it worse was the sight of the mate standing mutely on the edge of the pond, staring hopelessly at its partner. I am still disproportionately emotionally moved by such things and I felt I could have wept.

Moving on around the park with the sun now appearing fitfully, I gradually came to realise that there were swarms of gay people about, all moving purposefully towards Fifth Avenue. I had noticed a few T-shirts with gay slogans, a few red ribbons, a few "Boycott Colorado" signs, but what really got me sitting up and taking notice was the jutting codpiece of a well muscled and impeccably groomed blond, whose sheer shorts left little to the imagination, from the rear at least. I knew that there had been big marches in London and Washington, but had not heard anything about one in New York.

 

Rainbow arches of balloons were in place over Fifth Ave when I got there about half an hour before the parade was due to start. All the side streets were packed with people preparing their floats and costumes. Most of the folk were indistinguishable from any of us in the watching crowd, apart from their banners and badges. Others of course were more bizarre, from the transvestites dressed to kill to the bare breasted dykes with obscene slogans written amongst the tattoos on their bodies.

 

Spot on time, the cavalcade started moving, led by the Dykes on Bikes with their Harleys engines roaring - pretty women, ugly women, women fat and thin. Most of them you would not have picked as being "different". The prize for being conspicuous went to one of the older women with her Mohican cut dyed in the rainbow colours of the gay coalition.

Their male counterparts followed and this cavalcade of cycles served as an escort for a small group, smothered in reporters, which had as its kernel June Dinkins, apparently a pollie of some sort. Judging by the rapturous greeting from the crowd, she seemed clearly to have the interests of the gay community on her agenda. Behind her, the leading marching band thumped away and the real parade got going.

Stretched down the Avenue as far as you could see, there were banners and balloons everywhere. As each group swung into the main street from their holding pens on the side, they raised their standards to show who they represented. All had their own acronyms and many had their own logos. The variety was amazing, as was the style of approach and the size of the band of followers.

One of the most militant was WAC - Women Against Something. Wild eyed apostles of their particular creed led the enormous group, banging on metal dustbin lids with wooden mallets, chanting their unintelligible slogans. Behind them was a curious mixture of maiden aunts, one of whom was taking her schnauzer on the march, smartly dressed matrons, nose ringed shaven headed weirdos. Some chatted to each other, some waved to the crowd, others gyrated to the rhythm of the drums.

Behind them came the CCs - Concerned Catholics. A mixed group of well dressed middle class people out for a stroll on a Sunday afternoon - presumably after going to Mass.

Further down the Gay Veterans - hard eyed men, old soldiers, some in the uniform they had been proud to wear - carrying between them an enormous American flag.

And in between and all around a cacophony of sound and colour. Two enormous bare breasted women - middle aged and flabby with their nipples painted an incongruous blue: three bald unshaven transvestites in their skin tight mini skirts and suspenders: a group of Karate For Lesbians going through their strokes: black gays in shining gold costumes with rap music blasting from enormous speakers on the back of their ute. Really too much for the eye to take in and remember.

I had to leave the parade half way through to meet up with Peter. He turned up with a couple of young Aussies, friends of his daughter who only had a couple of hours left of a day and a half stop-over in the city. So what to give them as quick taste of the essence of this magic city. A ride in the Park: a trip to United Nations Plaza: a bite to eat at South Street Seaport.  They chose the last option – food is always a magnet for the young.

The kids were sorry they were not staying longer when they left us lounging in the sun like a couple of old lizards, sipping our margaritas and listening to a jazz band thumping out the melodies.

HUBRIS AND NEMESIS

                                                 

This piece was written about a time in my life not long after I learned a most valuable lesson and one which changed my paradigm signficantly. A series of events had taught that I had far less control over my life - and that of my loved ones - than I had imagined until then.

 

Sitting in the lounge of a suite at 22 Jermyn Street sipping coffee from one of their Villeroy and Boch cups, it is difficult not to have a feeling of quiet satisfaction: a sense of accomplishment, touched with pride. But humble pride, not the Hubris which attracts the attention of Nemesis. I know all about the dangers of that.

