A sign!

After pontificating on signs and whether I should stay in Cairns, within hours of posting The Omens I found this:

     It was imprinted with the contours of the adjacent bitumen road and brittle as if it had weathered the seasons.  It lay on the grass by the path (the path!) as if begging me to notice.

     What does it mean?

     Just before I left TI I was chatting to my dear friend, D who is most familiar with Buddhism.  I declared that I am not sufficiently evolved spiritually to dabble in Buddhism because I have made endless attempts to explore the religion, but nothing resonates.  I have wondered whether it is a dislike of maroon clothing that is subconsciously preventing me from embracing what should be a fulfilling and enlightening spiritual path.  

     Why can’t I be a Buddhist and wear blue robes and have long hair? But robes aren't the answer.  The card says so.
     Yep. Forget prayer beads. I’ve lost every set of rosaries I’ve had since my first when I started school in 1974. They were exquisite.  Real pearls and silver.  Or so I thought at that tender age.

     So I have interpreted finding this card as a sign.  I need to serve others.  Not that I haven’t been serving Tony and the kids since I stopped full-time work in 2006 and turned down offers of work since, 'to be a mum.'   

     Maybe I need to serve other others.

     I am starting in Kibbim’s class as a parent helper this week.  That’s a start.

     I am helping Mum with the foster dogs she is caring for even though one of them urinated on Kibbim’s homework last Tuesday night. 

     “Sorry, Miss, the dog widdled on my homework.”

     Somehow I don't think trying to rehabilitate neglected dogs from the Torres Strait is 'the path'.
     I really am trying really hard to be a better mother, that is, trying to mother 'with awareness' (see, I can do Buddhism) which means engaging with the kids and not just being physically present when the kids are home from school.  

     Maybe this card has some other significance.  
     It might be a sign.  Of what, though?

     I recall an incident over a decade ago.  I had done a painting of a scene from a property D (my Buddhist friend) had owned, but had reluctantly sold.  The scene was the sun breaking through the canopy of the rainforest and reflecting on the babbling waters of the creek.  It had been her favourite place on the property where she meditated.  I wanted D to have something to remind her of that special place.

     She was teary eyed when I delivered the framed painting.  She couldn’t wait to hang it and engaged a tradesman fix a special hook to ensure it was secure.

Not long after, the hook dislodged from its casing, the painting fell and the glass smashed into a thousand pieces.

What did this mean?

     A mutual friend was discussing the significance of the fall.  It was a metaphor for her not wanting to sell, or for making a bad decision to sell or she was resisting the sale and needed to let go.  Many other theories of spiritual significance were brainstormed.

     “Or,” said this friend, “it could mean what my wife reckons?”

     “What’s that?” asked D and I, certain to learn the one true reason for the painting’s damage.

     “Absolutely nothing,” said the friend, “except the painting was too heavy for the hook.”  

The Omens

The kids have been at school in Cairns for a week and shoes are still a problem.  A big problem.

     I should have known.  There were signs.

     Had I been living in Ancient Rome, I would have engaged a professional omen reader to advise me about moving to Cairns.  He (they were only men) would have disembowelled a fish since other animals are in short supply on TI (actually, he could have used a roaming dog), interpreted the entrails and divined against the move.

     The signs were:

     First sign: Kibby despises wearing shoes and Seffy will, under duress.

     Second sign: Late last year, Kibbim, Seffy and I were returning to TI after three weeks on the Gold Coast and Atherton Tablelands.  We had left the Horn Island airport on the McDonald’s bus and were heading for the wharf. 

     “What is it you most like about coming back to TI?” I asked the kids.

     “I can’t wait to cuddle Ziggy and Gina Rose,” said Seffy.  Ten year old girls are delightful!

     I turned to Kibby. “I don’t have to use shoes.” 

     Third sign: Kibby refused to participate in his school’s cross-country race in May because, “Mum, we gotta wear shoes.  We can’t use bare feet … white kids can run (in shoes).  But us black kids, we can’t run in shoes.”

