Emmjay had grown tired of trying to re-thread the string in his Speedos. The paper clip shuttle was a mistake and he recalled that a bobby pin was the weapon of choice for a lap around the waistband.
But ever since O’Hoo had been hauled over the coals for the Lambrettista incident, Emmjay had thought better of associating with bobbies – and their pins. Resigned to a long afternoon amongst the gentlemens’ smalls repair fraternity, he poured himself another “Smith’s” Single malt, giving another tiny Aussie battler distiller a chance at fame in the taste-off at the Pig’s Arms.
A couple of sniffs told him that his old favourite Limeburners was a short half head in front anyway.
It had been a bastard of a week. He’d been completely unable to avoid work the whole time and had sought solace by ducking out at lunchtime and swimming a couple of dozen laps of the sweetly-heated pool down the back of Petersham oval.
Emmjay was pleased with his new “Nero” cut. It reminded him of Derek Jacoby playing in “I, Claudius”, or as Tim the Cabin Boy preferred to call him, “Clavdivs”. It was a swimming-tolerant coif and offered a style statement that was more tolerable than the tragics who had (in epidemic proportions) begun to shave their heads to disguise male pattern baldness.
Baldness was not Emmjay’s problem, but he had grown to despise the kids playing in the back of the Pig’s Arms car park who referred to him by the epithet “Snowy”. Particularly the little bastard who used to strike the pose and burst into “There was movement at the station” every time Emmjay parked the blue Zephyr and went into the Pig’s for a cleansing Trotter’s – after his swim and before returning to the Wardrobe department at the ABC.
Emmjay was relieved that he had been able to change shifts and avoid the curdling density of the morning news crews, but it was not like the old days. He felt a profound sense of sad whimsy for the old timers and missed the challenge of picking a tie to go with Jim Dibble’s spectacles – or finding an open neck shirt with a collar big enough to get over Bill Peach’s head without exposing too many acres of chest carpet.
Nowadays there was a new generation of talking heads and the make-up department had set itself a challenge of creating 365 different ‘do’s for Juanita Phillips – without bothering to let Wardrobe in on the joke. And the ABC seemed to find it more economical to switch newsreaders than it was to buy Juanita a third dress. Which Juanita overcame, with the assistance of the Brotherhood of St Laurence. Emmjay was never sure whether he was supposed to press the garment, fumigate it, or nuke it in the department’s microwave.
But the foreign correspondents were even harder to please. Emmjay recalled the time when Miss Muffett, the tea lady ran off screaming when she miss-heard Darryn Lockyer – on his way to the middle east proclaim that he had “an Iraq need”.
The Smith’s was evaporating fast and Emmjay wondered whether anyone would care if his togs fell down. Reading his thoughts, Merv smiled. “You spend most of your life bare-arsed, sport”. And poured him two fingers more.
“Reckon this rain’s gunna stop soon” ?
“What rain ?”
“Come in from the beer garden, sport. There’s a good boy”.
* Through a picture window, I watched the behaviour of a canopy of great branches extending across the gully from where an oak tree grew beside the verandah of a bungalow I occasionally glimpsed on the other side; sometimes there was a person was briefly visible seated in a chair. However the wind blew it fascinated me a formation of a leaf at the end of a branch that swayed closest remained to my eye the shape of a wooden horse that was a diminutive gift from Sweden given my daughter as safe keepsake by a friend.
I have stood against war since I was able to understand what it means. As a schoolie I filled in dozens if not hundreds of bogus Vietnam draft registration cards. I was surprised to find myself to suddenly be a geriatric protester – once more at the barricades – far later in life than I had grown to expect – against the then coming war in Iraq.
Australian Jacqui de Gelder on patrol in Afghanistan
My take on Afghanistan is the same as my take on Iraq. As evil as a government is, civil wars are for people of that nation to sort out on their own. These are not places for Australian working class kids to die and be horribly injured. Are there sons and daughters of the wealthy, privileged and powerful in our society fighting in these foreign wars ?