It is almost two years since we were last at this hotel. It is a private establishment just off Lower Regent Street, ideally located for shopping, the theatre, and everything else we like about London. At the time of our last visit, I was in a very poor mental state. Ground down by the long battle to turn around a company which was in dire straits and by the personal problems and adversities we had fought and overcome. I was concerned that the British shareholders were considering reneging on our agreement and putting the company up for sale. Judas-like, they denied thrice that they had any such intention. They lied to me and lost my trust forever.

What followed was awful. No sooner had I returned to Australia than I was told the fateful decision had been made. I had to mislead people who trusted me; to sell what I had built up; to abandon all who worked alongside me. That was not easy. And it could all have been so different. I spent endless hours, reviewing the previous five years, trying to work out where I went wrong. What I might have done differently. For the first, and last, time in my life uselessly wishing that the past could be changed. The end, when it came, was swift and merciful. The sale was concluded and the new owners had no use for me. I left the organisation within days of the formal announcement.

The months which followed were not idle ones. Resolved not to work in a large organisation again, I set up my own one man business. I found small jobs; they led to bigger ones. Travel around Australia was followed by international trips to gather data, to look for opportunities. But despite these small successes, a constant companion was the knowledge that I had failed. Sympathisers said it was not my fault, that decisions had been made by people who did not understand what had been achieved. But, to me, these were excuses which had nothing to do with the central fact, and act, of failure. Failure to achieve what I had set out to do, for the first time. That is what made it so difficult to cope with. Having failed once, how soon would I do it again?

Then I landed a project which would take me to Britain for five weeks. Things were looking up. Determined to retrace the route which we had followed on the last, ill-fated, trip, we left Melbourne on a soggy Wednesday afternoon for Sydney and the delights of the Hyatt on the Park. This incongruously named hotel nestles under the Sydney Harbour Bridge, right opposite the Opera House. On our previous visit, a friend had managed to get us one of the rooms facing directly onto this Australian icon and we were booked into the same room again.

Greeting us like old pals, our butler showed us up to the room. As we stepped through the doorway the Opera House loomed large, framed in the french doors out to the balcony. Ferries and water taxis scurried to and fro as we sipped a sundowner. Later, in the perfect autumn twilight we sat outside one of the dockside restaurants. It was warm enough to avoid the need to rug up, but with a coolness which had us reaching for a jacket as the evening wore on.  An aperitif of Campari, then grilled baby octopus, slightly charred and exquisitely flavoured. The delicacy of the first course was offset by the roughness of the Chianti and the heartiness of the linguine marinara, which seemed to owe its bite to Sicily. As the natural glow faded, the harbour lights shone more brightly and the sculpted sails of the Opera House, silhouetted against the night sky by the spotlights turned it into a lurking stegosaurus.

The auspices continued to be good. After a comfortable flight, there was no queue at Immigration and our baggage was first off the carousel. As we drove into London, the rising sun highlighted the contrails of high flying aircraft, turning the cloudless sky into a giant checkerboard. Chilly morning air revived us after the stuffiness of the aircraft. Tiled roofs of suburbia poked through the early morning mist as it rose in promise of a glorious autumn day and the traffic free roads of early Sunday morning ensured that we got to our hotel with the minimum of delay.

The staff at Jermyn Street said they remembered us - maybe they did. Even if they did not, it made us feel good. Later, as I strode through the streets of London, stretching my legs after the long flight, my mind was busy with memories of all the happy trips we had here as a family over the years. Our son, Matt as a young boy, as a growing lad, as a teenager; every visit with different interests. At times like this I rejoice in the knowledge that he too is coming to grips with the results of the fateful past but still chill as I think how close we came to losing such a precious spirit.

