Rainy Mountain Place

I would not be surprised if securing permanent, reasonably priced accommodation is one of the key factors necessary to minimise stress. Finding an abode has certainly calmed me down.

     We have a new home; a brick, three bedroom, two bathroom, tiled throughout with a double lock-up garage rental dwelling in the eponymous Rainy Mountain Place. There’s a mountain rising in the rainforest and mist beyond the backyard and if it isn’t raining, it’s about to (it has rained each day since we arrived nine days ago).

     I first rang about the realestate.com property in late February and was told there were so many applications, no more were being accepted.  A fortnight later, the house was still listed on the website and since it met my most important criteria – cheap and within riding distance of school and shops – I rang again.  Yes, I could go for an inspection.

The long patio reminds me of our TI decks.

     Interestingly it was the only property I viewed.  After the trauma of completing the rental application form for Rainy Mountain Place, I decided there was no way I was repeating the process and thereafter engaged in some deep prayer, positive thinking and repeated affirmations that we would become tenants of the Rainy Mountain Place house.

     The house must be twenty years old and full of quirky little maintenance issues such as the sliding doors are hard to slide, a toilet that keeps running water (note to ring agent re excess water) and the some of the fans have minds of their own when it comes to turning, but we love it. 

     The property is part of an estate set around a rough circle being a small park.  With the rainforest behind, it has an off-the-beaten track feel.  Our house is the last one in the estate being at a small cul-de-sac that doubles as two parking bays for visitors.

     We are all happy.  Tony is happy because renting our own home represents the unlimited potential life on the big island holds (I don't understand that one, but often Tony is so optimistic it drives me crazy).

 Kibby is happy because his dad is back and his dad is happy.
Seffy is happy because we are finally settled and she has her own room.

And the ducks are happy (more in the next post!).

 Gina Rose is happy.

       I am happy because we are permanently settled for at least the six months of the fixed lease. In fact I am even happier because that the drive to our Rainy Mountain Place home is a rather circuitous scenic route and there is NO chance of me driving past with the cul-de-sac and that makes for a stress-less life.

Homogenised houses

It’s not possible to get lost when driving on TI or miss your destination for that matter.  Sometimes, however, I have driven past the turn-off to Pearl Street or straight past our home at number 10.  Never absent-mindedly, always deliberately when some unsavoury task awaited me; preparing another dinner, doing the BAS, an assignment nearing deadline.  Continuing to drive simply delayed the unpleasantness.

     In Cairns, I frequently drive past Bubu’s house, not deliberately, not absent-mindedly, but because the houses and the yards appear to be the same.

     I know I have overshot Bubu’s driveway, again, when I have to turn the steering wheel to follow the curve in the road.  But for the bend I’d keep on driving.  On a really good day, I remember to look for the Indian Mast trees in the neighbour's yard.  They are the only identifiable landmark.  There are too many low set masonry block houses, too many manicured council verges, too many smooth concrete driveways and too many bloody ornamental palm trees.

     Oh, give me a rusted car on flat tyres, a tree full of buoys, dinghies on trailers, high set/low set/block and fibro houses and a gathering of kids in yards or on streets and throw in some roaming dogs.  Oh, give me diversity or I shall wither in these burbs.

     

The duck door

When we arrived in Cairns, I was hopeful Pepper would not work out how to use the dog door.  Big ducks mean big poo and I didn't want to be cleaning internal duck poo. 

     On the first day, Pepper respected the closed door.  On the second day, she discovered the flap moved and on the third day, she worked out that dog doors are also duck doors.  This was her first successful attempt.  She'd been pacing outside, pushing the flap and finally, took the plunge.

 

     I dealt with the problem by barricading the door.  However, if one of the dogs pushed the barricade out of the way, Pepper usually takes the opportunity to head on inside and search out some human company.  It's quite a treat to be having a shower and be interrupted with a loud, honk.  

     'Go away, Pepper,' I yell and she runs off, her padded feet making a delightful slap, slap, slap all the way down the tiled corridor.

