FLYING INTO NEW YORK

As will be seen, this piece was written well before the awful events of 9/11 - and also before we had experienced a number of other airports that were memorable, from the foetid stinking one at Port Moresby in Papua New Guinea to the 'new best' of Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia, and many in between. But this still summarises our views pretty well. 

As we flew down Long Island on perfect summer's day, with the white sands stretching for miles, I could not help thinking about our travels over the past ten or twelve years. I tried to cast my mind back to what I might have thought about the future when I was a boy in Rhodesia - did I have any plans to travel far and wide, any idea that I might? I think not. I am sure that, when I read the Eloise books, I never imagined for a moment that I would be staying at the Plaza Hotel in New York, revelling in the sumptuousness of its rich rococo.

To me there is always more of thrill flying into New York than into any other city. Maybe it is the concept landing in what is the embodiment of America. The drive out of JFK is always a shock - the appalling roads and crowds of cars, but as you bump along, bumper to bumper, suddenly there are the glimpses of the Manhattan skyline and then there it is in an enormous panorama - from the twin World Trade Towers to the glorious Chrysler Tower. You are here - in America - in New York. The hooting, impatient traffic, predominantly yellow in colour pours down the avenues between those glorious, soaring monuments to mammon.

The approaches to other cities have their own charm and this is what was occupying my mind as we bumped into the landing approach. Having established New York as the premier - what ranking did the others have. And why?

I guess Cape Town would be my next favourite. No doubt coloured by my feelings for the city: my happy childhood there: the glorious memories of our early married life: the joy of the birth of our child. But even discounting these, there is a majestic grandeur in any of the approaches. The best is that from the west, sweeping in towards Table Mountain, down past Devils Peak to turn over the arc of False Bay. At night, although one misses the view of the mountain, there is a spectacular effect which occurs as the aircraft clears the Hottentots Holland mountains to the north of the city. The lights of the city and the Cape Flats, the plain between the two ranges of mountains, come into view so suddenly that it seems as if they have been turned on instantaneously for the benefit of the viewers.

London is another big thrill. In over the Channel, with the white cliffs stretching to the south, drawing a straight line along the meandering course of the Thames. The tidy patchwork of fields in the Home Counties start to erode into the peri urban sprawl of the city. The docks and factories come into view, surrounded by their mean neighbourhoods. Houses cluster tighter and tighter, although beyond them green countryside can still be seen, from this height. Over the Palace, Wimbledon, the West End - on a clear day they stand out plainly. Then down to Heathrow and the bustle of the terminals before crouching uncomfortably low into the uniqueness of a British cab.

In complete contrast, but running amongst the leaders is the approach to Kariba. Again, moulded perhaps more by the expectations and memories of the place than the sheer spectacle, there is something about the first glimpse of the Lake that makes my heart beat faster. The brown, desiccated countryside suddenly acquires a green fringe, the setting for the bright blueness of the water. Dotted here and there are the islands: Bed, Spurwing, Fothergill, Rhino, Zebra, all with their memories. And as the aircraft descends, individual boats come into focus. Kapenta rigs, done fishing now that the sun is up, with their black nets furled like lateen sails: cruisers with their fishing boats in tow heading from one tie up point to another: speedboats bouncing along, spreading their wakes like peacock tails: early morning game spotting tours setting off in their reed covered rafts. The touchdown at Kariba airport, with the propellers thrust into reverse - looking out the window to see if the herd of impala is still at the end of the runway, or if the elephant standing under the msasa tree has decided to move on. The doors of the aircraft open and the steamy heat of the Zimbabwe Valley hits you like a warm shower. There is a unique smell in the air - an African bush smell, mixing with the avgas - and you can hardly wait to get out on the water and into the fish.

And not to forget Zurich. The route from Africa comes in over Greece and up the Adriatic. The mountains emerge from the gloom of night as dawn breaks - a dawn which is protracted by the westerly flight path. In winter, the sight of the snow on the peaks is still a delight to me, brought up in a land where snow was something you read about in books. The lumpy land over which we fly gradually becomes steeper and higher as we cross the Italian Alps. There is more and more white now, with only the blackness of the steep crags, where the snow cannot stay standing out in sharp contrast. Silvered lakes glint and gleam. The aircraft lowers itself down into the valley, over Lake Lucerne, then a glimpse of Zurich and its own lake before we touch down, spot on time. Even on the airbridge there is a crispness in the air. The terminal has a clinical beauty to it. Everything works. There are no queues. The luggage is arriving on the carousel as you get to the baggage reclaim area. The clean cabs are lined up, their exhausts smoking gently in the chilly morning air. But why not take the train into town. Quick, reliable, spotless it rocks along through the suburbs giving a glimpse into a wakening city. The Bahnhoff is a busy bustle and the smell of coffee and fresh croissants is a lasting memory.