I have a work colleague. I didn’t know his son was a soldier. Until my colleague and his wife flew to Germany because the military said they thought the boy was dying. He had lost both legs and one hand and had horrific facial injuries from an IED. The fierce heat of the blast cauterised his major arteries, otherwise he would have been dead in minutes. He pulled through and now has the luxury of a pair of bionic legs worth about the same as a Ferrari. In the hospital, his Mum held the hand of an American Mum whose boy was not so lucky. He died four days later. Slowly. In a morphine fog.
I totally reject the notion that to withdraw now is to betray this man and our other fallen and wounded soldiers in Afghanistan. I am in favour of not suffering another casualty.
This is not a just war. This war is not fighting for the free world against Hitler. This war is bullshit, lies and spin. It costs Australia – according to one of the writers on Unleashed $6 billion a year. Your tax and mine funds this pointless farrago and at the same time contributes to the death and wounding of countless civilians.
Our leaders say things like “stay the course”, “defeat the Taliban”, “deny a safe haven for Al Qaeda” – in case Al Qaeda can’t figure out how to get into Yemen, Somalia or Pakistan.
As far as Australia being reluctant to make the first backward move on the chess board is concerned, the Russian grand masters have resigned decades ago and have not the Dutch already castled ? It’s my guess that like compulsive gamblers this coalition of the willing western governments just cannot face the fact that there will never be a win in Afghanistan. Blood and treasure. Blood and treasure.
I think I’d better run up my flag at the pub. I’m ready for a discussion and a good argument …. Argument- where the point is not to prove oneself right and superior, but to bring out the truth.
Intrepid Pig's Arm's foreign correspondent Neville Cole travelled to Chile to secure this amazing first hand account of a miner's ordeal
Translated by Neville Cole
Rescued Chilean miner, Jaime Esteban, is the first of the trapped miners to release his account of the harrowing 69 days he and his 32 fellow miners spent underground. Here are some excerpts he read to me from his personal diary.
Day 1: It appears we have been cut off from the outside world. ¡Dios mio! I can’t help but wonder if it is all my fault. I did not make a sacrifice to el Diablo this morning. Every day since I was a small boy I have poured some pisco at el Diablo’s feet before descending into the mine; but this morning I was so hung over I kept all of that delicious brandy for myself. Some hair of the dog, as they say. I wonder if I should tell my 32 mine brothers of my terrible mistake? At the moment most of them are convinced it is Paco’s fault and besides it is true he is always leaving the oil lamps burning in the dynamite store room. I think it is probably best to keep my secret to myself, just in case.
Day 2: We have all smoked nearly all our cigarettes already. I hope we are rescued soon. I am not sure how long we will all last without nicotine. Paco is very drunk and trying to convince everyone we should remove our clothes and huddle together to keep warm. I had to remind him several times it is 37 degrees Celsius down here to which he eventually replied it was clearly too hot to wear clothes and ever since he has been walking around taking an extended air bath. I am glad it is very dark down here.
Day 3: Paco tried to get all of us to make a pact that should any of us die we would agree to allow our fellow mine brothers divide up our remains and eat them. Further more he wanted us to agree to eat someone at random should our food supplies get dangerously low. We all voted that it was way too early to be discussing such extreme measures.
Day 4: Jorge caught Paco red-handed today. He was breaking into our food locker. He claimed he was only checking to see if supplies were dangerously low yet. He seems determine to eat one of us.
Day 5: It is becoming clear that we will be stuck in this mine for a very long time. Perhaps forever. It is difficult to keep track of time as we never see sunlight and none of us wears a watch that keeps good time. We have decided to etch a calendar on the wall and keep track of the passing days by monitoring our bowel movements.
Day 6: It was Paco’s turn to make dinner tonight. Now, we all have the shits. Alejandro yelled at him that he must always wash his hands before cooking and that he may never again cook in the nude.
Day 7?: Silvestro handed out handfuls of coca leaves to all yesterday claiming that it would cure our intestinal issues. It hasn’t. None of us can sleep now. Pablo decided to start training for the Santiago Marathon and went for a run through the mine shafts. He was gone for hours, I think. Mario announced he was going to write an opera about our experiences and now will not stop singing his every thought out loud. For the first time since the collapse Paco is not the most annoying person in the mine.
