After another 8
month sabbatical, sitting down to write is like sex with a girlfriend
you haven't seen in a long time. You know its good, and you really
enjoy it but you just can't seem to do it properly. You then stammer
out some lame apologies about performance. You try a few excuses for
the times of absence just ended before settling on a main point that
falls far short of being valid. You promise to make amends knowing
full well that your 'live-for-the-moment' ethos means they are just
empty words ultimately.
So I'm back; my
absence being noted by one person apparently, one more than I
expected. It would be great to be able to say that the last 8 months
has been filled with so many wonderful things that I merely haven't
found the time to write. But I'm not a politician and hence, I'm not
full of shit. I just haven't been inspired enough to write, and 161
words into this journal I'm becoming well aware that I'm still not.
But enough interesting things have happened to justify starting up my
on-going love affair with my keyboard.
I spent a week in
Perth catching up with Trevor and Abbie, but was also lucky enough to
cross paths briefly with my American friend Shane before he headed
back to the States. Those nights were as enjoyable as ever, meaning
their recollection was difficult the next day, impossible 8 months
later. There were a couple of long, teary calls to Uma during this
time, but she had returned to start a job as a trolley dolly for KLM
airlines in The Netherlands. As wonderful as that was for her career,
it meant her foreseeable future would not intertwine with mine.
Back in Broome, I
started back at Matsos straight away as destitution is a major
motivating force. I moved into Alex's room as the staff accommodation
was now filled with people I didn't like the idea of working
alongside, let along living with. Having a friend sleeping on his
floor inhibited Alex's social life more than the fact he was English,
so I felt obliged to find my own space ASAP.
With rent as
exorbitant as feudal tax in medieval times, I secured a jungle based
caravan so awesome it almost justified the price. Located on a
verdant but well manicured block of tropical greenery with 3 other
residences, I had a 2 room caravan and large annex all to myself.
Unfortunately, it was better suited to a couple, or the King, as a
dual income was necessary to ensure food was also part of the weekly
budget. An outdoor shower under stars and palm fonds was so
quintessential Broome in the tropics that I felt like I was an
animated postcard I mailed to myself wishing I was there. That made
sense at the time as I was back smoking more greenery than nature had
blessed my block of land with.
I had too many big
plans for the year, and munchies and cloud gazing was not going to
get me to where I wanted to be. So I gave it up for 45 days wanting
to beat Jesus' effort of 40 days and 40 nights. Now it's just a
whenever the time is right sort of proposition, made a lot less
frequent by Alex's absence. He returned home for his Mother's wedding
and is currently saving up for an imminent return, or a pound of
weed, whichever is cheapest.
The first big plan
for the year was to sell my art work at the local markets. All fired
up by grand visions and ignorant of minor details, my business plan
consisted of 3 sentences. “Jackson Pollock the shit out of some
canvases, loosely portraying things related to the Kimberley region.
Be overwhelmed at the market trying to cram cascading bank notes into
over-stuffed pockets like an 80's style game-show. Retire to small
Caribbean Island with Kate Beckinsale and a cocaine habit big enough
to justify a Michael Jackson style artificial nose.”
After 6 weeks,
albeit before the tourist high season had really started, I revised
my 3 sentence business plan to the following. “Market patrons are
discerning enough to know that a $300 price-tag on a painting that
took less than 15 minutes is too expensive, even by Broome standards
and therefore, actual artistic skill may need to be implemented. Find
other positives to spending Saturday mornings sitting in the sun
talking to lovely people as zero sales equates to zero profit. Cancel
cosmetic surgery on nose, lay low from Columbian drug cartel and
accept that 'Underworld' or 'Pearl Habour' is as close as I can ever
get to Kate Beckinsale”.
Other factors were
in play when the decision was made to give the market stall up for
the year. No longer being able to borrow a car was almost as big a
factor as being confined to crutches, but no where near as
interesting as a story. Ah golf, the least violent and dangerous game
to play besides uno. Unsurprisingly, it only takes a little bit of
alcohol to change that entirely, just like uno. The basic equation
went something like this. 3 dudes + 2 dual seat golf carts + 9 holes
= good times. Good times X 5 beers = great times. 1 dual seat golf
cart containing 2 dudes – 1 long lasting battery = mild obscenities
and valid excuse found for playing like shit. 1 dual seat golf cart
containing 1 dude + 2 stranded, tipsy and belligerent free loaders =
sagging suspension and ticking time bomb. 1 overloaded cart + 1 bump
in the road = 2 force-able ejections, Mikey sideways out of the
passenger seat and me forwards off the bonnet. 1 prone idiot +
forward momentum of 1 momentarily lighter golf cart = a steamroller
of steel axle over pliable feet, strong obscenities and alternating
degrees of laughter and remorse.
Adrenaline, alcohol
and defective genes combined to provide a solution in the on-going
consumption of alcohol as a cure for all of life's troubles,
exemplified at the time by feet that were swelling up like the
pontoons on a water aeroplane. While movement between the couch and
the fridge was not hampered on the night, the following morning I was
unable to bear weight on either foot, let alone Riverdance. Arriving
at the hospital, the nurses couldn't wait to see if the golf cart had
ran over my brain first and were all somewhat disappointed when I
seemed all quite normal to the untrained eye. A week on crutches and
3 weeks of physio was necessary before everything reconfigured itself
to the jumbled order of bones I've been sporting ever since sky
diving of my parents roof without a parachute or any idea how often I
would have to justify my stupidity.
A weekly rent bill
that would net me a 3 story mansion anywhere else in the country was
not feasible with no income. After sadistically mowing me down, a
friend from Matsos came to the rescue by offering me his room. The
lure of mining dollars meant he was lured by browner and more barren
pastures, and his room would remain vacant for 2 weeks out of 3. Out
of genuine remorse, or the most convincing impression of it, Ash let
me move into his room until I got back on my feet both literally and
financially.
So it was back to
Roebuck Estate where I got my first taste of domesticated living in
Broome. An open plan living arrangement, in the truest sense of the
word, the house has 2 bedrooms and a bathroom on one side and a
kitchen / living area and a bedroom on the other. The long wide
decking in between is the middle of the house but is open to the
elements at either end making perfect use of the endless warm weather
in Broome. My flatmates Trish and Jess are sisters whose welcoming
friendliness is matched only by their sibling bickering that often
seems catty but is always conducted with love.
Having a reliable
structure over my head has since been taken for granted, but was
pretty high on the Christmas wish list over the wet season. A few
cyclones passed by that came close to taking me to a place only magic
red shoes could bring me home from. Some nights, the surrounding area
was hit with lightning strikes so regularly it was like a nightclub
strobe flashing, without music or alcohol induced invincibility. Had
the place not been so expensive, I probably would splashed out and
brought some nappies cause I don't feel like less of a man admitting
I was quite close to shitting myself.
The wet season wins
out over the dry in my mind though due to the endless variety of the
weather. Sure 6 months of clear skies and low 30c's is pretty hard to
beat, but mountainous clouds of infinite permutations make for even
more magical sunsets than the ones I come to expect from Broome. So
with a blue sky beckoning me out to play, I'm off to Cable beach to
welcome back another returnee from last year and hopefully another
beautiful Broome sunset.
