The whale vomit and the enchanted forest

There is no known connection between a sperm whale and a dream home in the forest, but for Peter Cook there is a very close relationship.

     In the mid-eighties, Peter Cook, a jeweller was living in Hervey Bay and dreaming about a home in the mountains.  One day he took his horses for a run on Fraser Island and while walking on the beach he encountered a massive, brown, stinky lump. Most people would have written it off as a massive, brown, stinky lump, but Pete immediately recognised the mass as ambergris, colloquially known as ‘whale vomit.’ 
     Paul Jennings wrote about ambergris in the delightfully smelly children's short story, Greensleeves.  But for something authoritative Christopher Kent refers to ambergris as ‘floating gold’ in Floating Gold: A Natural (and Unnatural) History or Ambergris.     
     Ambergris is the substance formed in a sperm whale's gut to coat indigestible matter like the cartilage from squid eaten, enabling it to be smoothly passed.  It is used to make perfumes such as Chanel No. 5 which makes it valuable.  Once expelled by the whale, the ambergris, coloured from dark brown to grey, depending on its age, bobs around on the ocean until it washes up on a beach to be found by a very lucky person.

     The 64 kilogram buoyant nugget netted Pete a cool $90,000 and the following year, he realised his dream to buy his home in the mountains near Warwick in south-east Queensland.  In the tranquil forest he was free to work on jewellery and other intricately carved treasures.

     A few years later Pete met Becky Northey who was keen to learn about jewellery making.  Pete and Becky became partners and not long after Pete was doodling on paper and creating patterns.  He had a light bulb moment for shaping a tree into a chair.

Pete's first chair design done in 1996, the same time as the design above.

     Tree shaping is not new.  It has been practised for hundreds of years by the Khasi people of north-east India through the creation of tree root bridges.  It’s a refreshingly simple process; the roots of giant banyan trees are guided across creeks and rivers on bamboo poles to join other banyan tree roots and form walkways for the people.

     Pete’s version of tree shaping was to guide the thin and flexible branches of the native wild plum tree along wire into shapes such as the chair, figures and Celtic-like patterns.  

    Pete and Becky have also created coffee tables.  The results are slow, several years, but spectacular and unique.

"I'll have a long black with a side of milk, thanks."

Becky and the dancing couple.

Pete and the scary man.

       A uniquely crafted tree needs a unique name.  Pete’s nickname has always been is ‘Pook’ as an abbreviation of P Cook so Pooktre became the perfect name for a perfectly crafted tree.

     Pooktre Forest has an enchanting quality with its figures and shapes and it was easy to spend hours walking between the trees, mesmerised by the circular shapes and twig-thin branches that curl in and around each other in a never-ending way.  And a little bewitching since it seemed the human-sized figures were moving, just slightly, each time I turned my back.

     Large Pooktres aren't the only focus for Pete and Becky.  They have developed tree shaping on a smaller and faster scale by crafting jewellery and most recently bonsai-style trees, perfect for inner city balconies or courtyards.

Becky wearing a Pooktre choker

     Pooktre designs debuted at the 2005 World Expo in Japan and Pete and Becky have since been known as world leaders in the craft of tree shaping. They have been interviewed by gardening and design publications such as inhabit and they have even featured in Ripley’s Believe It Or Not.  They’ve got some exciting plans including a trip to Portugal in August with their two children.  Pete and Becky said they’d consider a move to Portugal which would mean they were closer to much of the tree shaping activity in Europe.

     Life in Portugal would be a long way from Pooktre Forest, but their home will always be waiting for them and it will always have that whacky, but special connection to a giant piece of a sperm whale waste.

Confession

I’ve been burdened by my shameful secret for months now and must confess.  First a bit of background to mitigate my sin.

     Over the years I’ve heard many white people comment that black people look the same.

     ‘The dark-skinned people all look so similar,’ I’ve been told.  ‘Don’t you think so?’