So many other memories jostle forward, once you start - Sweden with green in all its shades everywhere, apart from the dark lakes which abound in such profusion: Sydney from the north with the harbor below and the bridge and Opera House in silhouette: Auckland and Christchurch with their verdant green fields and happy memories of trips to that lovely land: Singapore, with the best airport in the world: the excitement of Orlando: Rio and the glimpse of Corcovada: Hong Kong, dodging in between the buildings, so close you can almost see what is on the television. But probably best of all is the home landing at Melbourne after a long trip away, especially if Anthea is with me singing "I still call Australia home'!


 I STILL CALL AUSTRALIA HOME - Peter Allen

I been to cities that never close down
From New York to Rio and Old London Town
But no matter how far or how wide I roam
I still call Australia home

I'm always travelling
I love being free
And so I keep leaving the sun and the sea
But my heart lies waiting over the foam
I still call Australia home

All the sons and daughters
Spinning around the world
Away from their family and friends
But as the world gets older and colder
Its good to know where your journey ends

Someday we'll all be together once more
When all of the ships come back to the shore
I realise something I've always known
I still call Australia home

But no matter how far or wide I roam
I still call Australia
I still call Australia
I still call Australia home

But no matter how far or wide I roam
I still call Australia
I still call Australia
I still call Australia home

BROOME - 1993

                                                    

"Slip into Broome time" is the motto on the T-shirts, singlets and caps in the souvenir shops up here in the sea port to the Kimberley country. The unmistakable implication is that Broome time and Dreamtime are related and that time is different here from the rest of the world.

The main shopping  street

And it probably is. Hiring a car and driving around the town leaves you wondering what on earth the Broome Explorer tour could do for the three hours. Chinatown is boosted as the romantic link with the past, when Broome accounted for 98% of the world output of M.O.P. - Mother of Pearl. Visions of Chinatowns in Vancouver, San Francisco, even Melbourne or London were flattened by the reality of the Broome Chinatown. Corrugated sheds face each other disconsolately across a road down the centre of which badly burned coconut palms struggle to survive. The odd Chinese name - Wing, Ching, Ling - vying with later arrivals - Anastasia's Boutique - is the only sign that you are in the fabled quarter of the town. Inside the sheds ceiling fans circulate the steam heated air, and the locals, none of whom seem remotely Asian, tell you how lucky you are that The Wet has ended and the humidity is down.

The museum is a haven of cool in the stinking heat of the day. It has some fascinating glimpses of the heyday for Broome and the hell life must have been for the crews on the pearling luggers. Diving to 12 meters without equipment must have shortened the lives of the aboriginal men and women who were the diving crews in those days. And all for the shell of the oysters, the M.O.P., not for the pearls which only one in a thousand contained. But, like many another small town showplace, mixed in with these unique exhibits is the junk and clutter contributed over the years and thrown together like a child's collection after bonfire night. Rhodesian native weapons mix with rusted bullets and bits of aeroplane recovered from Roebuck Bay after the Japanese attack in March 1942. Farm implements of uses unfathomable share cases with faded photographs of long dead families and their pipes, knitting needles and other accoutrements.

Cemetery at Broome

Amidst all the dross is a moving song, which I heard years ago. It is an ode to Nakamura, a young Japanese pearl diver who never made it home and it follows this piece. This ballad was one of the things which led me to Broome and which set up a mental picture of the town. I had imagined a sweeping bay, with luggers lying on their sides at low tide, with a rather picturesque wooden village nestled in the northern curve, protected from the worst of the cyclonic winds. On the opposite hill, I saw the divers cemetery, with Japanese, Chinese and other graves mixed in the fraternity of death. But it was not like that at all. Although the town is above sea level, it is only barely so. A king tide pushed by a south easter almost floods the causeway to the airport, and the foundations of the shops in Chinatown are in danger of being undermined. So there are no rolling hills, just dusty bush in red dusty soil crowding down to the mangroves. The three separate graveyards - Japanese, Chinese and Christian - maintain the apartheid through which their inhabitants lived. All have crumbling headstones succumbing to the remorseless seasons of The Wet and The Dry with temperatures rarely dropping below 30C. The wild green vegetation of the tropical islands would have overwhelmed the area years before now. The scrawny looking scrub of the Kimberley country is no less thorough. Slowly and inexorably it is reclaiming the sites from which it was excluded all that time ago.