     Fourth sign: Every time we have ever been to the Federal Hotel for dinner, we walk out the front door and when Tony or I first notice Kibby is in his Sunday best complete with bare feet, we go through the routine, Kibbim you need shoes – I don’t have any – Just get some thongs – I don’t have any – You’re not coming and so on and so on till he finds one left thong from a black pair and one right brown Croc.

     None of these signs augured well.

On the first day at their new school, Holy Cross, Seffy hated her shoes.  The were too big and too tight.  I know.  The National Curriculum should teach ten year olds about contradiction.

     Kibby’s shoes were too big. 

     “Get the inner soles we bought with them.”

     “I chucked them out.”

     Stay calm, I told myself.  I went through the kitchen bin.  No insoles.  I went through the wheelie bin, combing the kitchen waste like slimy dog bones, yesterday morning’s uneaten Weat-bix, last night’s dinner scraps and so on.  Twice, because the insoles had apparently vanished.  Another sign?

     The minutes were ticking away.  I didn’t want to them to be late on their first day.

     “I want to go back to TI,” said Kibby. “I hate Cairns.”

     Stay calm, I told myself.  The insoles were here yesterday.  They have to be here today. That’s when I went through the wheelie bin a second time, including the recycling bin.  People have two wheelie bins in Cairns! One for recycling which I am still trying to fathom.

     I had to consider Plan B.  Murder.

     “Kibbim, listen to me very carefully.” I even got down on his level which is what the parenting and teaching literature says when addressing children and spoke like my friend, Julia who is a Montessori teacher.  “I need to get you to school on time.  Which means you need those insoles.  If you don’t find them, I am going to …” Actually, Julia wouldn’t say that last bit.  She’d say “I will help you find them,” but I would be busy wringing Kibbim’s neck if he didn’t find his frigging insoles.  And checking his scalp for a 666 mark.

     “They’re on the lounge in the sunroom,” he said, with a faint smirk.

     Stay calm, I told myself. 

     The insoles were on the lounge in the sunroom.

     “But I hate shoes.  I’ll wear thongs.”

     Apart from a few mild swear words, the kids got to school on time and in shoes.

     After a week, Seffy is no trouble, but every morning, Kibbim and I go through the charade, Kibbim, where are your shoes – I hate wearing shoes – you’re going to wear shoes – I’m not going to school – I need you to put on your shoes …

     The signs are still there.

     I want to go home to TI.

     Since I am ‘between careers’ at the moment and am struggling with my new life in the fast lane, I have been thinking seriously about returning to TI and reinventing myself as an omen reader.  Of course, I would call myself a Presage Consultant.  Omen reader sounds a bit pedestrian in the way Accountant does versus Financial Controller and Sea Freight does compared to Marine Logisitics.  Women can do blokes’ work these days and I already have an ABN.  

     And it would be an effective way of dealing with the dog problem on TI. 

     Hell, this is auguring really well. 

Oh, TI, my beautiful home

Last Saturday, 6 July, Seffy, Kibbim and I flew to Cairns … on a one-way ticket.

     Tony has been keen to move to the mainland for over five years.  I have refused, saying I’d think about it down the track and it's a long track.

The sun is not setting on my TI adventure.

     I have known the move to a regional centre was inevitable, for the children.  If you want what the city offers (sport, singing lessons, more challenging academic pursuits), you need to live in a city.  It’s unreasonable to complain about not having access to extra-curricular activities in a small, remote community like TI. There are so many rewarding aspects to life on TI such as a slow pace of life, the freedom of a small, safer community and fresh air, but Tony and I want our kids to be able to cope with city life and not shy away from crowds and traffic, self-service checkouts, footwear, being able to drive at the speed limit and remembering to lock the car, which are the reasons I DON'T want to move.

     I’ve won the battle to stay long enough and earlier this year, Tony and I decided we would head south in January, 2014.