     'Not really.' 

      Having spent most of my life in PNG or on TI I assumed these people hadn’t spent much time around black people.  To be honest I’ve never given the matter much thought, except to have a giggle.  And another giggle when black people, like my husband have said white people look the same.

     Well, I’ve been in Cairns for five months now and my confession is:  White people look the same and there are so many of them.   

     In the grand scheme of things it doesn’t matter if I confuse the white woman on checkout 3 at Coles with the white woman in the ANZ bank or the white man in the bakery with the white man in the post office at Trinity Beach.  I am not going to see them very often and I don’t need to remember them.

     The problem is at school.  In a class there are lots of pale skinned, fair-haired and blue-eyed cherubs, about 25 of them.  

     I thank the Lord for the average of two children with syrup coloured skin, dark hair and black-eyes.  I don’t forget the faces and names of these two darlings, but the creamy-skinned sweethearts, oh, it’s so hard.  Years ago a teacher on TI referred to the few white kids in her class as ‘the blondies.’       Well, I confuse the blondies with even the mousy haired little ones and the dark-haired white kids.

     ‘Yes, Indigo, where does the plant get its food from?’

     ‘I’m not Indigo.  I’m Taylor.’

     ‘I’m Indigo.’ A long, thin, pale arm shoots into the air.

     It’s not confined to the classroom.  In the playground I can confuse a child in year one with a child in year five.  

     You can imagine my relief when I was asked to do some teaching at a high school because I knew it was impossible to be confuse one young adult with another.  By the mid-teens, genes seem to have emerged enough so someone will have a big nose or a facial mole or buck teeth or artificially coloured hair. Surely.

     On my first day I met Tahlia in a year 12 Communication English class in the morning session.  In the other year 12 Communication English class in the afternoon session I was surprised to see Tahlia back. Surely if she loved English so much she would be taking the academic English class.

     I related to the class the task their regular teacher had set for them and moved around to assist students.  I glanced at Tahlia a few times.  It was her.  She had the same sub-bleached hair pulled into a short pony tail, the same hazel eyes and the same button nose.

     ‘Hi Tahlia,’ I said.  ‘Good to see you back.’

     Tahlia looked at me with the disdain only a teenager can achieve, a perfect roll of her hazel eyes and subtle sneer.  ‘I’m not Tahlia.  I’m Tahnee.’ 

     ‘Sorry.   Weren’t you in my class this morning?’

     She huffed and started writing.  ‘This morning I had drama and a double maths.’ 

     I moved on to the next student thinking, I bet she was tricking the relief teacher, but no student would take two Communication English classes.

     The whacky names parents come up with these days only confuses me more because they are so similar.

     Taylor-Tyler-Tileah-Tahlea-Tahlia-Talitha-Taneah-Tahnee.

     And Barton-Bardon-Brandon-Brendon-Brent-Brenton-Braydon.

     What ever happened to Susan and Megan and Damian and Peter.

     I gave up.  In high school they are either 'excuse me' or 'darling.'  In primary they are ‘darling,’ ‘honey’ or ‘sweetheart.’  Then everyone is happy, most of all me.       

     Especially now I have that off my chest. 

No-so-sleepy Warwick

Just as I suspected, there was a lot more to Warwick than the sleepy country town it pretended to be.

     On the Monday Elia announced we were going for a walk.  I was expecting an amble through the dry scrub of a national park.  It was much better.  We, including young Helena took a stroll up the gentle slope of Mount Mitchell.  Five kilometres and two hours later we summited.  Aaah, what an achievement, bush walking in cool, crisp mountain air.  I wanted to keep going.  In fact I could do it every day, if only it was an occupation. 

     As we feasted on egg sandwiches and brewed coffee in the soft winter sunshine, I was puzzled by what appeared to be grazing land at the top of the next great mountain.  How would cattle get all the way up there?

     I asked Elia.  It was Spicers Peak.