Day ?? Haven’t written in at least a few days. Morale is at an all time low. There are no cigarettes, alcohol or coca leaves left but at least the shitting has slowed. We are all missing our loved ones terribly. I think about mi madre and how empty her heart must be without her Jaime by her side. I think of my beautiful wife, mother of my children and oh, how I worry for my dear five (or is it six?) little ones. I pray they will not have to suffer long without their father’s guidance and love. I also find I think most often about my lover, Maria and her fine round ass as smooth and firm as a fattened pig’s.
Day 32: The calendar we etched on the mine wall says today is Day 32 but I am not sure it has really been that long. During our long battle with diarrhea, I am convinced several extra days were added by mistake. I also have a sneaking suspicion that Paco has been adding days when no one is looking in a feeble attempt to convince us to start eating each other.
Day Whatever: I have given up trying to keep track of passing days. I no longer care as I am finally convinced that I will die in this godforsaken hellhole. Pablo on the other hand is now running seven-and-a-half minute splits and completes 15 miles a day on average. His only concern now is adapting to the altitude in Santiago. He also wonders if he will be able to run in the daytime without his mine helmet on.
Day 30: We have finally made contact with the rescuers and now know for certain that we have been trapped in the mine for 30 days. We cheered with delight at the thought that we will soon be free. Paco cried out for a group hug and we all joined in happily. We did draw the line at a group nude cuddle session however.
Day 31: We asked today how long it would be before we could see our loved ones and breathe fresh, pure Chilean air and bask in the warm, healing Chilean sun. The rescue team sent word that they would get right back to us about that.
Day 32: Today I woke to find Paco spooning me from behind and worse he seemed to be enjoying it. I pushed him away but before I could confront him he firmly cautioned me about the terrible dangers of waking a sleepwalker. He told me the next time he happened by in a somnambulant state that it was imperative I let him finish. He wandered off before I had a chance to find out what the hell he was talking about.
Day 33: Still no word from the rescue team about when we should expect our release. Paco again tried to convince us that the world would forgive a little cannibalism as long as we all had the story straight.
Day 39: Just received confirmation that we may be stuck here for another month. Pablo is furious. He says if we wait that long it will ruin his whole training regimen and there is no way he can be ready for the marathon now.
Day 40: Pablo is in a terrible funk. Mario offered to run with him today but Pablo just whispered “What’s the point? What’s the point of any of this? If I can’t run in the marathon what’s the point of getting out of here at all?”
Day 50: Today, our 50th day underground was also my 50th birthday. Juan fashioned a cake for me out of dirt and dried prunes. It was beautiful and I was very touched when all my brothers sang ¡Feliz cumpleaños!; but then the celebration was dimmed when we realized no one could eat even a single slice as all our teeth have fallen out. Why didn’t even one of us pack a tooth brush?
Day 60: It has been confirmed! We will all be free very soon! We are so happy today. Well, except Paco, who actually seems to enjoy living naked in a hot dark hole surrounded by men.
Day 69: I am to next in line to rise to the surface. I cannot believe this wondrous day has arrived. Very soon I will finally see my loved ones. I am so glad Maria is married. She will at least have the sense not to confront my mother and wife in front of such a big crowd of people. That’s all I need to deal with after 69 days down here. We have heard the President himself is up above to greet us. We have heard that TV cameras are recording every moment and that millions around the world are waiting to greet us with tears of joy. Everyone has been hugging and crying and singing praises. We even convinced Paco to put his clothes back on. He seems to have pulled himself together but keeps pacing back and forth, laughing awkwardly and saying loudly to anyone within earshot: “Hey, what happens down the mine stays down the mine. Right guys? Am I right? I’m right, right?”