     However, a recent visit to Cairns reminded me my mum needs some support, a fact she heavily disputes!  So, I’ve come down for just a few months, hopefully.  The kids and I have found ourselves living with Mum in a three-bedroom, masonry block abode in the suburbs.  
     Mmm.  Not what I have ever experienced, considering my family travelled much and moved house often when I was growing up. In fact, I spent a fair bit of my childhood in PNG in a little community very much like TI.

     After five days of this new life in Cairns, I am longing to go home. Strangely, I have never  thought of TI as my home.  It’s Tony and Ina’s home, it’s the kids home, but for me, it’s always been a temporary residence.  

     Why?

     First reason, I grew up abroad and tremble with fear at the thought of a mainland, mainstream existence, wholly alien.  Four years at uni and three years in Cairns did nothing to assauge my culture shock. Arriving at the TI wharf in January, 1994 was like arriving in PNG where I spent many years of my youth and it wasn’t home. Merceneries, missionaries and misfits are said to be the only non-Indigenous residents of the tropics.  I happily embrace the misfit category.  
     So at the TI wharf, I was met by a white guy, with a fag hanging from his lips and the waistband of his Stubbies exposing half a white arse.  He reminded of one of the many characters I recall from PNG that didn’t quite fit in to general Australian society, but found a niche in a community far away, generally where it was hot, humid and had lots of palm trees and there was a slowness to the way people moved and spoke.

     “Hey, love,” said this white guy as the minutes passed, “you the girl coming to work at the Federal?”

     Second reason.  TI is an Indigenous community.  I am white.  Europeans, overwhelmingly transient public servants, are often referred to as markay, white spirits which I have thought of as apt as most of them are there and then they are not there (Just some white woman).  I assumed I didn’t have the right to call TI home for this reason. 

     Last reason (this is reading like a persuasive text), because of my background, I have a big mouth and loud voice and am happy to challenge irrational decisions and behaviour by anyone in the Torres Strait (and anywhere).  This is, while not strictly culturally inappropriate, not the done thing.  I suspect it may be one of the very few negatives about living in a small community where most people are related and can’t say anything that contradicts someone who is seen as their elder or in a position of power.

     Therefore, TI wasn’t home until I left the island.  Temporarily.

     I've had lots of time to think about the concept of home, because I have had lots of time driving in the @#$%& car on the @#$%& highway.  
     Now I realise, home is where I feel most settled and that is TI.  I have raised my kids, I have bought property, worked, volunteered, run businesses, walked the length and breadth of the island, traversed the ocean, painted the equivalent of acres of landscapes and have lived there a few months shy of twenty years.  I married the man I love and settled with him in his family home on his island home.  Just because I am white doesn’t mean I can’t call TI home. Oh, TI, my beautiful home.

     So there.  I am only leaving temporarily.  Anyway, I have a return ticket for a week’s stay in August.  You didn’t think I’d get on the plane on Saturday without knowing for certain I was returning home?

The sun always rises the next day ... and it has, thus far, been entertaining being with two island kids as they stuggle to come to terms with life in the big smoke. Shoes have been a big problem.  Stay tuned.

Little boys!

Last Thursday, I managed to catch a few moments of Life Matters.  A guy was talking about boys and how their fathers can have good relationships with them.  Tony rang me during the program as he heard a bit of it while in the car and wanted me to get the guy’s name, keen to listen to the full interview.  Of course, one is never in a car for long on TI!

This guy was saying, essentially, that dads can have great relationships with their boys if they spend quality time with them. 

I was interested because I have three boys and I need Tony to have good relationships with them.  This means if I need them to do something I know they won’t do if I ask them, I can get Tony to ask them and they’ll do exactly what I wanted them to do in the first place from simple things such as hang out the wet towel and stop teasing your little sister to serious stuff like, stop mucking around and start studying and don't go to Sydney for the screening of your first ever film at the Sydney Film Festival (because it is in the middle of exam week).