     I’d seen the signs on the drive to the base of Mt Mithcell.  I wouldn’t normally have noticed, but there was something just not right about the wording that made my brain ring an editing alarm bell.    

Spicers Peak
The highest non-alpine lodge in Australia

     Shouldn’t it be the highest alpine lodge in Australia if only this was an alpine environment? Or something that it can claim to be?  The highest luxury resort in Australia?

     Why not something a bit more eye-catching? The highest non-tropical resort in Australia?  The highest non-backpacker accommodation in Australia?

     I had a giggle, but I assumed I was missing something.  Mind you, when I checked out Spicers Peak, I decided I’d Iove to visit, whatever the place isn’t.  Without the kids, of course.  I’d even leave my ducks behind.

Ciehan and TK who is about to put his finger up my nose to annoy me.

     On Tuesday I had a wee break from Warwick when Maura and I drove to Toowoomba to pick up TKido.  He'd bussed out the day before and stayed with Ciehan and Ashlea.  We had lunch together. It was really strange seeing the kids in winter clothes before they de-jacketed in the warmth of the University of Southern Queensland restaurant.

     On the Wednesday, Elia suggested a visit to the Pig and Calf.

     ‘For an ale?’ I said. ‘It’s a bit early.’

The Pig and Calf was the markets, ostensibly for livestock, but there was a pumping auction going on.  Happy buyers headed off, holding their bargains, a wine rack, CD holder and saddle.     

     A sad seller lamented into a Smartphone.

     ‘Couldn’t sell the printer, but we got $7.50 for the stereo.’

     All the while the auctioneer, a man whose face was shaded by the brim of his Akubra, let loose, a breathless stream of barely identifiable words.        

 ‘Eightdollarseightdollarsladiesandgentlemaneightdollarsdowehaveeightfiftyeightfiftyyes.

Poor dears.  They are probably smoked now.

     I went straight for the poultry, in particular the ducks.  The pubs weren’t even open, but it was the tail end of the markets and there were only three muscovies left, pressing against each other, I imagined, from fear.  Or because the cage was impossibly small.  

     I struck up a conversation with the duck seller, disclosing I had two ducks, as if I was a kindred spirit. 

     ‘What sort?’  He spoke in a monotone, much like the auctioneer.

     ‘Indian Runners.’

     ‘Hmph.  They’re all right.’

     We chatted.  His grandkids love raising the ducklings. I said I was keen to move to my father’s farm so I could have more ducks.

     ‘Really.’  He gave me a sidelong glance as if I wouldn’t know the first thing about life on a farm.

     ‘Do you mind if I take some photos to show my kids?’ I said.

     ‘Yeah, go for it.’

     As I snapped a few shots and talked to the ducks, I became aware of an unsettling conversation between the duck seller and a man behind me.

     ‘Oh, Bob,’ said the duck seller with uncharacteristic emotion, ‘that butcher in the main street of Stanthorpe’s been smoking the duck.  Delicious.  Won’t find a better smoked duck around.’

     ‘Are you talking about eating ducks?’ I said.

     ‘Love, if you’re gonna live on a farm, you’re gonna have to eat your ducks.’

     I told him I’d eat anything, but my ducks, even my legs and I thanked him politely. 

     Thursday’s outing was a real treat.  We visited an enchanted forest of Pook trees that were grown only after a magical event.       

     More in the next post about something wonderful in not-so-sleepy Warwick. 

Conversation Cafe

In April I chanced upon a poster at the Smithfield library: Conversation Café on the fourth Thursday of every month. 

     Because when you put strangers, caffeine and ideas in the same room, brilliant things can happen!

     I was sold on the novel idea of coffee and conversation taking place in a forest of books.  I went along and the discussion point was ANZAC Day.  There was something humbling about listening to stories of people who have direct experience of the horrors of war for the guests at the Conversation Café were in their sixties and seventies.  They had fathers and uncles injured or killed while serving.  