Foodge steered the big Zephyr, down the main drag. He was a few minutes early, in spite of waiting for Emmjay and First Mate to dress. Foodge thought that the white dinner jacket, and black silk dress were overkill, but, he thought, can take the wardrobe manager out of the wardrobe, et cetera. There wasn’t a parking space to be had. The entire street was lined with Charlies, ancient Austin A-sevens and Morris Minors, a couple of Pleece cars, and a clutch of motor scooters. Foodge left the car with the nose in a clearway. He made sure that his “Private Investigator’ card was on the dash, although this was unlikely to impress a parking inspector. They crossed the road; ignoring the crossing that was only metres away, inciting angry horn blasts from motorists.
The Pigs Arms was full, but this was no party. Lambrettists and Angles were talking in hushed tones. A very distraught Granny was surrounded by Bowling Ladies, who were in crisis mode, that is, they were making acrid tea, ham and tomato sandwiches on day old Tipp-Topp with thick linings of margarine. The really disturbing thing was, not the absence of the hum of conversation, but the absence of beer. The Professor was carrying a tray of teacups, whilst Hedgie was topping them up with the battered old enamel teapot. Merv had changed out of his morning attire of pink shorts and fluoro yellow tank top, into his good suit, and sat with a more dazed expression than usual. Janet had abandoned the afternoon TV game shows to sit and support him, all the while rubbing her gravid abdomen.
There was the most unusual aroma coming from the kitchen. Foodge couldn’t place it, but Emmjay couldn’t help himself. “Curry, Foodge, they must have a new cook!” The trio wandered over to O’Hoo, who was sharing a bottle of Shiraz with his paramour, using real wine glasses, for a change.
“Cheers Foodge”. Both DCI Rouge and O’Hoo raised their glasses, as the pub became deathly quiet.
“What the hells going on.” Whispered Foodge.
“They’ve all decided to pitch in and help solve the Great Pig’s Arms Brewing Mystery, at least, that’s what we’ve named it.” Grinned O’Hoo. “Take a seat.” O’Hoo poured three more glasses of Shiraz, whilst various patrons presented themselves, shaking hands, or patting Foodge on the shoulder, pledging their assistance.
“Dinner’s ready.” Roared Gez, from the kitchen. The Bowling Ladies had already converted the billiard table into a dining table, and had gathered an eclectic mixture of crockery and ‘good silver’. Gez brought in a huge steaming tureen of something he called ‘booyabays’, but everyone thought it tasted like seafood soup. The new chef, ‘Vivienne’ who carried a matching pot of curried prawns, followed him.
Everyone tucked in. It was even better than the Chinese at the Rissole Club. Merv served a round of Pink Drinks, then, after the meal was over, all eyes were on Foodge and O’Hoo, the Pig’s own detectives (plus DCI Rouge, but, Foodge and O’Hoo really grew up here). Foodge stood up. “I’d like to, ah, thank you all, for, ah, putting in with this meal. Err, ah, I have been putting some thought into the problems of our brews.” Foodge nodded to Granny, who burst into tears, again. He looked away, slightly embarrassed, but could feel dozens of pairs of eyes boring into him. “While there may be some natural explanation for this phenomenon, and we’ll be calling on our scientific friends for advice.” Foodge nodded to the Professor, who bowed his head slightly in response. “There may also be malfeasance at play here.” Everyone in the room gasped. “There’s no need for alarm, if the Pigs Arms, or, Granny herself have an enemy, then ruining our brews is the full extent of the damage. No one here is at risk of death or injury.” His oratory was interrupted by a gasp from Beryl, who clutched at her chest. Hedgie was at her side, in an instant, whilst a dozen wrinkled old hands foraged in a dozen wrinkled old handbags then proffered a dozen Anginine tablets. Simultaneously a couple of Angles disappeared through the front door.