As I sip the coffee, I ponder again on the past. I scratch the old scars.  Was I smug then? Arrogant in my sinful pride? Was that what lead to my fall? Perhaps if I contain my vanity and conceit I will finally lay the ghosts of the past five years to rest. Time will tell if I am right or not, and the first test will be here in Britain.

HOME AGAIN - THE CAPE 1995

We  returned to South Africa from Australia towards the end of 1995 for a number of reasons, but mainly to be with our friends who we missed. And also to recover from what had been a difficult five year period. We moved into our new residence in January 1996 but spent six weeks before that in a small cottage at Kommetjie, on the Western side of the Cape Peninsula. When I wrote this we were waiting for our miniature schnauzer dogs, Tolkien and Pushkin, to complete the 36 hour transit from Melbourne.

AN EARLY DAY IN THE CAPE

High tide is at 4.15. There is a gentle breeze coming through the window above my head and I can hear the huge breakers crashing onto the rocks in The Outer. I doze, worrying about the usual suspects - how is Matt doing: will the dogs be OK (for dogs read Tolkien - Pushkin has proved his mettle): will I make enough/any money here. Awake again at 5.20 I decide to get up and have a cup of steaming joe, as Matt calls it, although he would not regard the dog's pooh Nescafe as coffee in anything but name. It is light now and sitting on the stoep of the cottage in the early light, I dunk a rusk and get as close as I ever do to meditation. Anthea stirs and I get her started with an  eye opener of coffee and a rusk.

The sun is surprisingly high now, although hidden sporadically in the morning sea mists as we walk hand in hand along the cat walk surrounding Die Kom. The tide is in retreat, but in any event it is only at the height of the winter storms that the inner haven is disturbed. The gentle swells move the beds of kelp and every now and then one breaks the surface, its black outline giving the impression of a seal coming up for a breather. The mirror surface of the tidal pool reflects the misty mountains to the north for the benefit of the flocks of gulls standing in their morning groups, raucously discussing the prospects for the day ahead. As we move around the inlet, we get downwind of the drying kelp with its sewage farm smell and wonder how the locals can live with it. Presumably they get used to it as the citizens of Rotorua get used to their noisome geysers. The tarred walkway peters out and we are amongst the smooth grey boulders and fine sand now, with walking more difficult - and slower as little pockets of bright shells are discovered. We think Danni would be enchanted by them when she and Matt come over for a holiday.

Die Kom at Kommetjie - Table Mountain in the background

The swimming is not so good on this side of the Peninsula - two or three degrees colder for a start. So I head across to Fish Hoek for my morning dip. The traffic is beginning to build up a bit now, but unlike yesterday, when all the commuters were headed for the pass over Silvermine for the city, most are now headed down the coast, towing a variety of craft behind their four wheel drive bakkies. I pull up at a red light and listen to two old chums sitting in the back of one of the vehicles chatting about their chances of fish today. There has been plenty of snoek around and they hope to get into some.

Down on the beach, sun streams into the warm corner where the old folks congregate, for all the world like the seagulls I saw earlier. Word is that the congenial climate here, combined with a daily swim all through the year, creates a kind of immortality. It is said that only a humane culling program stops the place from being overrun with nonagenarians. The crystalline green water is distinctly chilly at 16°C. Getting in is a fairly slow process, but well worthwhile. I swim a hundred meters or so and then get a small wave back to the beach, wandering down to watch the fishermen in their bright yellow oilskins hauling in today's catch.

'Trek' fishermen haul in their nets

They take what they want and leave the rest behind - jellyfish as big as soup tureen, small squid, inedible blaasoppies, which in the water puff themselves up to twice their size at the first sign of danger but which have run out of puff now. There is a fairly large sand shark which a young boy rescues, towing it tail first into deeper water before letting it go. It rockets off without any sign of the stress it must have undergone.