     Dealing with a determined and gifted duck required a creative, no-fail solution.

"Stupid sign." 

Quinola Lakes

Brochure found at Malanda markets in March.  I suppose it is pronounced 'kinla.'

A brief history of cane toads

I miss TI and the laid-back lifestyle.  The kids miss being able to take themselves up Greenhill or down to the beach. I miss my walks through the cemetery and around Millman Hill.  Although we moved to Cairns to be near Bubu, we were looking forward to different ways of being active.  One thing I have been doing is researching cane toads following an unfortunate incident.  

     Oh, I have learned a lot about cane toads since I arrived in FNQ which is where the ugly, warty amphibians were released 79 years ago.  If ever there was a metaphor for regret, here it is: 

     Sugar cane was brought to Australia in 1788. The crop wasn't a raging success until the Queensland government, desperate for cash in the early 1860s, supported the establishment of cane plantations along the coast. 

     In the 1930s the sugar cane industry was thriving in the far north and contributed well to the GDP.  However, two species of native cane beetle were problematic.  It wasn’t the adult beetles eating the cane leaves that bothered farmers so much, but the larvae which ate away at the roots of the cane stalks.  Farmers were stumped.  Not only were the larvae hard to reach, but using pesticides killed native insects and even then it was considered a no-no to exterminate native species.  If only farmers had persisted with pesticides!

     After importing 102 cane toads (native to Central and South America) from Hawaii and breeding offspring, 2400 toads were released at Gordonvale in 1935 thanks to the special efforts of some entomologists working for the Queensland Bureau of Sugar Experiment Stations (and despite warnings from colleagues about potential damage and poor planning).  Of course, this was before Environmental Impact Statements.

     There were three problems.  First, the introduction of cane toads had no effect on the cane beetle larvae.  Though I can find no reference, I recall an essay written by a fellow year 11 student a long time ago, outlining the adult cane beetle, when approached by the toad, simply used its wings to fly.  So much for disrupting the reproduction cycle!

     Secondly, cane toads have an insatiable desire for travel, particularly interstate.

     This leads to the third and most important point, cane toads have a toxic venom and have caused extensive ecological damage because they have no predators such as larger animals like native rats, snakes, goannas or even feral dogs and cats.  Certain death greets toad munchers unless the animal is really, really big so less affected by the poison. However, the Torresian crow and another bird species or two has learned to flip the toads and pick at their innards.  This isn’t enough to halt breeding or migration beyond NSW and NT where toads are happily planning to invade other states and perhaps New Zealand down the track.

     As far as I can work out from a quick squiz at unacademic literature, there is no magic, scientific solution to eradicating or sterilising this scourge.  And I can imagine scientists would be incredibly cautious playing with nature this time around.

     Why my sudden interest in cane toads?  It’s like this.  There are not many toads on TI.  In fact I’ve seen three in 20 years.  I understand there are more and they will invade the island eventually, but the recipe for a population boom hasn’t arisen such as enough females or a ready food supply for toadlets.

     As far as I know, Gina Rose hadn’t seen a cane toad till three weeks ago.  What fun, she thought of this apparently defenceless and mouthful-sized creature.  Mum rushed in holding her as she convulsed, arching her back with a WTF expression, not fearful or wretched. Toad venom is a hallucinogen like magic mushrooms and is sometimes known as doggy acid.  Check out this clip.

     Anyway, I have a love-hate relationship with Gina Rose. She is the most unloving and unlovable dependent and for a nano-second, actually for nine seconds I wondered if I should leave her to battle the toxin naturally.  I once read a book about Charles Darwin and the adaptation of the species and survival of the fittest stuff.  It made sense, more so for cantankerous, middle-aged dogs.

     Bubu insisted I take her to the vet.  Gina Rose was whisked away as soon as the word ‘cane toad’ was mentioned.  I think ‘cane toad’ is vet speak for ‘easy money.’ The vet nurse returned with a form for me to sign, acknowledging I would be paying between two and three hundred dollars.  I practically had to use my left hand to force my right to take hold of the pen.