     One woman read a poem that made me teary.  Some brought items to share, an uncle's medal, a piece of shrapnel. I didn’t talk much which was unusual.  I did a lot of listening.   I came away thinking my generation have had it fairly easy; free education, vaccinations, welfare and income support and no world wars.

     Conversation Café is the brainchild of Di Brown and developed with librarian Sivan Bolger.  I quizzed Sivan about the fate of libraries in these internet days of electronic books.  Pah!  A fellow book club member quoted me a few years back as saying, ‘reading an ebook is like drinking decaf coffee’ and I maintain that.  But ebooks are here to stay.

     Sivan said libraries as lenders of books will not survive unless there are other activities and programs to engage members.  That made sense.  I remember going to the library as a kid with Mum to borrow books.  That’s all traditional libraries offered before the internet era. Books to lend to members.  Well, that’s not entirely true. There were accidental kids’ activities.  I loved whizzing between the aisles of books on the stools which had wheels.  And the step ladders were on wheels as well.  What fun!

     So libraries have had to change with the times.  The Smithfield library offers free internet access to members, areas for young people and children and there’s a coffee machine!  Seffy loves the book club on Monday (which includes treats) and Bodie the Delta Dog likes being read to on Friday as part of a program to engage reluctant readers.  Each month there is a day for Children’s Craft and Storytelling plus Baby Rhyme Time.

     In fact, on the way home from school Tony often takes the kids to the library for a few hours.  He reads his book and drinks coffee.  Kibby reads, gets on the computer, plays handball with his mates and drinks hot chocolate. Seffy does her homework using the computers, reads, plays handball with her friends and drinks hot chocolate. 

     And what I think is great – boxed-up sets of 10 bookclub books.  And My Island Homicide is one set!

     There’s some great stuff on offer at Smithfield library, including the Conversation Café which I planned to attend on the fourth Thursday in May.  But work got in the way and I was not happy. 

     Then in early June Sivan rang me to ask if I’d like to present at the June event about writing Ina’s Story.

     ‘Yes, yes I’d love to, but … but I’ve got work, relief teaching so I won’t know for a week or two if I’ll be …. Oh, stuff it.  Talking about writing is more important than teaching.  I’ll be there.’

     As it was, I turned down a day’s work, but it was worth it many times over.

     Thinking there would be about 15 fellow Conversation Cafer-ers, I was surprised when 30 turned up including some women I’d met in April. Sivan and Di had to keep moving the chairs into a bigger circle and adding more.  And bringing out more nibblies.

Here's me talking.

Here I am still talking.

Oh, more talking.

     I talked about why I wrote Ina’s Story and why I think it is important to write your story whether it's your life story or a particular period in your life or even a funny story.  Sometimes writing about things is cathartic.  Writing can help you remember things you’d long forgotten.  And most importantly, writing is a great brain exercise.

     After outlining a few writing tips, I asked everyone to write about an event from their childhood.  What surprised me was how interesting and engaging stories were.  Older, saged people have so much to offer my generation, if only we’d take the time to listen.

     An hour and a half is not long enough for the Conversation Café and after all the guest had left Sivan made a coffee for me and Pat, a TI friend and Conversation Café regular.  We made more conversation.  Of course it was my duty to finish off the cheese, olives and apricots as I’d already cleaned up the carbonossi.      

     What a delightful few hours it was at Conversation Cafe; meeting lots of new people and chatting with them, hearing their stories and talking about writing all while being surrounded by one of life’s greatest treasures – books.  

The Warwick Incident

In January this year, I hatched a crazy idea to spend a week in Warwick to catch up with a special TI friend, Elia who was celebrating her 50^th.  Since Elia and other special TI friend, Maura left in 2005 we’ve maintained our friendship through snatched phone conversations, rushed emails and texts and the odd, too-short visit.  I’d never had a week’s holiday on my own, but a half-century was every reason for a long and relaxed catch-up where work, family, chooks and ducks must simply be put on the backburner.  It seemed a long way off, but the day rolled around.

