Pepper Zen flies south

It's been a big ten days for Pepper Zen.  On 26 January, she took to the air for the first time, but there were a few things to organise before she could board the Qantaslink flight to Cairns.

     First, she needed to be introduced to travelling in a crate.  She was used to sleeping in the crate because each night I take her from the garden and lock her, from the safety of cats, dogs and worse, snakes, in a medium-sized dog crate.  In the past fortnight, I down-graded her into a cat crate in preparation for the big day.  I contacted Wildlife Rescue in Cairns and was advised the smaller space would prevent her flapping her wings if she became distressed on the flight.  And it was important to cover her cage so she would think it was night time and hopefully sleep through the ordeal.

     I was the one most worried about Pepper and the plane.  Plenty of people said poultry are good fliers.

     'Ducks are used to flying,' said Eileen and I could see her logic.  But Pepper is no ordinary duck.

     To prepare her for travelling, Seffy and I took Pepper on daily trips in the car before the big travel date.  We wanted her to be used to the noise of the engine, the motion and being confined in a small, dark space.

Pepper's first car trip

     All animals wishing to travel from the Torres Strait quarantine zone need a permit.  It's a pet passport of sorts.  I believe Pepper is the first duck who has ever travelled to Cairns.  Lots of ducks have travelled from Cairns to TI, but they have all been frozen.

     Once a permit has been applied for, the animals must present to the quarantine office on TI within 2 days of travelling to be formally identified and cleared of any nasty diseases that could spread on the mainland.

Pepper Zen and Gina are at the quarantine office on TI waiting for their permits to be issued.

     The big day.  Pepper and Gina take the ferry to Horn Island then the bus to the airport.  On the bus, Pepper gave a few quacks and heads turned.  

     'It's a duck,' said a voice behind me.

Pepper, Gina and the kids are waiting to board the plane.

     It was a tense couple of hours for me and I shaved off a few finger nails while working through the sudokus in the Qantas magazine.  At one point I am sure I heard a few quacks from the hold.  
     But Pepper and Gina were happy to see us at the Australian Air Express depot in Cairns.  Pepper had a big drink and gobbled the peas I had with me.  Yes, I declared them to the quarantine office and beagle at the airport and got the okay.  Gina did a big wee.  Then we headed to Smithfield.  Bubu had bought Pepper a blue shell pool as a welcome present. 

Pepper and Gina cool off.

Pepper loves the water.  Bubu's dog, Tiberius loves Pepper.  I just wish he'd close his mouth and stop salivating when he looks at her.  A smack for Tiby each time he does so, but don't let Bubu see.

Pepper Zen discovers the pool which she much prefers to a plastic scallop.  She managed to squeeze through the fencing and launch herself into the cool water.

     For some reason, Pepper is more vocal in Cairns than on TI.  And she is more vocal in the morning than during the day.  This is a big problem.  On the second morning at 6.15 am when I am trying to shut Pepper up, a neighbour yelled out, Quiet!  Oh, dear.

     It's not as though I am breaching any local laws.  I rang the Cairns Regional Council prior to flying down to make sure Pepper's presence was legal.  Marian told me I could have six ducks.  I was elated thinking I would source 5 more feathered friends and experience five times the joy my Pepper brings.  Not so.  

     My morning routine is this:  Pepper honks between 5.50 and 5.55 from her cage over which is a dark blanket to simulate endless night.  I jump out of bed and flick on the kettle.  Pepper honks a bit louder.  Desperate to avoid her breaking into a full-blown quack, I take her in one arm and make a cup of tea with my spare hand.  I head to the pool area where she swims and I try and wake up.  I can't let her see me walk off till 7 am because if I so much as go inside to make a coffee or wander off to catch her some grasshoppers, she starts quacking.  I don't want to enrage the neighbours.  Once it's 7.30, I relax.  Most people should be up and about.

     Tony flew down to settle the kids into school and he walks morning and evening.

     'I was 500 metres away,' he said when he returned last night, 'and I could hear that bloody duck quacking.'  I don't like it when he refers to her as 'that bloody duck.'