     ‘You’re lucky,’ said the vet nurse.  ‘A dog came in fifteen minutes before you and is so badly poisoned it needed to be anaesthetised.’

     I left relieved and hoped my invoice was closer to the 200 mark.  Four hours later I returned and collected a groggy Gina Rose.  I held her on the counter as the vet nurse handed me the invoice.  I coughed and queried the $340 charge.

     ‘She needed to be anaesthetised just after you left.’

     ‘But, but you said ….’ and the vet nurse agreed to drop the bill to $300. 

     As I handed over my credit card (yes, the left hand had some more work to do), a Labrador whimpered in the waiting area.  Gina Rose whipped around and began growling, scratching at the laminate counter top to attack the harmless dog.  Gina Rose learned nothing about her brush with death and I knew she’d be attacking more toads forthwith.

     I asked the vet nurse about the treatment.  Too easy, I thought as I left.  I'll find some Valium and if Gina Rose eats another cane toad, I'll shove one down her throat and let her be.

     On the drive home I vowed to learn a new skill to mitigate my future losses; hand collecting cane toads and depositing them in plastic bags in the freezer. This is one of the humane (and simplest) methods recommended by the RSPCA for cane toad eradication (forget clove bud oil and blasting them with carbon dioxide). The RSPCA does not endorse spraying toads with Dettol or using them as golf balls.

     So one of the things I do now in my spare time is pick up cane toads from the garden. I have been using a plastic bag, but yesterday I used my bare hands.  What a rite of passage!  I will offer the kids a bounty, fifty cents a scalp or ear, whatever they have.  After all, I don’t want Pepper Zen to do battle with a cane toad. 

     And I have been thinking.  If cane toads on TI got their shit together and made a go of reproduction, all those roaming and hungry dogs would chance upon slow moving edible morsels.  This might be the only positive outcome from an ill-planned and badly implemented project four score years ago.

Wanted: House to rent

When we left TI, the plan was to stay with my mum, Bubu.  This meant we could save on rent. I could do the odd bit of supply teaching and finish the sequel to My Island Homicide.

     However, after a month Bubu said to me, ‘Darling, I think you need to be as a family, in your own home, without me there.’

     The fact is, the kids and I including the dog and duck, have stressed out poor Bubu. We needed to find somewhere else to live.

     I had three criteria for a house; within riding distance of the school, three bedrooms and cheap.  The state of the dwelling wasn’t relevant (as long as it was fairly waterproof).  Where else to start looking, but realestate.com?   The reality of realty hit early on. 

     Firstly, renting wasn’t going to be cheap. 

     Secondly, we needed to buy new household stuff.  To ensure I didn’t return to TI this third time I’ve attempted leaving, Tony sold or gave away everything.  There are no plates and cutlery, no linen, no white goods, no furniture and not even a bristly WELCOME mat at the front door.

     Thirdly, because the rental market has strengthened over the past 12 months according to media reports, demand is outstripping supply. 

     I found a house that met two and a half of the three criteria (not cheap, but reasonable).  Seffy loved it; there was a room of her own and the yard was fenced for the dog she longs for. 

     ‘When’s Dad coming down,’ asked Kibby, again.  He’ll be happy anywhere as long as he’s with Tony. 

     I completed the online application form.  The wonder of computers never ceases to amaze me.

     However, I learned applying for a rental property is more time consuming than applying for a home loan.  Late into the night, I tapped at the keyboard, disclosing my present employment and income, past employment and income, why my employment had changed, whether I had had any black marks against my rental history (didn’t have a rental history), whether I was interested in buying a property in the next 12 and 24 months. I listed my children and their ages, two vehicles, their make and models and two dogs including breeds.  I provided personal and professional referees and explained why I left my previous dwelling!  Oh, there were more questions and ID to provide.  I tried leaving some fields blank to expedite the painful process, but I couldn’t progress to the next page. 

