Bellingham Port, Aboard M/V Matanuska
Find a quiet space in your mind. Now if you could for a moment, imagine those qualities of Americans that an Australian might find affronting. For me these are:
1. Loudness
2. Opinionated but not necessarily informed
3. Overbearing enthusiasm
Now try to imagine an American that would most embody those qualities. Perhaps it would be a seventeen year old student who, in a few months, will graduate from high school. Surely that would be an excitable American. Now, multiply that person by thirty. In such a gaggle, volume would not only be magnified thirty-fold, but socially each one would need to try that little bit harder to gain voice, gain attention over their companions. Each would find it essential that their important opinion was delivered amongst their peers, not letting information, or lack there of, to detract from this. Now, let’s put these thirty individuals in an appropriate context, how about a SCHOOL CAMP. Is there anything more exiting than school camp? Not in my experience, no. Finally, for the Australians reading this, what could be the most annoying position for this gaggle of yanks to be in proximity to you? Let’s try this:
Imagine you are embarking upon a journey of grand proportions, indefinite timeframe, and spiritual undertones. The journey commences on a boat. The route your berth will take is along the Alaska Marine Highway, through the epic scenery of the Inner Passage, where you might see whales, porpoise, sea lions, otters, moose, brown and back bears. Imagine that the pamphlet on the boat would say, ‘This magical land of forests, fjords, peaceful communities, and abundant wildlife will enchant you with its mixture of Alaska Native, early Russian, and colorful Gold Rush history’. Imagine that for this three day journey you will camp out on the top deck, the solarium, separated from the stars by only thin perspex.
Can you imagine such a journey? Is the potential serenity and gravitas of it clear in your mind? Now, carefully take that gaggle of American youths and position them surrounding your island of refuge, the deckchair upon which you will sleep each night. Finally equip the youngsters with a guitar, harmonica, and a SET OF BONGOS. And there you have it: my current situation. My spiritual journey through the inner passage accompanied by the soundtrack of 'Our Last School Camp Eva'. I can only pray they are all non-smoking Christians who are sworn to celibacy until marriage.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Our Last School Camp Eva
Reading Material
Fairhaven, Bellingham, Washington, USA.
I went into a bookshop, it wasn’t big. They had Edward Abbey ‘Desert Solitaire’ and ‘The Best of Edward Abbey’ – a collection he’d put together himself. I bought the collection, trying not to feel dirty about it being a collection because, after all, Abbey had chosen it. It’s appropriate to spend the next three days reading the author who has a direct responsibility for my being here. Edward Abbey, master of anti-office rationale and wild-places inspiration. He distracted my mind frommy computer screen for six months last year, and it is only appropriate that I now let him affirm my journey through the inner passage into Alaska and all its wild places.
I’m excited. I’m in Fairhaven, a cute port-suburb of Bellingham, Washington, from where the Alaska Ferry leaves. The hotel gave me a lift to the terminal in the mini bus, and I disappeared into the cavernous cargo sheds to discover Milt, who is a friend of Damon, with whom I will be living in Juneau. Milt called my name in echos across the cargo shed on my arrival , ‘Megan!’. In no time we were back at the minibus with the bemused girl driver watching on as Milt accepted all my gear onto the palette he proffered up from his forklift.
‘Are you Irish?’
‘No, Australian’.
‘Australian? Even better!’
Milt and forklift disappeared back into the cargo sheds for the day and I wandered into Fairbanks to look around.
This trip is going to be a breeze. I feel like I am a special show-and-tell. I feel like everyone thinks I’m cute, and I act like it. For the time being, it’s working.
The Cappaccino, or America is Different to Home
Fairhaven - suburb of Bellingham, Washington State, USA.
The café has wooden tables and is called ‘Tony’s Coffee’, so I assume they can make a cappuccino. They call my order. I return to the counter and collect. There is a very foamy looking drink on the counter next to what could only be described as a booth of drink accessories. I can’t imagine what any of the bottles are beyond the sugar and the paddlepop sticks so I take my drink to my window seat. They know how to do deep woden window bench tables in Washington. I need a spoon. I search around the cafe and find some cutlery set aside for the adjacent restaurant. I get a spoon and return to the fluffy drink. It’s bald. I need chocolate powdery stuff on the top. I return to the booth. Amongst the apothecary there are 3 shakers, for ‘cocoa’, ‘cinnamon’ and ‘nutmeg’. I have a go with the cocoa, and then decide to lash out a bit and have a shake of the nutmeg as well.
When I drink a cappuccino each time is special. I love the ritual of gently paring away the thick milky froth from the cup’s edges, folding inwards, like folding egg-white into a heavier cake batter, like my mother taught with a smooth, gentle, yet brave motion – ‘careful, don’t mix it, keep the air it!’ I attempt this beloved maneuver on my drink. The foam appear to be about one third of the cup deep. A remarkable chemical reaction is triggered as the foam combines with the liquid. Large bubbles start forming - or is it that large bubbles are uncovered? Deciphering what process is occurring is difficult. Undoubtedly, as I begin to stir the drink, the foam is rapidly evaporating as the large bubbles eppervesce into nothing but coffee-smelling vapour. Finally,a creamy film is all that remains of the foam layer, a mere memory of the thick, air-filled splendour, the crown of my cappuccino.