What I did hear affirmed that Tony does exactly what this guy was saying, that is, he has quality time with his boys, fishing, hunting, camping, working on the boat, fixing their bows, making arrows, yarning, playing chess, sometimes just sitting at the kitchen table and not yarning.  He’s a great dad, Tony. 

Then this guy said something to the effect that women make the mistake of thinking that men are just little boys in big boys’ bodies.  My ears really pricked up at this.  What a completely preposterous statement!  For millennia, women have founded their relationships with men on the knowledge that men are little boys in big boys’ bodies, whether those men are their husbands, sons, brothers, friends, colleagues etc. That knowledge has enabled relationships with men to work!

When I heard this I coughed and spluttered.  Then I realised I was being unreasonable.

I am open-minded enough to consider any absurd assertion with fresh eyes.

And so I did.  For 33 hours. 

Until moments after I saw this photo. 

He is my firstborn, TK and he was in the emergency room at TI hospital after dislocating his shoulder, for the second time.  He was in a lot of pain, but safe. 

Tony showed me the photo just after he returned from checking on TK and minutes later, I received a panicked text from a friend, L. She’d just seen a photo of TK in hospital and wanted to know if everything was okay.

I asked Tony what was going on.

“Stop worrying,” he said.  “TK put a photo of himself on Instagram.”

While I typed out my reply to L – He dislocated his shoulder.  He damn well Instagrammed it.  He is ok.  I will dislocate the other shoulder when he gets home – I started to say to Tony, sounding nothing at all like a fishwife, "your son is so irresponsible posting a photo up without explanation and what did he think people would think apart from some terrible accident and honestly, he’s carried on like a little boy and what are you going to say to him about this, Tony, you know, you’ve got to pull him into line sometimes, like now would be a good  …

But Tony wasn’t listening.  He was tapping at his phone, probably organising a fishing trip.

Within a minute, I received another text from a friend, P, panicked about seeing a photo on Instagram of TK in hospital.

I turned to Tony and said, sounding nothing at all like a fishwife, “That was P.  She’s just seen the photo of TK.  Can you believe he posted that up?  Again! You need to get down there and take his phone off him and tell him this is just not on, posting photos of himself when it looks like …

“Stop worrying,” said Tony.  “I just Instagrammed it.”

Little boys in big boys’ bodies!  It took me 33 hours to be reminded.

Spring tide time

TI in 2B:  Pearl luggers in for the spring tide, c. 1930s to 1940s.  

One of these luggers might be the Cessa (registration number A22), the Mills' family vessel of the thirties and forties.  Or one might be the Waikato, a Bowden Pearl Company lugger skippered by my late father-in-law, Henry Titasey in the forties and early fifties.  Henry came to the Torres Strait to work first as a pearl diver until he worked his way to skipper.  He was then quarantined in 1952 for several years at Waiben when he contracted TB.

     In her memoir, Ina’s Story, my mother-in-law, Ina Titasey (nee Mills) told how she courted Henry, during spring tide time.  How else could lovers in the Torres Strait meet when life was navigated around the tides?

     Spring tide is full or new moon when the current is extra fast and so stirs up the sediment on the sea floor.  This means poor visibility and often the sheer speed made it impossible for divers to reach the bottom to collect shell.

     So, in spring tide time when it was not possible to dive, the luggers came to TI to unload shell at the shell store and load up with supplies.  It was also time for some R and R for the crew.

     It is clear from the waves in the above sketch, the sager, the south-easterly tradewind, is blowing.  Of course, pearling was suspended during the wet season when the kooki or north-west wind blew, often unpredictably.

     I asked Mum (Ina), former Mills Sister, if she and the girls sang songs about luggers.

     She shook her head and was silent for a long time.

     “No,” she said, slowly, “not about luggers.  No.”  I knew from her expression there was a gem coming.  “But Uncle Wrench wrote this one song on Naghir. It’s a Naghir song.  There aren’t many Naghir songs.”