Back down the road to Kommetje I negotiate the four way stop at the Cross Roads. Vendors are beginning to assemble their stalls directly under a large sign which proclaims that hawking is forbidden. But the informal sector is a significant part of the new South Africa and such signs belong to the past. I keep an eye out for the police who, we have been warned, lurk along this stretch of the road waiting to catch speeding motorists. "They are all black," says Lorna, "and pick on the whites. I suppose it is their turn now." To date we have spotted eight or nine of these demons - all have been white. There are no signs of life from the bush pubs which line the road. We used to call them shebeens in the old days. Places where booze could be bought on the cheap. Apparently they are the place to go for adventurous young people who like the atmosphere of drinking under the stars. Braai wood is stacked along the road - good rooikranz, enough to cook for a family at R 5 per bag. The gum trees which line the road remind me of Australia, but somehow they do not look the same here. Maybe it is the wind which has made them grow into different shapes.

I pull in to what used to be the T-Room but is now the Superette to get a morning paper. Out rockets a chubby copper coloured kid pursued by the oaths and imprecations of the white owner. "Bloody black bastards," he mutters for anyone who cares to listen, "Playing the bloody video games so early in the morning. Sticking matchsticks in the machines. Bloody kaffirs, what can you do with them?" Some things haven't changed in the new South Africa.

JULY 4 WEEKEND IN THE CATSKILLS

This piece was written after a business trio to the USA found me in New York as Independence Day approached. I had planned to see my old friends the Schafers, but fishing intervened.

                                                       

The rhythmic jarring of the uneven concrete paving on Route 82 has had a soporific effect when I have travelled it in the past, but not on this particular afternoon as I headed for the hills with Richard.

The idea had sprung into life a couple of nights earlier at a jazz club on 31st Street. Richard had taken us there on the evening we arrived in New York, and what a starter it was. The club had a terrific atmosphere. It was in an old hotel foyer which had been renovated, with much of the original art deco ornamentation still in place. The music was great and the food simple but good. I ordered a hamburger. It seemed to be appropriate.

Walking back the thirty blocks to the hotel on a warm summer's night, I discovered that Richard was a fanatical fly fisherman. When he found that I had just begun studying the art, he suggested that we should take some time off to get onto his favourite water, the Beaverkill in the Catskill Mountains. This, he told me, is the spiritual home of fly fishing. When I mildly suggested that I thought the craft had been practiced for some time in places like Scotland, he shrugged the thought off as unworthy. Leo Wulff, he said, was the father of modern fly tying and he fished the Beaverkill. So we agreed to take off early on the Friday afternoon and get in two good sessions on the river.

I thought it might be a long day, so I made sure that I got a good breakfast. Wolfies Delicatessen on Avenue Of The Americas seemed to be an appropriate spot. From previous visits to America I had mastered the technique of specifying food orders, so I got precisely what I wanted: pancakes, two eggs sunny side up, well grilled back bacon and two blueberry muffins. I still think that American breakfasts are the best meals going.

I met Richard in his apartment on the corner of 81st Street, admired his view of Central Park and then we were off in the dreaded Honda. Richard is a better driver than his wife Beryl, but he has not owned a car for 15 years and some of his skills are a little rusty. But we only lost our way once and that did not delay us more than twenty minutes or so.  Richard has an encyclopaedic knowledge of fly fishing and it was good to talk to him as we bounced way along the freeway - whoever designed those concrete roads in New York State must have had shares in the tyre and shock absorber industries. He was hoping that we would have the chance to meet Mary Dette, whose father and mother, Walt and Marion, inherited Leo Wulff's mantle. They still tie and sell their original flies and to own a Dette fly, bought in Roscoe, is considered something of a cachet amongst the faithful.

Three of the beautiful flies we bought

We stopped for gas and a bite to eat - Big Mac for Richard and Dunkin' Donuts for me - and he tried to contact Mary Dette to see if she would still be available late on the eve of the Independence weekend. He came back from the call phone crestfallen. Mary was not well, he had been told, and it was unlikely that any visitors would be welcome. It takes more than a soft answer to sidetrack a New York lawyer, however. We still called at her house on the outskirts of Roscoe and tried to elicit some response. It is a beautiful old clapboard place, standing in a meadow, with the woods not far away. Richard hesitantly stepped up to the lead lighted front door and quietly knocked, ignoring the "Closed" sign. He even peered through the glass hoping that Mary would materialise. But there was no sign of life and, in the end, even he had to accept that we would not see Mary today.