Once the wonder and surprise of the exciting chemical reaction has passed, I look at my two-thirds of a cup of what seems to be filtered coffee with a film of creamy surface residue, and am disappointed. I crane a look back at the counter to confirm that yes, there is indeed a large shiny expresso machine at the command of two Tony’s Coffee employees, one of which at this minute is announcing, ‘Large Skinny Mocha’, and I catch myself for the umpteenth time in the last two days with my home-minded prejudice off the leash and running frantically and aggressively towards the strange looking, totally defenceless thing that is different from the equivalent thing at home. ‘Hey Prejudice!’ I shout, ‘Come back here!’, and in my head I lecture my prejudice that I won’t take it out if it keeps behaving like this. I certainly won’t take it to the other side of the world and let it run free in Seattle, Bellingham, and certainly not Juneau, Alaska. Because prejudice is usually quite useful and good fun to have around, but only when it behaves. I have to keen an eye on it.
Prejudice heels, and I finish the drink. It wasn’t a cappuccino, but I’m not in Italy. It was a yankaccinno. Now I know. America is different to home.
The café has wooden tables and is called ‘Tony’s Coffee’, so I assume they can make a cappuccino. They call my order. I return to the counter and collect. There is a very foamy looking drink on the counter next to what could only be described as a booth of drink accessories. I can’t imagine what any of the bottles are beyond the sugar and the paddlepop sticks so I take my drink to my window seat. They know how to do deep woden window bench tables in Washington. I need a spoon. I search around the cafe and find some cutlery set aside for the adjacent restaurant. I get a spoon and return to the fluffy drink. It’s bald. I need chocolate powdery stuff on the top. I return to the booth. Amongst the apothecary there are 3 shakers, for ‘cocoa’, ‘cinnamon’ and ‘nutmeg’. I have a go with the cocoa, and then decide to lash out a bit and have a shake of the nutmeg as well.
When I drink a cappuccino each time is special. I love the ritual of gently paring away the thick milky froth from the cup’s edges, folding inwards, like folding egg-white into a heavier cake batter, like my mother taught with a smooth, gentle, yet brave motion – ‘careful, don’t mix it, keep the air it!’ I attempt this beloved maneuver on my drink. The foam appear to be about one third of the cup deep. A remarkable chemical reaction is triggered as the foam combines with the liquid. Large bubbles start forming - or is it that large bubbles are uncovered? Deciphering what process is occurring is difficult. Undoubtedly, as I begin to stir the drink, the foam is rapidly evaporating as the large bubbles eppervesce into nothing but coffee-smelling vapour. Finally,a creamy film is all that remains of the foam layer, a mere memory of the thick, air-filled splendour, the crown of my cappuccino.Once the wonder and surprise of the exciting chemical reaction has passed, I look at my two-thirds of a cup of what seems to be filtered coffee with a film of creamy surface residue, and am disappointed. I crane a look back at the counter to confirm that yes, there is indeed a large shiny expresso machine at the command of two Tony’s Coffee employees, one of which at this minute is announcing, ‘Large Skinny Mocha’, and I catch myself for the umpteenth time in the last two days with my home-minded prejudice off the leash and running frantically and aggressively towards the strange looking, totally defenceless thing that is different from the equivalent thing at home. ‘Hey Prejudice!’ I shout, ‘Come back here!’, and in my head I lecture my prejudice that I won’t take it out if it keeps behaving like this. I certainly won’t take it to the other side of the world and let it run free in Seattle, Bellingham, and certainly not Juneau, Alaska. Because prejudice is usually quite useful and good fun to have around, but only when it behaves. I have to keen an eye on it.
Prejudice heels, and I finish the drink. It wasn’t a cappuccino, but I’m not in Italy. It was a yankaccinno. Now I know. America is different to home.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Separation Anxiety
Monday 27th March 2006, The last day in Darwin.
Yesterday I discovered that it is not a natural human trait to find leaving town difficult. I had gone to pick up a stationwagon to move my precious belongings to the busfreight depot the following day. Teagan was home, having just undressed the silverfoil on an enormous steaming body of Barramundi, freshly caught the previous day on Tiwi Island, where the footy grand final was hosted. I was hungry – looking for dinner, and looking for an excuse not to be at home and stressing over my stuff. She poured two whiskeys and we sat down to a feast of fish flesh and single malt.
Teagan knows about moving. For a while she moved every few years, stripping off and jumping into it like a swimmer in the Build-up when conditions become unbareable. Loving the slough-off. Over our conversation I built a theory about people’s relationships to moving. It goes like this:
There are 4 categories of people;
1. Those who are content and don’t think about being somewhere else
2. Those who are not content but find the concept of moving too difficult to actually do it
3. Those who are not content, and move, but find it difficult
4. Those who want to move and do so with ease
I am of the third category, and Teagan is of the fourth. I am disappointed in myself for finding it so difficult to let go of things, but would rather be counted among category three than category two. Category two is the one I have been threatening myself with over the last twelve months of being discontent in my job but not acting to change the situation. Yes, I am firmly within category three, the main symptom of which is self-induced separation anxiety. Ask any one of my friends - in fact, ask Rita my car.