     Uncle Wrench is Mum’s brother, younger by two years and living in Cairns.  Naghir is the Mills family's island.

A lugger passes Naghir Island c. early 1930s. St Pauls is in the background.

     “Which way the song?” I asked.

     She started humming, gazing into nothing.  The words came to her slowly and I wrote like hell, humming with her.  It had a catchy melody.

     The song is about the family pearl lugger, Cessa, a big A22 painted on her sides.  Uncle Wrench sings as if he is the A22, slicing through the ocean, homeward bound, which is what the luggers did at spring tide.

(Excuse my poor spelling on the translations.  I did my best with Mum’s help.)

In angau nakee A22 nai Sara urik Malu dadiar-ai-ay Sager a boey bal Aril malu ad-tha mika gar-ay paganu-ay Malu ah nakee U-su poidthanu, sik thanurema-ay Nga kedth mai-a matha padal nith-thunu Malu da diya ay lagakagar-ay

Look at me, only me here go Me, A22 Seagull flying In the middle of the ocean The sager is blowing When the sea breaks it is like rain The waves make the sea filled with foam, Foam behind The boat runs With me sailing in the middle of the ocean, heading home.

     Sadly, the pearling industry collapsed with the introduction of plastic buttons in the early fifties.  Many Torres Strait Islanders, including the Mills family, turned to diving for kabar, trochus shell. 

     Uncle Wrench then worked in the fifties as a kabar diver on the Songton, a lugger operated by Johnny Witts company and skippered by Uncle Alfie, Mum and Uncle Wrench’s oldest brother who passed away in early 2005. Also on the Songton was the youngest Mills boy, Benny who died tragically on 25 July, 1956 while diving for kabar.      

     The following is the opening paragraph of Uncle Wrench’s chapter, No luxuries on this boat, in Ina’s Story.

“This here day, 25 July, 1956, we dive for kabar in reef, four or five hours from Bowen. I nearly 27 year old. Each day e same, but get up time different, depending on the tide. This day we sleep in till dawn and eat breakfast, damper and syrup and black tea with sugar. No luxuries on this boat, the Songton, a lugger. But we gad engine. Gardiner diesel engine. Good one that engine. Them other engine lotta trouble. Songton boat blong Johnny Witts. Em got other lugger, Briton, Triton and Winston. Before we been dive pearlshell, but plastic buttons take over so now dive for kabar.”

Uncle Wrench (left) on the Songton.

Torres Strait Islanders continue to derive their income from the sea, although the industries have changed to accommodate new demands.  What hasn’t changed is the tide; fishermen lay up on the spring tide and work on the slow neap tide of the first and third quarter moons.  And members of the Mills family continue the seafaring tradition, not in luggers, but big-engined crayfishing vessels or, in the case of my darling, a six metre fibreglass vessel with a 90 hp outboard, the Madam Dugong, working his dream job; a fishing guide.

Tony with a couple of happy clients (and a sad mackerel) 

Piggy in the middle ... of the arrow's path!

By Kibbim

Me and Dad and Sutchy went camping on one island and took our bows to go hunting.

 We unpacked and had a cup of tea.

Then we put the bait out which is scraps Mum puts in an icecream container when she does cooking.  We digged a big hole and made it a clear place so we can have a clear shot at the pig.

We went to bed really early then Sutchy went for a look at about 7 o’clock then he came back to tell us there’s a pig eating the bait.  Then me and Sutchy grabbed our bows and stalked up to it and the pig kind of heard us cos I was pretty loud.  The pig stopped eating and looked at us. 

Sutchy and me stand quietly then the pig started eating again. Then Sutchy shot the pig. It was Sutchy's first pig to shoot.  When Sutchy hitted it I jogged back next to Dad who was standing next to the shack. I was shaking cos I was pretty scared cos I thought the boar was gonna run to me, but it ran past me and away.

Sutchy was so happy he keeps smiling.

It was dark and we couldn’t really see so we went to bed and we’d look for it in the morning.