     Maura flew in from Adelaide and arrived an hour before me.  She’d hired a car so we set off along the motorway to the Cunningham Highway which took us to Warwick … after we’d worked out why the engine was screeching when we hit 20 ks on the motorway.

     ‘It’s in M,’ I said of the automatic gear stick.  ‘Where’s D for drive?’

    ‘I’ll pull over,’ said Maura. ‘It sounds terrible.  D is next to M, but it won't go.’

     The horn of a car passing at 80 sounded as it swerved.

     ‘I’ll get the manual,’ I said.

     ‘I’ve never seen M on an automatic before,’ said Maura. ‘What do you think that means?’

     ‘No idea.’  I was flicking pages madly trying to find something related to gears.  ‘Why do these things have to be so complicated? Here’s something about transmission.  Oh, M is Manual for rally car operation when more control is necessary.’

     ‘I can’t get it into D.’

     ‘Force it.’

     And we were on our way.

     Warwick, population 14,000 is a two hour drive south-west of Brisbane.  It straddles the banks of the meandering Condomine River and the town spreads out to farms, crop and grazing. Warwick has an olde-worlde charm with its sandstone buildings, Queenslanders on large blocks and wide, quiet streets lined with trees and shrubs still golden from autumn.  Seasons! How wonderful.  An unseasonal spring fever meant the mornings and evenings were crisply cold and the days cool with baby-blue skies.  Perfection!

Catholic church

Town Hall

 

     I imagined as I wandered the streets of Warwick that not a lot had changed in the last century.  There was hardly any traffic which seemed to stick to the main drag being the conduit for the highways to Brisbane and Toowoomba in one direction and the Sydney in the other.

     Had anything extraordinary happened in Warwick?  A grizzly murder?  A devastating earthquake?  An escaped convict with a new identity living a quiet life and working in MacDonalds?

     I did a quick search and surprise!  Anna Bligh was born in Warwick.  But I was thinking of something more momentous not that Ms Bligh’s entry into the world wasn’t.

     Then I discovered The Warwick Incident in 1917 and I could understand why Warwickans have kept low, quiet profiles since.

     On 29 November, Prime Minister Billy Hughes stopped at the Warwick Railway station and addressed a crowd about the issue of conscription.  Two eggs were thrown from the crowd and one knocked off the PM’s hat.  Hughes, who was a little paranoid about issues of national security, set upon the offenders and was understandably pulled back by his minders.  When the PM resumed his address, one of the offenders started heckling him so, as you can imagine, Hughes threw himself at the offender who was then arrested.

Warwick Station

     The PM demanded the offender be charged with a federal offence.  However the state police officer refused, arguing a state offence was appropriate.  Hughes lost it again and said he’d deal with the matter, but fortunately, he did not attack the policeman.

     The PM did deal with the matter eight days later by establishing the Commonwealth Police Force.    

     Fancy that!  The origins of the Australian Federal Police lay in Warwick ... and the egg, of course. 

The company of women

By the beginning of June I was feeling a bit sad and sorry for myself.

We’d made the big move from TI to Cairns and everyone was happy, especially Seffwen who is positive and chatty.  She is enthusiastic at school and wears a grin most of the time, except when she is trying to kill Kibbim.  Kibbim is happy being with his dad and is as cheeky and disobedient as ever, often teasing Seffwen.

     Tony loves being the house husband.  He keeps the house as clean as a whistle and bakes a loaf of bread daily.  Often I come home from working at school to the smell of a curry or mince stew simmering for dinner as the aroma of ginger and garlic swirl around the house.  Sometimes, just sometimes I think it’s worth me working and him staying at home because everyone is so happy, but I don’t tell him this because I don’t want to be in Cairns. 