     If Pepper's morning quacking proves to be a problem for the neighbourhood, we might find ourselves back on the Qantaslink flight to the Torres Strait.  At least I know she can handle flying and I won't be so worried.

Shattered again.

I had a cuppa with Detta the other day and I related the windscreen freight dilemma posted in Shattered.

     ‘I can’t believe it’s so hard to get a windscreen from Ipswich to Cairns,’ I said, concluding my de-briefing.

     ‘Well, how is Sutchy’s driving going?’ asked Detta which I thought was a strange question.

      ‘Sutchy?  Sutchy doesn’t drive.  He’s 15.  You mean TK, yeah, he’s going for his Ps on Monday.’  I thought it bizarre that Detta, of all people, would get the boys mixed up.  She's known them since they were toddlers.

      ‘Cath,’ said Detta, ‘how do you think Sutchy smashed the windscreen?’

     ‘A stone hit it when he was whippersnippering your grass, of course.’

     She laughed.   ‘He backed into the coconut tree.’

     ‘Detta, he doesn’t drive.’  What was she talking about?

     ‘He was driving and backed into the coconut tree,’ she said.  ‘I was upstairs on a lunch break.  There was a crash that rocked the house.  I rushed down and saw it all.’  She gasped.  ‘Oh, I am such a bucket mouth.  Tony didn’t say not to tell you.’

The offending tree, left.  One wonders how two sets of eyes (Sutchy and Tony) could miss it!

Now I know how the dent got there!

     My trust in my husband and second son has been shattered.  And it gets worse. Pam rang not long after Detta left and I had to de-brief.  I told her the real story of the shattered windscreen and she laughed.

     ‘Sutchy was telling me,' she said, 'about backing into the coconut tree and TK and he were laughing.  You’d mentioned a stone so I thought the less I know the better.’

     And I then had to de-brief with Nicola.  I told her about the coconut tree and Pam knowing all along.  She laughed also.  
     ‘Didn’t you know?,' she said in disbelief.  'I thought you did.’

     It transpires that Sutchy and TK had a good old laugh with Henry and Nicola about Sutchy backing into a coconut tree.

     ‘You know the blue trailer out the front,’ said Henry to Sutchy, ‘the one with the tarp.  Stay away from it.’

     Well, I’ve got one thing to say to my husband and two oldest sons.  Youse are a bunch of bastards.  I’ve got access to all your bank accounts and you are paying for deceiving me, big time and that includes you TK for going along with their deceit.  I’ll be following up on getting the window to Cairns and you’ll pay top dollar for air freight if I can manage it.  And you’ll never know I know because you don’t read anything I write.  Bastards. 

My Island Homicide in New York

Shattered

I love living on TI. I love the hot wet heat and the drenching squalls at this time of the year.  And I love the cool dry temperatures and raging south-easterlies in the middle of the year.  I love the laid-back lifestyle.  I love being far from the hustle and bustle of traffic and I don’t mind the delays that are inevitable when I order online from suppliers in the big smoke. It’s a small price to pay for living off the beaten track. 

     Until … Sutchy, under Tony’s tutelage, cut Detta’s grass.  I was at her place shortly after the grass was cut and she said she paid him $50.  I scoffed at the idea of a 15 year old earning so much money for an hour’s work, but she insisted.  When I got home, Tony was a little evasive.

     ‘Are you shitty?’ I asked him.

     ‘No.’ He looked down and I waited and waited.  ‘Sutchy, um, was cutting Detta’s grass and um, a stone hit the back window of your van.’

     ‘And?’

     ‘It smashed.’

     ‘What about a tarp or blanket?  You used to use them.’

     ‘We thought we were safe.’

Hopefully the black plastic will keep some of the water out.  Don't know where the dent came from.

     It was just before Christmas so I was filled with the festive season spirit.  Just as well because I would have grabbed the meat cleaver and hacked into him. 

     Why?  When Tony was operating the Gadin Ninja grass cutting business, Tony and his colleagues smashed quite a few windows of cars including our work vehicles.  Whippersnippers, stones and car windows don’t mix.  When car windows shatter, it’s the responsibility of the shatterer to replace the glass for the shatteree.