     Exhausted, I crawled into bed, satisfied we were on our way to securing a shelter.

     To my complete horror, the next day I received an email from the agent saying, Thank you for your interest in 123 Tribute Street.  Unfortunately, we’ve never been able to access application data from that website.  Please complete the attached form and return it to us.  Kind regards.

     The wonder of computers!  I calmed down by reassuring myself that my we’d find a house, sooner or later and did some positive self-talk.  Tony and I are very lucky.  We own a home on TI, it is rented out.  In Cairns we have family to stay with.  We have skills and will find work.  We have choices. We won’t ever be homeless or hungry.  I shouldn’t complain about spending more time on the rental application.

     As I typed, my sympathy then turned to the many people who are looking for homes to rent, to those who might not have skills or jobs, those who move from house to house, staying with family and friends, to those children whose education is affected by residential transience, to those people who will struggle to pay the few hundred dollars a week they need for rent and those who will never be able to save the deposit to buy their own home in Cairns for the median house price of $367, 000 (source APM).

     A month ago, I was walking on dusk through the neighbouring suburbs and started chatting to a couple in the front yard of their rented property.  They were soon leaving Cairns in search of work in the construction industry which has hit a slump in FNQ, apparently, made worse by the intrusion of contractors from south-east Queensland, also desperate for building work.  They could not afford the weekly rent of $380 on their income-support payments.  They had three children.  They were struggling.  It showed on their faces lined with worry and in their trembling fingers that held rollies.

     ‘But we’re being positive,’ said the woman as she forced a smile.  ‘We’ve got to be.’
     According to several reports in the media, confidence has returned to the Cairns property market and this will mean higher property prices and higher rents.  That’s positive for investors. 

     When I start to worry about finding a place and giving Bubu her space sooner rather than later, I think of that woman and wonder where the family is.  And I am positive we’ll soon find a house to rent. 

The Peabody Ducks

There is one country that frightens and to a certain extent, repulses me. It is home to junk food, ‘therr-apy,’ box office hits, family restaurants (with drive-thru [through] service) and mass-shootings with easy-to-come-by firearms.  Citizens consider is the greatest nation on earth even though the government likes to meddle in the affairs of sovereign nations.  It is home to what I consider an extremely commercial and superficial society and represents consumerism at its peak, perpetrated and perpetuated by multi-nationals, the media and movie industry. Worse, the English language has suffered with the development of inane phrases such as ‘24/7’, ‘I’m good’ and ‘my bad.’ Not to mention poor enunciation such as ‘toona fish,’ ‘tomayto’ and ‘UsstraIya.’  

     Yes, it’s the United States. 

     Of course the country has redeeming features such as Americans who have become Australian citizens, the invention of the cordless telephone and Carole King.  But tonight I almost forgave US for its arrogance and vacuousness when I learned about the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, Tennesee and the highly evolved tradition of allowing ducks to live on the premises.

     In 1933, then GM Frank Schutt introduced some ducks to the lobby fountain for a laugh and they were such a hit with the guests, there have been resident ducks since.  They have their own Duck Master who has the privilege and great responsibility of caring for and training the ducks.

         Each day, at 11 am the Duck Master follows the trained ducks from their penthouse, into the elevator, along the red carpet and into the marble fountain in the lobby where they frolic in the crystal clear water.  People come from all over the world to see the Peabody ducks.  At 5 pm, the ducks walk along the red carpet, into the elevator and back to their penthouse, followed by the Duck Master.  He doesn’t have to tell the ducks what to do.  They know.

     The Duck Master says the ducks ‘make people happy and bring joy to their lives.’

     Duh!  That’s what ducks do.  They can’t help it.  If more people considered the role ducks can play in achieving personal contentment and international peace, the world will be a better place.       

     Unfortunately, the establishment of the duck family in the Peabody Hotel was a century too late to prevent the commercial and political chaos that grips the US.

     However it’s not too late for Australians to learn from the Peabody Hotel example. When Bob Hawke campaigned for the 1987 election, he claimed, ‘By 1990 no Australian child will be living in poverty.’