We spent so much time hanging around the Dette house that we almost missed the shops in Roscoe. I had to buy a bit of gear, including waders since I had not packed these amongst my clothes for a business trip to America. We made it by the skin of our teeth, just as the surly looking proprietor was about to lock up for the long weekend. His looks belied him though and we were soon on our way, fully equipped. We checked into our hotel, which was on the crest of a hill above the town. It had marvellous views of the rolling hills blueing into the distance, but we did not stop to admire them. We had serious fishing to do.

What could be a better way to spend an evening?

Back in the valley we parked beside the Beaverkill - incidentally, the name of the river has nothing to do with the slaughter of innocent beavers. The derivation of kill is from the Dutch word for creek - kuil. The water looked magnificent, sweeping smoothly over a stony bottom, with swirls and eddies showing the shallower spots where the trout might be lying in wait for their food. Past the old bridge, the river deepened into a pool and then flowed on through the summer green woods, bending towards Richard's favourite spot, Hendrickson's Pool. From the bridge we could see the fish through the crystal water. Catching them was a different matter. I hooked a tiddler and Richard landed a better sized one, both released, but that was the result of three hours of applied skill. A gentle rain started falling. I had a little shelter in the lee of the bridge, but nothing would get Richard onto the shore until it was too dark to see the line, let alone the fly.

It was surprisingly cool in the hills after the mugginess of New York. We were pretty wet from the rain and standing thigh deep in spring water has a chilling effect, so the fire in the dining room of the hotel was welcome. A good meal, a bottle of wine, coffee by an even better fire in the lounge and the lazy exchange of fishing tales was a delightful way to end the day.

Up next morning before dawn, we drove down, through thick cloud, to Hendrickson's Pool. Richard could barely contain himself, recalling other visits and reliving the excitement of previous encounters. The mist was swirling off the water by the time we waded to the edge of the pool. The setting was magnificent, with splendid beeches marching away from the steep and rocky bank opposite us. A convoy of ducklings, with the matriarch in the lead, swept by, her occasional quacks keeping the youngsters in line. 

I spent my time improving my style and enjoying the scenery. Richard did not do much better. Slowly the sun burned its way through the haze and warmed us up a little. It was difficult to get Richard out of the water, but he finally accepted the fact that he had to, if he was to meet up with Beryl as planned. He landed a fish with his last cast and, in the brighter light of day I could see that this was really a spiritual experience for him. He had a silly grin on his face for hours afterwards.

The Lake through the trees

He dropped me off at Cupsaw Lake at our old friends, the Schafers. I had never been to their house in the summer. The contrast between the snowy landscapes of previous visits and the lush green of full summer was very confusing and I lost my way a couple of times getting there. Down from the mountains the humidity was high and the temperature rose during the afternoon. The shade of the trees kept us cool as we sat on the deck of the house exchanging our news over a couple of chilled beers. As evening fell, the fireworks started. I had always looked forward to being in America for the 4 July, as I thought that there would be parades everywhere, with brass bands and drum majorettes. Wrong. Independence celebrations involve fireworks, not parades.

Summer in New Jersey

As the fusillade built up its intensity, we strolled down to the club on the shore of the lake for a better view of the action. Rocky the dog, fat in his old age, puffed along with us. Conversation ebbed and flowed as fireflies flicked through the undergrowth in counter- point to the flashes of the fireworks overhead. We slowly circumnavigated the lake, stopping now and then as a display brighter than the rest caught our eye. There is so much to talk about when good friends get together after a long break.

CABLE BEACH - WAS IT LOVE?

I wrote this at a time when I was trying to produce, with the help of my son Matt, something a bit better than the journal entries he categorised as 'dull'. I wrote the normal entries whenever we travelled, but thought I might try another approach. This bit was written back in 1993.