     We paid a large fortune to window manufacturers and auto-parts recyclers for the replacement windows and an equal fortune to freight companies.  You see, being fragile, glass needs huge amounts of packaging so what starts as a thin pane of glass often ends up a big as a two-seater sofa.  In terms of freight, this translates to big dollars.  I kept pleading with Tony to take steps to stop windows being smashed and eventually, to shut me up, he started using blankets and tarps.  The Window Preservation Management Plan worked a treat and no, repeat, no windows were thereafter shattered.

     So when Tony told me Sutchy smashed the back windscreen of my very old van, I wanted to scream, ‘How the fuck could it have happened if you’d used the no-fail Window Preservation Management Plan?’  I wasn’t concerned only about the cost of replacing the window.  I was also concerned about the imminent wet season and the squalls that would turn my van into a water tank on wheels.

     ‘Okay, I’ll order a window,’ I said with clenched fists and a sigh.

     Ordering the window was a tedious affair.  I first rang four suppliers of new windscreens.  It wasn’t looking good, but the fourth could order the windscreen at an exorbitant price.  I decided to source a second quote, to get an idea if the first quote was unreasonable. This was my fatal mistake.

     I rang auto-parts recyclers, the equivalent of second-hand clothes shops for car bits.  The fourth wrecker was able to locate a back windscreen for $150, half the first quote.  Things were in my favour.

     The very helpful man, Justin, asked me if I had a Toll account and I proudly answered, Yes and provided the account number.

     This is where things started to turn bad and I must acknowledge how patient Justin has been through this ordeal.  If he sues me claiming damages for nervous shock, I will attempt to settle.

     A week after placing the order, Justin rang to advise the glass had arrived, but he couldn’t send it because my Toll account number was incorrect.

     I found the most recent invoice from Toll and rang head office in Darwin.  Liz advised my account number was correct.

     I rang Justin and he asked me to ring Toll and sort the pick-up, just in case Toll maintained the account number was incorrect.  As if there could be a problem with the account number, I thought.

     So I rang Toll on the number Justin provided.  I was told there was no account in my name or under that number. I advised I had an invoice displaying my account number.

     ‘We are Toll Ipec,’ said the woman. ‘Is your account with Toll Ipec?’

     I looked at the invoice from Toll.  There was some very tiny print under Toll.  I put on my glasses.  The very tiny print read: Toll Marine Logistics.  I told the woman.

     ‘Never heard of them love,’ she said, ‘and we only deal with account holders, but can do a one off credit card payment.’

     At this point I realised the Gods were watching over me.

     ‘Where do you want us to pick up from?’

     I gave her the address on Warrego Highway.  I was on hold for quite a while.

     ‘Sorry, love.  That’s Ipswich.  We have an agent who goes out there, but he won’t take freight from anyone who is not an account holder.’

     Okay, conjoined twins who shared vital organs have been separated. Space craft have visited Mars and taken photographs. Forensic procedures have solved decades-old crime.  Ipswich wasn't the back woods.  My dilemma was no biggie.

     I rang Justin back, related the drama thus far and he said, ‘Ring your Toll company and see if they have an address in Brisbane.  They must.  It’s a major port.  We can get the glass to Brisbane and then you’ll be right.’

     So I rang Toll Marine Logistics in Darwin and asked Liz if Toll had a base in Brisbane.  My heart did a somersault when she answered in the affirmative.

     ‘Thanks, Liz.  I’ll get the freight delivered there so it can go all the way through to TI.’

     ‘Oh, you can’t do that,’ said Liz.  ‘We have only an office in Brisbane.  We don’t accept freight.  You’ll have to get the freight to Cairns.’

    This affair was starting to take a toll on my sanity.

     ‘Liz,’ my voice was getting shakey, ‘how can I get the freight from Brisbane to Cairns?’

     ‘Ring Toll Express on 1300 55 03 60.  They’ll be able to help.’

     I rang Toll Express.  They told me to ring NQX on 131821 because Toll Express would use NQX to deliver and I might as well cut out the middle man.