     What he should have said, and what any self-respecting Australian political leader should say today is, ‘By the new year, no Australian hotel, shopping centre or park will be without a fountain with ducks for all to view.’

     Then the wisdom of ducks will be enjoyed by all Australians whose individual and collective consciousness can grow exponentially and improve the Australian morale, extreme weather patterns, our sporting prowess and the economy and flagging dollar. 

     It so happens I have a wealth of experience in duck training and I am between jobs. I even own a red jacket just like the Duck Master is wearing.  This makes me an ideal candidate for the role of Duck Mistress for geographically adjoining duck populations.  I would consider discussing a mutually beneficial employment relationship with a reputable hotel chain, centre management or local council to establish a world-class resident duck population for public enjoyment. 

     There is also the matter of duck souvenirs such as t-shirts, fire-proof pyjamas, environmentally friendly shopping bags and BPA-free lunch boxes and drink bottles, the proceeds of which would go to charity, of course. 

     And has it occurred to anyone that there have been no box-office movies about ducks?  We’ve had nearly every animal represented in movies to date such Babe, Jaws, Finding Nemo, Fantastic Mr Fox and The Adventures of Milo and Otis.  There’s The Lion King, King Kong, Piranha, The Black Stallion, Free Willy, Racing Stripes (a zebra for God’s sake) and a boxing kangaroo (Mathilda).  There are too many dog movies like Benji, Shiloh, Lassie Comes Home, Cujo and My Dog Skip. And things can't get worse when the main characters of moves are an ant (A Bug's Life) and a rat (Ratatouille).  Bird movies are Fly Away Home (geese), Paulie (a parrot) and Chicken Run, but they are not the genuine article. 

     It’s about time a movie was made about ducks.  I can write the book (to be used also as a curriculum resource) then I'll adapt it to a feature-film script.  It will be about a duck, say Pepper Zen whose natural habitat is threatened by global-warming and urbanisation.  The duck mediates between developers, local councils, scientists (sceptics and supporters) and the human community for a win-win outcome for everyone using a Buddhist approach.  I am sure the Dala Lama will agree to make a guest appearance given the content.  I’ll call it The Little Duck of Wisdom.  Or Pepper Zen and Now.  How about Quacking with Awareness?  The movie can be translated into 34 languages.

     Then again, the softly-softly approach may not work.  There might need to be some action because audiences like action such as guns and knives, mutilation and mayhem.  Maybe the duck needs to come in with all guns blazing like Fantastic Mr Fox and blow the crap out of the bad guys.  Think Get Quacked or Quack Shooter. 

     I do favour a traditional Hitchcock approach, The Ducks.  Or a thriller about an American scientist who, denied a Nobel Prize for his work on genetically modified ducks, gets revenge by hatching millions of rogue ducks that attack and kill.  I will call that Bills or, in honour of John Wyndham (my hero) The Day of the Ducks or The Quacken Wakes.  

     Oh, I won’t sleep tonight thinking of the financial, I mean, literary potential.    

My Lenten penance

Lent is a special time for Christians.  It is the 40 day period from Ash Wednesday till Easter Sunday, the time during which a person prepares for Easter by testing themselves against temptation.  Giving up a luxury or worse, luxuries during Lent is modelled on Jesus heading into the desert and fasting under intolerable conditions for 40 days as he prepared himself for his ultimate mission, dying for mankind.

     Fasting has a place in religious and spiritual circles.  Ramadan is the annual 40 day fast taken by Moslems, Baha’is fast annually and Buddhists and Hindus may fast during certain phases of the moon.  And pagan practitioners may adopt different fasting techniques, some known as ‘detoxing’. 

     Interestingly, the word ‘Lent’ is derived from an Anglo-Saxon word, ‘lencten’ meaning spring.  For me, when the word Lent starts to be bandied around in early to mid-February, images of hope and new life, flowers opening in soft sunshine, furry bunnies and chocolate eggs spring to my mind!  
     As D-Day, that is Denial Day approaches, I am consumed by dread as I consider my Lenten penance.