Yesterday I discovered that it is not a natural human trait to find leaving town difficult. I had gone to pick up a stationwagon to move my precious belongings to the busfreight depot the following day. Teagan was home, having just undressed the silverfoil on an enormous steaming body of Barramundi, freshly caught the previous day on Tiwi Island, where the footy grand final was hosted. I was hungry – looking for dinner, and looking for an excuse not to be at home and stressing over my stuff. She poured two whiskeys and we sat down to a feast of fish flesh and single malt.
Teagan knows about moving. For a while she moved every few years, stripping off and jumping into it like a swimmer in the Build-up when conditions become unbareable. Loving the slough-off. Over our conversation I built a theory about people’s relationships to moving. It goes like this:
There are 4 categories of people;
1. Those who are content and don’t think about being somewhere else
2. Those who are not content but find the concept of moving too difficult to actually do it
3. Those who are not content, and move, but find it difficult
4. Those who want to move and do so with ease
I am of the third category, and Teagan is of the fourth. I am disappointed in myself for finding it so difficult to let go of things, but would rather be counted among category three than category two. Category two is the one I have been threatening myself with over the last twelve months of being discontent in my job but not acting to change the situation. Yes, I am firmly within category three, the main symptom of which is self-induced separation anxiety. Ask any one of my friends - in fact, ask Rita my car.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Fish and Chips
Friday 17th March 2006, Darwin City
My final day of work dawned. Sixty-two dollars worth of fish and chips later, I hosted my farewell morning tea. The final supper. The fish was hot, tender, and good. Some kind words were said about yours truly and then we participated in fluorescent-lit chit-chat. Fortuneately, Ron's world map was close at hand so I could point out my destination dot: Juneau, Alaska. This was helpful for the geographically-vague amongst my work-fellows. There had been jokes about polar bears and Baked Alaska, but did they really understand where I was going? Certainly Alaska is an exotic location, and the mention of it had inspired a mixed bag of suprise, excitement, and befuddlement. After the question was asked, I felt a small sense of guilt the moment before divulging my destination, guilt like that a joke-teller has as she holds the punchline a moment longer, knowing what the response will be. It's a setup, you're going to be amazed.
On this final day I was siezed by affection for my colleages in Land Development. Who could blame me? Their impeccable sense of humour and determination to have a good time at work had taught me an invaluable lesson in office survival: laugh or die. If only I had met them sooner.
My final day of work dawned. Sixty-two dollars worth of fish and chips later, I hosted my farewell morning tea. The final supper. The fish was hot, tender, and good. Some kind words were said about yours truly and then we participated in fluorescent-lit chit-chat. Fortuneately, Ron's world map was close at hand so I could point out my destination dot: Juneau, Alaska. This was helpful for the geographically-vague amongst my work-fellows. There had been jokes about polar bears and Baked Alaska, but did they really understand where I was going? Certainly Alaska is an exotic location, and the mention of it had inspired a mixed bag of suprise, excitement, and befuddlement. After the question was asked, I felt a small sense of guilt the moment before divulging my destination, guilt like that a joke-teller has as she holds the punchline a moment longer, knowing what the response will be. It's a setup, you're going to be amazed.
On this final day I was siezed by affection for my colleages in Land Development. Who could blame me? Their impeccable sense of humour and determination to have a good time at work had taught me an invaluable lesson in office survival: laugh or die. If only I had met them sooner.
Heads Australia Tails Alaska
It was at the Presentation Dinner for the First Bi-Annual Young Water Professionals Conference that the challenge was put to me: flip a coin. ‘Flipping a coin works for me all the time’, the German young water professional said.
I’d just finished describing the bones of my dream journey to the three women, my passion slipping out onto my gestures and voice, undeniable. I caught myself quickly then, and moved back into the murky puddle of last-year’s mantra, ‘But I don’t know…’. Nadine had seen it however, and caught me up, ‘It sounds like you know exactly what you want to do.’ And yes, I had to agree, I had just divulged unbounded enthusiasm for an activity and place beyond being a Graduate Water Engineer in Darwin, Australia. So she flipped the coin and I said, ‘Heads Australia, tails Alaska’.
As the coin came down I noticed in myself a heavy bias towards the success of tails, and to my relief heads was heavy on the day, and no match for Tails Alaska.
I’d just finished describing the bones of my dream journey to the three women, my passion slipping out onto my gestures and voice, undeniable. I caught myself quickly then, and moved back into the murky puddle of last-year’s mantra, ‘But I don’t know…’. Nadine had seen it however, and caught me up, ‘It sounds like you know exactly what you want to do.’ And yes, I had to agree, I had just divulged unbounded enthusiasm for an activity and place beyond being a Graduate Water Engineer in Darwin, Australia. So she flipped the coin and I said, ‘Heads Australia, tails Alaska’.
As the coin came down I noticed in myself a heavy bias towards the success of tails, and to my relief heads was heavy on the day, and no match for Tails Alaska.