      So I rang NQX and asked if they freighted from Brisbane to Cairns? Yes, they’d be happy to and what did I have.  I said a windscreen.

     ‘Sorry, we are bulk industrial carriers,’ said the woman.

     ‘We are a business,’ I offered in desperation. ‘It’s a real business.’

     ‘You don’t understand.  We freight big stuff like mining equipment and material.’

     ‘Thank you,’ I said and choked back the tears.

     I rang Justin.

      ‘No worries,’ he said.  ‘I’ll ring our carriers, Followmont and get them to pick it up and get it to Cairns.  Will call you later today.’

      He didn’t call me and he didn’t call me the next day.  I then called him and he said he was on hold to Followmont too long and gave up, but he’d sort it and let me know.

     Justin hadn’t called me after 24 hours so I called him.  Followmont were getting back to him that day.

     ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ he said.

      He didn’t call and that was last Friday.

     I don’t care anymore.  The glass can stay in Ipswich and I’ll have a mobile water tank because the rain started on Friday. 

Pepper Zen has a doris at Gina Rose

I wonder what Gina Rose is up to.

I'll have a doris.

It's all bum from this angle. I'll try from the other end of the garden.

She's digging something with her nose.

My God, now she's chewing the old pig skull Sutchy found on last week's failed hunt.

That is gross.  I am so glad I am not a dog.

Thank God she's finished with that.

Now what is she doing?  I'll have a doris.

Wanted: House to rent at Holloways Beach

This morning, Uncle Tinus and cousin Bridget dropped in for a cup of coffee and a yarn.  We were talking about Kibby’s thriving icy cup business which he operates with the business acumen he inherited from Tony’s father, Dato Henry.  Until his death in September, 1997, Dato sold icy cups, red raspberry and brown sarsparella.

     People came far and wide to buy Dato Henry’s icy cups from this house because they were the best icy cups on the island, not too watery, not too sweet.  Dato Henry had a special formula to guarantee the unique taste for which he was famous.  Before his death, he confided the secret formula to Tony and Tony has disclosed this to Kibby who, of all the children, has showed the most interest in becoming a small business entrepreneur.

     Now people come far and wide to buy Kibby’s icy cups.  It is a thriving business for an eight year-old  He is selling the traditional red and brown varieties, but he has also added green and orange.  While not as popular as red and brown, Kibby wants customers to have choice.  In fact, red outsells brown.

Kibby needs to make up red and orange icy cups.

     From early morning until late at night, the customers come at a slow and steady rate.  We hear the gentle pad-pad-pad on the stairs and the rattle of the veranda gate.

     ‘Two red, one orange and one brown, please,’ says a little voice and a little hand holds out some loose change.

     If Kibby is out with his dad, it’s up to those left at home to service the demand.  Even the crew downstairs help out if all the Titaseys are out.

     Here’s the sad part.  At the end of January, the kids and I are going to live for a while with my mum, Bubu who has not been well.  She lives in Smithfield, Cairns in a quiet suburban street.  I’ll miss the faces that appear, here and there through the day, asking, ‘four brown and two red and one green.’

     ‘Are you going to sell icy cups from Bubu’s house?’ asked Uncle Tinus, sipping his coffee.

     ‘Nah,’ said Kibby, ‘no one’ll buy them.’

     ‘It’s not the sort of thing people buy down there,’ said Tony.

     ‘You could give it a go,’ I said not wanting to discourage Kibby, but I was thinking, there was no way people in suburbia would rock up at someone’s front door and say, ‘one red and one brown.’

     ‘White people don’t buy icy cups,’ said Sutchy butchering a loaf of home-made bread.

     ‘We matha go live in Holloways Beach,’ said Kibby, who has spent much time at Holloways with his  sister, Ashlea who lived there until recently. 

     ‘How come?’ we all asked at the same time. 

     ‘Black people live there,’ he said matter-of-factly.

Why it's better to buy locally

In our house, 2005 was the year of Bionicles, Harry Potter and The Half Blood Prince (purchased like all the other Harry Potter books and unread) and A Series of Unfortunate Events (purchased, started and TK and Sutchy lost interest).  It was also a year of Beyblade Tazo Topz and a character named Koya Yamareto, the namesake of our youngest child whose first name is actually Koya Kibbim.  