     Being Catholic, I am old-school.  I go for denial with maximum effects.  For years I gave up animal flesh during Lent and became quite sick.  I was fatigued, probably iron deficient and bloated and if discomfort was the aim during my penance, I excelled.  I should have known. When the devil tempts Jesus in the desert telling him to turn the stones into bread, Jesus says, ‘Man cannot live by bread alone, but only by the word of God.’  Sadly, I was living on bread during those Lenten times.

     When I learned recently my practice of substituting carbohydrates for protein is unhealthy and stupid I turned to plant proteins and during Lent last year and ate chick peas and lentils twice daily.  The result, crippling abdominal cramps, but I lasted the distance, imagining myself as St Francis of Assisi, walking on his knees although I think that would have been less painful.

     This year I discussed the significance of Lent with the children, encouraging them to give up a luxury (‘what about sugar?’ I prompted). Seffy wasn’t interested.  She is too focused on getting her own room and own dog. Kibby had think about it and declared he would give up vegetables and homework.  
     'Act sense,' I admonished him.
     'Okay, I'll give up swearing.'
     I am giving up something different this year.  Owing to my addiction to powdered milk and elevated cholesterol levels which is, unfortunately a genetic thing, I am giving up the most delicious white power.  Only recently I gave up eating it by the dessertspoon full. 

     Why will denying myself powdered milk be so hard?  For a start, I consume a one kilogram packet (which makes seven litres) in two weeks therefore it is a staple.  Most importantly, it is yummy and if enough is added to cups of tea and coffee it takes on the viscosity and sweetness of honey.  This is how I can live on tea and coffee alone, forget bread and the word of God.  On an environmental note, powdered milk carries considerably less food miles than fresh milk and that is why we should all eat, I mean drink, powdered milk.

     It’s day three now since I mistakenly began my denial on Shrove Tuesday. I feel worse than if I was fatigued, bloated and in crippling pain while moving along an unsealed road on my bare knees.  My cups of tea and coffee are watery like dishwater and taste worse.  And I am constantly hungry.  It is the ultimate penance.  If the devil tempted me with stones, I’d swallow them whole to fill the vacuum within.

Pepper Puddle-Duck

Pooh to Pommy puddle-ducks!  I have my own dinky-di, cross-cultural version.  A recent prolonged deluge turned Mum's front yard into a rice paddy and Pepper was in heaven. She spent hours pecking at the sodden soil and wouldn't acknowledge me, so great was her enjoyment. 

    This incident has reminded me that Pepper Zen, a child of nature, really needs to be living in nature as in nature on a farm.  Under no circumstances will I set her free!   
     Like me, she is not coping too well with suburbia and desires a bucolic lifestyle.  She should be able to quack and honk to her heart's content, but I have to reprimand her when she attempts it.  And I reprimand myself when I scream at the kids for the neighbours don't appreciate newcomers disturbing the deathly quiet that is suburbia.  On TI, there was a good chance when I yelled at the kids, a plane or a Customs or medi-vac helicopter was passing by and drowned out my shrieking.  Or a passing vehicle blasting doof-doof-doof music (apparently this does happen in Cairns, but only south of the Barron). Oh, suburbia will be the death of both Pepper and me, the quiet, the homogeneity, the sensation of being so utterly trapped behind purpose-built fences, neat, clean, functional (on TI, our fences were pre-loved security screen doors held in place by masonry blocks and rope).
     I've been making enquiries to find Pepper a new home and having some fantasies of my own involving either a Tableland farm with a meandering, rainforest-lined creek or a caravan and a long, straight road through red dirt and the odd mulga bush.  In the event I can't pull off the former, I am seeking a fellow-duck lover who can grow up Pepper for a while rather than permanently adopt her.  And if anyone knows of a second-hand caravan for sale, 18 to 20 feet, preferably off-road ... 

Portrait of Pepper (on the farm).