Cable Beach has to be one of the most remote holiday resorts in the world. Twenty kilometres outside Broome, it is about equidistant from Singapore and Perth and is 10 hours travelling time from Melbourne. That makes it only just over half way between Zurich and Sydney and perhaps that is why Emanuel Fischer chose it.

We first saw the old man at breakfast, with a swarthy, younger woman. She was in a swimming costume over which fluorescent pink shorts were meant to provide a modicum of modesty. Dripping in jewellery, smoking heavily, she ministered to his every need. Mindful of Rose Hancock and Lang, we assumed she was a Filipina trophy bride. And nothing we saw during the rest of the day changed that view.

On the same tour as them to the pearl farm at Willie Creek, we could observe her fairly closely. They kept the bus waiting at the hotel, but eventually the old man tottered into view, followed by his consort, still dressed in the same outfit. She had some lunch for him - in a plastic box - because, like everything else in Broome, the timing of the tour was not really convenient. "Slip into Broome time" is the local civic motto  - "Slip a cog in your timing" might be more realistic.

As we barrelled along the ochre dirt road heading north for the farm, the woman complained about the coldness of the airconditioning. With an outside temperature in the mid 30's, the rest of us were happy to be cool in the bus for an hour or two. She was voted down - "If she wore more clothes, she wouldn't be so cold" someone muttered. The old man dozed off and she sat there, annoyance in every line of her body, staring at the no smoking sign.

At the farm, we all ambled down to the jetty and stood at the waters edge while the manager gave us the spiel about the history of pearling and pearl farming. These are dangerous waters. There is a nine meter tide in Broome, which is one of the reasons for the success of pearl farming in the area, but it also gives rise to some very dangerous currents in the mouths of the creeks. Added to which is the ever present spectre of salt water crocodiles, two of which had been seen in the area recently. So, as the Willie Creek swirled by below us, the tide having turned some hours previously, I kept a weather eye on the old boy, who seemed to be standing awfully close to the edge of the pier. He shuffled forward out of the danger zone to look at one of the oysters, and I felt happier.

At the homestead, the woman sat her charge in the shade and barged her way through the patient queue, waiting to be fed and watered, to collect a cold glass of water for herself and one for the old man. When the action moved across to the rotunda where we were given a demonstration of half shell seeding, she found him a seat to watch the action. This did not suit him though and, to her obvious annoyance, he stood beside the guide as he operated on the unfortunate mollusc.

Later, in the room of the homestead where the pearls were kept for sale to the tourists, at tourist prices, we watched as she chose a pair of expensive earrings for which he paid without a murmur.

The journey back on the bus was much the same as the one out to the farm, with the woman again demanding a higher temperature on the bus and the rest of the passengers, resisting this rather more firmly. We stopped to have a look at a bower bird's nest. In keeping with the awful drabness of the bush in the Kimberley, the local bower bird decorates his nest with shells and rusted beer pulls, rather than the shiny, glittery items fancied by his southern counterpart. We reckoned the woman came from the south.

Later that evening, as we sat on the lawn in front of our bungalow, enjoying the incredible sight of the southern stars spread like an enormously beautiful neon sign over our heads, a tape started in our neighbouring apartment and voices started to sing. We could not make it out at first. It sounded Russian - or was it Yiddish? Again and again it was sung, becoming clearer as the voices became more confident. Slowly we could make out some of the words of the chant. "German refugee" .. "butcher from Berlin".. " Australian musicman"... "Emanuel, Emanuel". The song stopped. Puzzled, we finished our sundowners and went in for a shower before dinner.

As we left for the restaurant, the song burst out again, louder and clearer than before. The storm shutters were open in the adjacent bungalow and we could see the old man, dressed in his white tropical tuxedo, as his family serenaded him with a parody of one of his most famous songs for his eightieth birthday. By his side was his favourite child, his youngest, his dark haired daughter, wearing her new pearl earrings.