     For me, 2005 was the year I discovered online stationery shopping at Office Works and I remember the joy of ordering 100 Bic ballpoint pens, a small distraction from the violent nausea I experienced in late pregnancy.  Buying pens online was far more cost-effective than paying 60 cents for each Kilometrico pen from Col Jones Newsagency.
     This is how 2005 became the year of spit balls. 
     I remember this because my sons took most of my Bic pens for critical spit ball parts, no doubt supplying their friends.  You see to make an effective spit ball weapon you need two things.  Firstly, a disembowelled ball point pen and Bic pens are the premium choice for young spit ball manufacturers. Remember to saw off the smaller end with a steak knife.  Secondly, small pieces of paper that are then chewed to a pulp and inserted in one end of the hollowed pen.  When the user blows, with great force through the other end, the spit ball is propelled at high speed.  This provides hours of entertainment for young boys which is good for a busy mum with a newborn and two year old to care for.

     Since we had two sons, then aged 9 and 7, we had double the spit balls flying around.  The boys discovered the more viscous the spit ball was, the longer it could remain attached to a wall.  Of course, they were required to remove the offending material.  
     I was hit by a few spit balls (they hurt) so dispensed the appropriate discipline.  The boys then turned their attentions to their younger sister.  A couple of good hard slaps solved that problem with a terse warning not to go near baby Kibbim.  
     The boys pursued their interest in spit ball warfare and TK even got a detention from firing spit balls at school.  Eventually, the boys lost interest in spit balls and took up kebab stick archery after the wet season arrived and with it, lots of plump tadpoles in gutters and storm water drains.

     However, towards the end of the spit ball epoch, our fax machine stopped working.  I knew the problem wasn’t terminal because the buttons worked, the screen was displayed and faxes could be received.  The only problem was sending faxes; the machine refused to accept the paper.  And what’s more, it was a fairly new machine so there shouldn’t have been any problems.

     I rang Roger (I think that was his name) from Typewriter and Office Supplies in Cairns.  He was a very helpful young man.  We agreed that I’d send the machine down and he’d have a look and if it was fixable, provide a quote.

     A fortnight later, a perplexed Roger rang.

     ‘I’ve found the problem and it was easy to fix,’ he said, but it’s hard to explain.’

     ‘Have a go,’ I said.

     ‘Okay, the machine was fine except the rollers weren’t working when you sent a fax because there was some stuff in there.’

     ‘What was it?’  I was thinking perhaps a dead gecko or cockroach. 

     ‘Um, it was almost like, and this is really weird, taking a small bit of paper and chewing it and then making it into a ball.  It’s gross I know, but do you know what I mean?’

     I looked to the ceiling above my desk in the office.  It was covered with small white lumps.  Spit balls. The fax was positioned right next to my desk.  Some of the spit balls had fallen from the ceiling into the intake part of the fax. 

     ‘T’KIDO!  SUTCHY!’ I screamed.

     ‘Would you like me to debit your visa card?’ said Roger.

     ‘Oh, yes, of course.’  And I quietly choked at the price.  

     It would have been much cheaper to buy 100 Kilometrico pens from Col Jones Newsagency because Kilometrico pens can’t be disembowelled.

     Some of the spit balls are still on the ceiling, eight years later. 

New year snaps of Pepper Zen

Looking ethereal during a midnight swim.

Pepper and Gina Rose inspect the boxes used for bow hunting practice.  

 One clever duck learns how to climb steps, and on the first lesson, too.

Step 1

Step 2

Step 3.  Voila!

Avian beauty.

Pepper is crazy about peas.

A very naughty Pepper disappeared and I found her in the  back pond having eaten ALL the tadpoles, most of whom had legs.

Seffy comforts a distressed Pepper during the New Year's Eve midnight fireworks.