DCI Rouge, ever the voice of reason, stood next to Foodge, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Ladies, there is nothing to fear, Mr Foodge is simply outlining the various possibilities, like any good sleuth.” She paused to wink at O’Hoo, who missed the gesture, as he was busily mopping Burmese curry from his new silk tie. “I would like to add that, if this brewing failure is due to malice on the part of any individual, or, indeed, any group, then they will experience the legal consequences of their actions. The Pleece take a dim view…”
The entrance of Brkon and Andy, two of the Angles longest serving members, interrupted DCI Rouge’s address. “We have nitroush oxshide bottle. It is excellent nitric oxide doner! One shniff and der heart feel better.” Brkon brandished a small blue bottle, which he’d wrenched from his beloved 1967 super charged, Munch Mammoth. “Dis make big bike feel better, too!”
Hedgie stepped forward, with a small tear in his eye, as Brkon’s action was just like a mother taking food from her child. “It’s OK, mate, the Anginine’s already done the trick.” Beryl nodded, returning Hedgie’s little smile. “Look, I dunno, everyone’s upset, and emotional. We know we’ve got the best team in the world on this. I vote we should let’em get on with it.”
There was a rousing cheer, followed by toasts with teacups and a few wine glasses. A handful of Angles started to clear the table, whilst the Bowling Ladies hovered, trying to ensure that none of the ‘good china’ was damaged. Andy and Brkon made sure that Beryl couldn’t benefit from some ‘nitroush’, then went out to re-attach the bottle to the bike. A very nervous Merv and Granny approached the detectives, with faces like mourners at a funeral. “So, where are youz gunna start?”
Foodge was ready to launch into another long-winded explanation, when Rouge cut him off. “Foodge and my little Gerald.” She paused to look over at O’Hoo who had given up on the tie, as he had spread curry stains over his new white shirt. “Will examine this hotel from attic to basement, from front door to that stinking outhouse.” Her nose wrinkled at the thought. “I’d suggest that we co-opt Brkon and Andy. We can use their skills in microbiology and chemistry. Meanwhile I will personally search every person, or group, in the pleece database looking for any clue. We’re pulling out all stops on this one.” Rouge gave Granny a hug, pecked O’Hoo on the cheek, turned on her stiletto, and left.
Merv went around the back of the bar mumbling about. “Something special.” He re-appeared with a dusty bottle in one hand, and a clutch of whisky glasses in the other. He poured the amber liquid, handed around the glasses, and then raised his. “To Foodge and O’Hoo.” Then downed his in a single gulp. They all followed. Foodge took a second to examine the bottle, which was nothing less than Merv’s favourite tipple, ‘The Famous Grouch’, seventeen-month-old scotch.
Foodge shook hands with Merv and Granny. “Thanks for your confidence, we won’t let you down. Come on, O’Hoo, to the outhouse. No…hold on…we’ll start in the kitchen. No…Emmjay and First Mate are still wiping the dishes…to the attic.” Merv and Granny sat back to let the two detectives start detecting.
I moved with an even attention to not raising the alarm of the many eyes I believed were watching the trespass and tugged at Docherty’s boots as they manipulated frantic purchase on the sill of the entrance into the grass hut. The distinctive difference of the hut on stilts Docherty had run towards and deftly up its ladder was its higher elevation. He had in the same movement pushed athletic bulk in the dense black of the narrow entrance. A crescendo of murmurings suggested to me the compound’s native inhabitants in the likely proximity I had interpreted from eerie silence as Docherty and I approached just ahead of the others the red dirt track leading down to the settlement and grove of cultivation.
I supposed Docherty could not hear the murmuring in his scrabble part-inside and part-out of the construction. His legs and rubber-soled boots seemed to be pushing him inwards. Thick woven walls and his excitement doubtless insulated him from eruption of noise in any exterior world. The sound of the voices cackled in my mind with the danger I had sensed in the surround of tall native grass clumps and straggling palms and trees. These were people who had not seen the full potential of a white invasion I wondered. Their tones sounded referential, consultative rather than rabidly murderous. They might slit our throats with some polite justification if Docherty did not withdraw himself out of the hut I considered.