Attempts have been made to make the town greener. Water was discovered by mistake by an oil driller in the sixties. Lawns and trees were planted, including the towering coconut palms. Despite the fact that The Dry only started three weeks ago, these foreigners seem to be as affected by the heat as the rest of the inhabitants of the town. What flowers there are wilt and the lawns are browning already, despite their daily watering. The hot dry air will dry a swimming costume in minutes - what does it do to vegetation designed for milder climates?

In the areas where there is no license to water, there is that run down look which goes with bush towns in the Australian interior. Native trees, lean and stringy, shed little shade and, at this time of the year have no colour apart from the dull khaki of their foliage. Clumps of grass scattered against the ochre background are seeding and all seem to be equipped with barbed accessories which leap out and attach themselves to passing flesh or clothes. Down on the bay front scattered sea shells, the detritus of yesterday's people mix with the bottles and cans of today's.

Crudely hand lettered signs proclaim, with varying degrees of accuracy of grammar and spelling, that one of the town's main festivals is scheduled for this weekend, which is a long one - Anzac Day is on Monday. Playing the Chinese motif for all it is worth, Dragon Boat races are scheduled for Saturday and Sunday, along with local sports such as barefoot mud crab tying competitions.

 

The dragon boats set out - mind the sharks and crocodiles!

On main beach, oblivious to the crocodile sighted in the vicinity last weekend and the possibility of the ever present sharks being attracted by the activity, teams of young Broomsters battle a chop, overturning the narrow beamed dragon boats with hilarity and regularity. There are no contestants this early in the day for the crab tying competition. The skilled masters are biding their time and the amateurs have not consumed enough Emu beer to put themselves into the four foot ring with a couple of kilos of armed and dangerous muddies.

Behind the beach the modern gipsies have set up camp. Crystals are for sale which will cure everything from impotence to BO : tie dyed shirts are displayed by long haired be-ringed people who would not have looked out of place in Haight Ashbury thirty years ago: junk Korean and Chinese plastic toys and gewgaws leer in lurid colours: smoking frying pans and woks begin the endless task of feeding the five thousand with ethnic delicacies from all stops East - Eastern Europe contributes kebabs and jiros souvlaki. Similar to look at, but a continent away in flavour, Malaysian satay sticks vie with rice noodles and bean curd.

Down at the other end of the beach the fun fair has been erected. Big wheel, spider, octopus and chairplanes stand ready. Late in the afternoon, as the sun sets, they will whirl, twirl, shake and stir the stomachs of their riders, laden with beer, coke and tucker until they spray their contents in fan shaped modernistic patterns to the guffaws of their watching mates. Those who wisely give the fun fair a miss will no doubt flock to the Sun Cinema - The Oldest Cinema In Australia. Sitting in deck chairs, half the audience under the shelter of the roof and half in the open, they can thrill to the adventures of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Part III. Those who do either of these things will miss the opportunity to stand on Gantheaume Point at sunset. There a pathetic concrete slab, which appears to have been walked in by a flippered swimmer before it set, has a plaque proclaiming that it represents the dinosaur footprints said to lurk beneath the waves only 30 meters off the point. In the steamy hot twilight in a jumbled wilderness of stone, with the shattered, striated rocks almost scarlet in the light of the setting sun it is not too difficult to imagine a dinosaur or two roaming around not so long ago.

Sand patterns

There are other things to do at sunset in Broome. We had booked for our sunset camel ride with Red Sun the day we arrived at the Cable Beach Club, in a sense of bravado. Now, impatient, and a little anxious, a small knot of us stood on Cable Beach. The sweep of the shoreline is impressive at low tide. A tidal rise and fall of over 30 feet makes for a wide expanse of sand, especially when it runs northwards for about 80 kilometres.