Finding Aka Masalgi's grave

On arrival at Naghir at low tide, I walked the anchor as close as possible to the beach.  I stepped carefully, keeping my eyes on the rocks and bombies.  When the anchor rope was taut, I dug the prongs of the reef anchor into the layers of coral, stone and shells and then lifted my eyes to survey the beach and bush before me.  The white, marble oblongs rising from the scrub told me we had arrived near the cemetery.  I was reminded of my desire to locate Tony's grandmother's grave which I knew was a long way from the cemetery.

The headstones were visible from the water.

     I went back to the boat and piggy-backed Kibby over the reef.  We held hands and together spoke a few words to the Mills and Kaurareg spirits and asked for permission to visit.  Tony joined us and we went to explore the graves.

Aunty Lala's chapter in Ina's Story begins with the death of Athe Sorogo in 1936 and his traditional burial. 

Aunty Lala's chapter ends with the Christian burial of Aka Wagab in 1948 and her observation that culture had changed in 12 years.

James Mills.  Born Samoa.  Died 1916.  Aged 72 years.

      Apart from a couple of names on the headstones, I recognised all the deceased from Ina’s stories.

     After meeting with the others under a casuarina tree further along the beach for a quick snack, I set off alone, determined to find the grave of Tony’s grandmother, Aka Masalgi.  Aka Masalgi’s spirit has been kept very much alive in Ina’s Story.  Ina spoke about always being close to Mama when she was young.  Mama stroked her head as she fell off to sleep on her woven coconut mat, combed her hair with the combs carved from wongai wood and lavished her children with love.  Mama had enough room on her lap for all her children and arms long enough to hug them all.

     Ina remembers her mother died of a broken heart.  She was buried, hours after her death, beside the flowering Bougainvillea bush, just near the back door of the family house.

     Ina said, ‘For a long time after Mama’s death, on moonlit nights, me and the children took our coconut mats and pillows out to her grave and slept next to her, yarning before we drifted off to sleep.  I felt Mama with me, talking to me.’

     When I think about Ina and her love for her mother, Aka Masalgi’s death makes me teary.

     I had to find her grave and pay my respects to a loving mother who died too young, the great-grandmother of my children.

     I was prepared for a long and arduous journey, of bush-bashing through thick scrub. I had water, a camera and if I got into trouble, my mobile phone.  I promised myself I wasn’t leaving till I found Aka Masalgi’s grave.

     I set off along the beach.  Tony and Kibby were heading to Dogoman at the other end of the island with John and Eileen.  Tony was checking out the fishing spots and looking for a place to build his Naghir house.  I turned off just after Pine Creek and stood before the dense bush.

      ‘Watch out for death adders,’ called Dr John as he kept walking.

      I broke off a branch from a fallen casuarina tree.  I wasn’t going to let the threat of venomous snakes deter me.

     It was hard going.  I headed towards the towering sea almond trees, certain I’d find evidence of habitation like corrugated iron or lengths of two-by-four and then I’d find Aka’s headstone.  All I found was more bush, as tall as me. Worse, there were the vines that kept tripping me.  When I turned and could no longer see the blue ocean, I started to think my goal was unattainable.

     I pulled out my mobile phone and called Ina in Cairns.

     ‘Where are you?’ she said.

     ‘Well, that’s interesting you asked.  I’m in the middle of the bush on Naghir looking for Aka Masalgi’s grave, but I can’t find it.’

     ‘It’s near the sea almond trees.’

     ‘There are two lots of sea almond trees.’

     She gave me a few pointers, but the bottom line was I had no idea where Aka’s grave was and I could only keep bush-bashing.

     ‘I can’t tell you anymore,’ she said, in defeat. ‘Who brought you out anyway?’

     ‘Tony,’ I said.
     'Where is he?'
     'He's gone to Dogoman to look for fishing spots and find where to build his house.'

     ‘Hmph,’ she reckoned.  ‘Tell him to look for his grandmother’s grave and that’s where he needs to build his house.’

     She wished me luck and I had a feeling I was at the wrong group of sea almonds.

     I headed back to the beach walked a bit on the sand for ease and then tackled the   scrub again, banging the stick against the ground to warn off snakes.  If necessary, I would zig-zag through the bush, even if I spent a lot of the time tripping over the vines and pushing through the thin, though irritating branches.