Then we found it in the morning.

But I then got belisore and vomited and we had to come home. We brought the pig home in the esky.

And we had to clean the pig.  Sutchy and Dad are cleaning it cos we are having it for lunch and dinner. Sutchy is still smiling.

Mum wants to know if anyone knows how to rotate this picture.

I am still vomiting.

TI? Where's that?

TI has some ripping yarns.  My favourites are those involving people who have no idea this gorgeous island exists or even assume it is overseas.

     Here is what I reckon is the ripperest of TI yarns (apart from the untimely death) and is the reason for this sleek memorial on the waterfront.

TI in 2B: Memorial to Dr Joseph Wassell, much loved and respected doctor and quarantine officer who died on TI in 1915.

     Dr Joseph Leathom Wassell was a civilian and military doctor and quarantine officer who arrived on TI in 1900 at the age of 27.  He was so well respected that when he died in 1915 from stonefish poisoning, a memorial was erected in his honour.

     However, the headstone ordered for his grave never turned up, well, not for 90 years.  In that period, the location of his grave was lost due to limited record keeping at the time.

     Fast forward to 1996.  A quarantine officer, Ian, on Torrens Island, a quarantine station near Adelaide and known to locals as TI, was cleaning out a ramshackle boatshed.  He came across a headstone dedicated to Dr Joseph Leathom Wassell of Thursday Island.

Ian correctly figured that the headstone was mistakenly sent to TI (Torrens Island) instead of TI (Thursday Island).  It was confirmed when he rang the Torres Shire Council.

     In July, 2005, Ian drove from Adelaide to Seisia with the headstone and boated over to TI.  A commemoration was held with the shire council, elders and church reps to honour Dr Wassell’s dedication to the people of the Torres Strait.

Amazing!

     My TI-Where’s-that? experience happened a few years ago when I was working full time.  I received a phone call from a woman (with an Australian accent) from A1 Medical Insurance (or some such medical insurance company name) trying to sell me a policy.  I assumed it was private health insurance and I told her I wasn't interested.

     She persisted with the tenacity of a telco salesperson.

     “But what happens if you get sick?”

     “I’ll go to the hospital.”

     “That’ll cost you.  With medical insurance, the insurance covers your costs.”

     “No, the hospital pays their staff who treat me.  I’m pretty sure that’s how it works so I don’t need your medical insurance.”

     “What happens if you have to be evacuated to a larger hospital for specialist treatment?”

      "Well, I suppose the hospital covers that, too.  I’m not …”

     I wanted to tell her to bugger off, but I simply cannot be rude to unsolicited callers.  I knew students who paid their way through uni making calls for charities or companies doing surveys or selling products.  She could be one such student. I’d shake her off eventually.  If I could get a word in. 

     “Exactly, you’re not sure, are you?  You may be out of pocket thousands and thousands of dollars.”

     “Look,” I said, politely, “I am not interested in medical insurance.  I just don’t need it.”

     “You’ve already said you THINK the hospital will cover you, but that is an unusual arrangement.  If you are not living near large hospitals, you’ll bear the cost of getting there and having the treatment.”

     She had me worried.  Perhaps Queensland Health had limits to its generosity.  I hadn’t had the need for a medi-vac, so I wasn’t sure how things worked.

     “You see,” continued the woman, “With A1 Medical Insurance, you pay a monthly premium and in the event of serious illness or injury, we fly you out to a specialist hospital.”

     Naah, I thought, something’s not right if this is not regular health insurance like MBF or NIB.

     “Seriously,” I said, “if I am really sick, the local hospital will fly me to one of the major hospitals.  I know.  I hear the helicopters going all the time.  We live near the hospital.  The chopper picks up the patient from the hospital, flies to Horn Island and meets the flying doctor.  The patient is flown to either Cairns or Townsville.”

     Her tone became flat.  “Are you in Australia?”

     “Yes.”

     “Well, you won’t be needing medical insurance, then.” She slammed the phone down.