As we waited, all the stories we had collectively heard about camels were surfacing. Nervous laughter greeted some of the comments: others were met by a concerned silence. All joined in except the two backpackers who, with their zoom lensed cameras were shooting everything in sight.

A mob of camels cleared the corner below the bluff upon which the club stands above the beach. Forgetting that we had been told to look for camels with red blankets, we clustered around, watching intently as they knelt, one after the other, roaring, grunting and farting. Their keeper was a strange looking fellow, dark brown in colour, whether genetically or weathered, it was impossible to say. He soon made it clear what he thought of those of us who had booked for the Red Sun camel tour, novices in the game which he had been at for years under the cognomen Ships Of The Desert.

The ships loaded their freight, two passengers to each vessel, except the unfortunate craft at the rear of the string, who alone carried a Colleen McCullough lookalike. "Lean back! Lean back!", yelled the cameleer to his cargo as the craft lurched forward and then backward, getting to their feet. And then they were off, padding on their spongy feet to the north. And still no sign of our Red Sun camels.

Here they come!

We spotted them after a few minutes. Way up north, heading steadily down the beach. Returning from a previous tour. Slowly they made their way towards us, picking through the stretch of rocks exposed by the tide, swinging in an extended loop along the shore between us and the sun which was fast descending towards the skyline. The silhouettes they created looked magnificent. The backpackers cameras were not the only ones clicking and whirring now. The camels stopped, sank to their knees and haunches and unloaded their passengers. Steve, their owner and our guide, apologised for the lateness and distributed us among his charges. We got the strong one - poor blighter with the best part of 200 kg aboard. Into the saddles, leaning back against the sudden forward pitch as our camel rose and then we were ten or twelve feet above the beach.

As we swayed along in line astern, the sun dipped below the horizon at last, leaving the sky ablaze. The reflection in the water at the edge of the beach went from shiny silver in the north to bronze to beaten gold in the west. A host of images played to the silenced riders. There were almost too many to take in. A twin masted sloop raised her sails and swung out to sea: gulls paddled at the waters edge: the fingernail of the new moon started to show in the darkening sky: two fishermen stood waist deep in the surf, their wives and dogs sitting around a fire up on the beach: the Ships Of The Desert swung along, heading back now, splashing the golden water so that it sparkled and gleamed around their feet.

We finally turned for home. In the deepening gloaming as we headed south, the glorious Southern Cross appeared above us, pointing the way, although neither camel nor leader needed that. Steve talked of his love for his charges, wiping out the myths surrounding these ungainly beasts which, he swore, were more like dogs than anything else; loyal and loving. A shooting star split the pointers of the Southern Cross like a great firework in the sky. Our ride ended.

That's us - third camel from the left. Poor beast

This visit to Broome also spawned another piece - CABLE BEACH - WAS IT LOVE? And here is the song about Nakamura

 

SAYONARA NAKAMURA
by Ted Egan

When the luggers all sailed away

From Roebuck Bay on that fateful day

The diver on the B 19 was Nakamura

Not yet twenty-one

From the Land of the Rising Sun

His homeland was the island Okinawa.

In the deepest holes of the Lacepede Shoals

To fulfill the pearling master's goals

Went the diver from the B 19, Nakamura

His quest for the lustrous pearl

As strong as his love for the beautiful girl

He'd wed when he returned to Okinawa.

Chorus:

But it's goodbye now, farewell

Say goodbye to Okinawa

For today we'll bury you

In West Australia

You will never be as one

With the Land of the Rising Sun

Sayonara. Sayonara Nakamura.

From the West came a tropical squall

And the mercury began to fall

Forty fathoms deep was Nakamura

"Set sail"- no time to stage

For the storm began to rage

And they dragged to the surface the boy from Okinawa.        

The agony's in his eyes

An old Malayman cries

He knows that the bends have got young Nakamura

Helplessly they cursed

As the diver's lungs near burst

And he died on the deck the boy from Okinawa.

Chorus

To the diver's cemetery at Broome

Bearing gifts all deep in gloom

They walked with the body of the diver, Nakamura

Headstones face the west

A thousand divers lie at rest

And they're joined today by the boy from Okinawa.

Chorus

And it's Goodbye now, farewell.

Say goodbye to Okinawa

For today we'll bury you

In West Australia

You will never be as one

With the Land of the Rising Sun

Sayonara. Sayonara Nakamura..