     I approached the second copse of sea almonds from the west and there, on the other side of a line of head-high bushes was a white rectangle.

     It was Aka Masalgi’s grave.  

I’d found it, almost in the shade of the sea almonds.  I sat on the edge of the grave and tried to imagine Dato Frank’s house, the flowering Bougainvillea and Ina and her siblings sleeping next to their mother’s grave.  

What a resting place!  I could see the blue horizon just over the tops of the bush.

     The only evidence I could see of past life was section of a cement slab about four metres away.  I took a few steps towards it and the thunderous crash of a creature making a hasty escape frightened me.  Tony had told me there no pigs or goats, but what I heard was unmistakeably big and heavy. I took the fastest route to the beach. 

 I gazed towards Dogoman and Tony, John, Eileen and Kibby were ambling back from their adventure. 

     I waited for them on the sand and couldn’t wait to tell Tony about finding his grandmother’s grave.  I was quite proud of myself, having braved the bush and snakes and not giving up in the hellish heat.  
     Sometimes I feel Tony thinks I am a bit of a princess since I don't go fishing or hunting and I don't get my hands dirty doing yard work.  I prefer to stay home and write.  I was certain if Tony thought I had been a princess following my discovering Aka's grave, it was as a Xena warrior-type princess, intrepid, determined, fearless. 

     ‘Tony, Tony,’ I said when they neared, gushing with the enthusiasm of an explorer who’d just located a treasure chest of gold.  ‘I found Aka Masalgi’s grave.  It took me almost an hour.  I had to call Mum because I got a bit lost in the scrub, but she gave me directions.  You should have been with me.  It was amazing.  Do you want me to take you to see it?’

     ‘Do you mean that one?’ he said, using his chin to indicate something in the distance.

     ‘Huh?  What one?’  It bugs me at times like this that Tony always has one eye on his surrounds.  It's a hunting attribute, but not necessary in this case. For God's sake, I wanted to cry out.

     ‘That one.’ He pointed to the top of a rectangle, white against the green trees.

     It was Aka Masalgi’s grave, visible from the beach and only a short distance away at that.

Finally we made it to Naghir

Late on New Year’s Day, Phil and Sue dropped in to ask Tony for permission to visit Naghir.  Tony was on his afternoon walk so I got Phil’s number and assured him Tony would call.  Phil and Sue’s visit filled me with a sudden and insatiable desire to go to Naghir while the weather was good.  I’d spent years talking to Ina about Naghir, dreamed often about Naghir and written a book about Naghir.  I HAD to go to Naghir NOW.  It was naigai weather, the doldrums.  Once the wet season started, it would be another year before we could get out in a small, open vessel like the Madam Dugong.

     When Tony returned I told him about Phil and Sue.

     ‘I’ve already seen them,’ said Tony.  ‘It’s all good.’

     ‘Well, can you take me to Naghir?’ It was a good thing they dropped in otherwise I'd never have thought about visiting Naghir.

     ‘When?’

     It was Wednesday, 7 pm.  'Friday,’ I said.

     ‘Okay.’

     The trauma from our attempted visit had passed and I was ready to brave the elements providing they were subdued with the five knot wind.

     I spent the night before tossing and turning, praying and asking the ancestors for permission to visit.  I slept for only four hours such was my anxiety.

And we were off just after seven. The water was glass and apart from a bit of chop past Wednesday Isalnd from the tide flowing against the northerly wind.  

     The Madam Dugong skippered by Tony (there was me, Eileen, Pam, Seffy, Kibby, Joey and Gina Rose) and the Miss Seffy skippered by Dr John (with TK, Sutchy and Ruby) arrived at Naghir after 50 minutes.  There was no black curtain of rain, no steam rising from the water and no forked lightning.
     It was low tide when we arrived and an expanse of broken coral stretched from the ‘sand beach’ I had heard so much about.  Tony motored in as close as possible and asked me to walk the anchor up towards the sand.  The coral crunched under my feet as I walked and I immediately thought of Ina's recollection in Ina's Story of ‘cargo boat time,’ the arrival of the cargo boat every few months at Naghir with supplies like flour, sugar, cloth and rope.  At high tide, the supplies were rowed close to the store run by Ina’s father,  Dato Frank.