     I have not warmed to life in the big smoke.  I have shelter and food and everyone’s healthy so I can’t really complain … even to myself.

     I had been trying to work out why I am out of sorts down here and I think it has to do with writing and unfulfilled ambition and not ‘having a career’ like some of my friends who are accomplished lawyers, teachers, doctors and so on.

     I’d put so much work into writing, been published and almost finished the sequel which may or may not amount to anything.  As a supply teacher I am not even using my writing skills.  

     And worse, life is so busy I don't have time to talk with my friends.  On TI there was Sam, Eileen, Nicola and Detta. They always had comforting words, even if they were, 'Oh, Cate, don't be so ridiculous' and 'God, what are you thinking?'  At the end of an optic fibre line there is Maree, Elia, Pam, but chats are limited to, 'I am driving' or 'it's little lunch, I can't talk.'  Cathy, Jenny, Rebecca and Karen are in Cairns, but we are all too busy with work and children or both to meet.  Woe was me.  Woe, woe, woe.

      It was at that time I realised a safe and predictable job in the Commonwealth public service would have been a better choice back in 1994.  I’d know what I was earning, what I was doing and where I was living or I would apply for a transfer to a city of my choice.  I’d even have made the effort to apply for Seffy to attend one of the high schools next year.  But I didn’t know where we’ll be living. I didn’t even know what I’ll be doing.

     Enter Michelle, Lynn, Jenn, Colleen, Emma and Jo and their bookclub that meets each month at the Kewarra Beach Resort. 

     I met Michelle in 1994 not long after I had arrived on TI the second time when Michelle was working with a mutual friend as a social worker.  We’ve met a couple of times in the last decade, but we’ve still got our mutual friend.

     Fast forward 20 years and Michelle heard I’d written My Island Homicide. She suggested it be read by her book club and I come along to talk about writing a book.

     I felt like a fraud.  Sure I’d written a book, but it wasn’t a best seller and I still needed a day job.  Would a book club really want to hear from a pseudo author?  Moan, moan. 

     By the time the night rolled around, I wanted to pull out, but that wouldn't have been right.  Then I realised I needed the company of like minded women, a good yarn, lots of laughs and a hot cup of tea.  A half a bottle of red might have hit the mark, but this wasn’t TI.  One can’t walk from Kewarra Beach to Smithfield at half past ten at night.

     So I went along and was asked some serious questions about writing a book.

     As I answered each one, thoughtfully without self-deprecating comments which I am prone to do because a pseudo-author isn’t a real job and can’t talk with any authority, my mood shifted.  There was something about being with these women that was inspiring and enjoyable.  I realised Shit man, I’ve written a book and it was bloody hard work, but I could write it only because I didn’t have a 20 year career with the Commonwealth public service and those 20 years have been full of amazing adventures.

     Everyone enjoyed the book which is just what I wanted for readers.

     One woman commented that she was really worried about reading the book because she didn’t want to tell me on the night she loved it if she didn’t.

     ‘But I really enjoyed it,’ she said and she got through it in a couple of days because she couldn’t put it down.

     I was stoked.  Such simple words with profound effect.

     They were happy.  I was happy. 

Signing a book for Valeria who couldn't make it with Lynn (left) and Jenn.

     We talked about books and writing for a while then we just talked and talked and talked about anything and everything.

     I came away feeling bloody fantastic with a renewed interest in finishing the sequel and a steely determination to suck up my woes (which weren’t really woes after all) and get on with life on the mainland … with a smile. 

     And an invitation to join the book club and read the next book, Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal.  I know it’s kosher to support other authors by buying their books, but I’ve ordered Lamb from the Smithfield library.

     How wonderful that a group of women around a table, with some drinks (including my cup of tea) plus a few hours to spare could have had such a positive impact on my mood. Not to mention the gift of a massive bunch of flowers.  Thank you, girls. 

Duck wisdom