     At low tide, Ina and her siblings had to walk, barefeet over the coral to the edge of the reef and carry the supplies back to the store.  

    

I was wearing Keens sandals and my feet were protected against the sharp coral, stones and broken shells.  I winced at the thought of Ina making this trip barefeet.

The first thing TK and Sutchy did was go for a dive.  That land mass in the background is St Pauls.

     I spent most of the day walking around, searching for land marks and places Ina had spoken about.  I could see the bamboo and mango saw (pronounced sow), the orchard of bamboo and mango trees on the side of Naghir hill behind where the village was. 

     With Phil’s help, we found two of three wells Ina identified on the map in the book along with Pine and Frogland Creeks, now dry and waiting for the wet season to be filled.  

The main well referred to Ina's Story, cemented by Ina's father.  It was filled with three inches of slimy, green water.

To find the second well, I called Ina in Cairns and she gave directions. 'There's a coconut tree growing in it,' she said.  She was spot on.  There was a young plant in the well, an established tree growing from the edge and a fallen tree behind which appeared to have been growing in the well.

 From Ina's directions and description, I think these are the stumps from Uncle Alfie’s house.  He and Bibi Ella married on the same day as Ina and Henry, but Uncle Alfie and Bibi Ella remained on Naghir.

Uncle Alfie and Bibi Ella

Aka Masalgi's grave stands like a sentinel in the bush.  It was close to the back door of the family house of which nothing remains apart from a generator and cement footing.  I sat next the grave and thought about Ina’s love for her mother, something she still speaks about.  It made Aka Masalgi’s premature death from a ‘broken heart’ at age 39 leaving nine children, the youngest 2, all the more tragic.  As soon as Tony saw Aka Masalgi’s grave, he bent down and began pulling weeds from the sand.

The remains of the generator where Ina's house once stood.

I think these coconut trees are the same ones in this photo of Uncle Wrench island dancing with the men.  

    

A coconut tree with gouges, possibly footing to enable people to climb to cut down the coconuts.  For want of another way of finding out, I googled the lifespan of coconut trees and it appears they can survive for three generations after reaching maturity.  That would mean these coconut trees may be the same trees from Ina’s time.

Here is a lugger with St Pauls in the background taken in the early 1930s.

This is St Pauls today.

     At times I became emotional thinking this island contains a good part of the history and ancestry of my children and a whole lot of stories that have been lost to time.

     Ina’s family began leaving the island in the fifties to pursue employment opportunities on TI and the mainland such as cutting cane like Uncle Wrench and Aunty Lala’s husband, Uncle Gerry.  Uncle Wrench also spent years working on the railway in Western Australia. 

     During my walks in the hot sun, I often paused to wipe the sweat pouring into my eyes and have a drink.  I thought about Dato Frank sending his twin daughters, Ina and Cessa aged five, to live at the convent on Thursday Island in 1933 so they could get an ‘ed-yoo-cay-shun.’  
     His belief in the value of education and his work ethic must have been so firmly entrenched that the entire family ultimately left to pursue those opportunities.  This is despite Naghir having permanent sources of water, unlike other islands in the Torres Strait, which make it viable in terms of sustaining a community.

     When I was heading back from my first walk, I stopped to chat to Sue and Phil who had just arrived to camp for two nights.  I thanked them for dropping in on New Year’s Day and explained that if they’d run into Tony on their walk, I’d never have thought about asking Tony bring me out to Naghir.

     ‘No worries,’ said Phil.

     I told him I wrote a book about Ina so this visit was very special to me.

     ‘You mean Ina’s Story,’ he said.  ‘That’s sort of why we are here.’

     Sue then produced Ina’s Story, complete with bookmark and asked me to sign it.  What a privilege signing Ina’s Story on Naghir, the writing of which was made possible because Ina shared her story with me, her family and readers.   I just wish Ina could have been with us.