Only three ancient elders sitting in rock-like silence on a bench in the centre of the compound, about a quarter of the distance from the circular wall of huts where it bowed away neatly from our line of sight where we had entered the arena suggested habitation. The red ground of the compound beneath our feet that I supposed was tramped by generations into a compacted floor was so bare of debris it appeared fresh-swept. The rock-like silence endured of the elders and I wondered as I glanced discretely towards the row of men if they could speak. I supposed the venerables were left behind by the fleeing men, women and children who it was seeming had abandoned their village at the sound of our progress along the track from the landing strip on the edge of that high mountain place. The elders looked fragile, skeletal, but sighted or not seemed observant in their still demeanours and I drew the sense of their strength, their respect into a reservoir of belief I may be saved as I reached to grasp Docherty’s boots again.
We flew to the location in a plane that was chartered as result of a chance conversation in the Port Moresby Club. Docherty, buying up big and ferrying trays of exotic liquers he was insistent those who had never experienced them try got into a confrontation with a patron it transpired was a pilot scheduled to fly to keep an appointment in the Central Highlands the next day (He said it was social; a Saturday afternoon piss-up we surmised later). You will see natives, he assured Natural Ringleader Docherty loudly, Good Fun, Loveable Docherty, waving a dismissive hand at suggestion danger was involved. He would fly a little earlier than he intended, that was all. We could do whatever we wanted on arrival at his destination as long as he was left to his own devices and we meet him at the scheduled time for the return flight. If you don’t, the pilot warned, I’ll leave you on the mountain. On our arrival, he waved us in a direction opposite to his own.
Tugging sharply on Docherty’s right boot, I realised as equally as I did there was little danger for us in the original environment, that a sense they were in danger had begun crowding the natives from their hiding places. Big Docherty was used to being in charge. He needed strong persuasion to reverse his impulsive lunge. I said firmly, “Docherty, get out. You’re trespassing. This is the private property of these people.”
“No, No” I heard the muffled voice declare as if the magnification of the soul of an hypnotic, “There’s something in here. I want to see. I’ve got a match. I’ll light a match.”
I reached further into the dark cool and commanded by a combination of touch and tone that Docherty get out.
“You’re in danger. We all might be.”
I could hear the grasses rustling more loudly and rhythmically. The rising crescendo of murmuring was louder because it was drawing nearer. I just knew, although there was no sound of feet on the earth or on twigs or fallen palm branches.
“Everybody’s out,” Docherty had casually commented when we arrived on the edge of the mountain overlooking where its slope fell sharply on one side into a ravine and to a glimpse of the peaks ahead of huts in a circle. I was awed by the silence as we looked down on the splendid array of bright-leaved fronds and tropical bushes interspered with palms. “The people are hiding,” I said, instinctive, young, sensitive, attuned immediately to the meaning of the sound of a silence I had never experienced before and cherished for knowing. The air was crystal-glare. Despite our elevation and the sun was near enough its height, on exertion the heat was a swelter. It was air stripped nevetheless of the extreme stress of the sweltering heat of Moresby.
The bareness of the red-brown earth of the compound was a striking monochrome of colour in a rich mix of hues of green beyond the circle of this evidence of residential life.
As if a light had come on in Docherty’s head deep in the hut’s interior, Docherty’s head popped out of the black mouth of the hut. Docherty to my surprise looked mildly confused by himself, as if he was even grateful if he was to about to be slaughtered it would be from a standpoint of a renewed consciousness of realism. Having shown not the least consideration of fearful possibilities, possibilities seemed to be occurring to Docherty in a rush like the onset of a sudden tropical downpour of rain that is heralded by an atmosphere of pure swelter. Beads of moisture glistened in the sun that was falling over him like an illuminator of lost dreams, his face changed in the same thought to a sense of hope in contrast to sense of loss. I suppose he suffered hell. I supposed he thought of his one child in the States who he told me on our group chartered flight from Cairns was home in the States. That was my first experience of hearing the word “weed” and what was meant as he told me his despair his son preferred it to law school and described its effects. No Doubt Docherty as he scrabbled off the ledge of the hut now considered his own status, a now common trespasser attested by the extra tinges of pink flaring through the tan of his affluent and untrammelled face. The murmurings of the voices like the presage of a mob moving closer had remained uniform as if the same words and similar were being repeated by different people under the direction of a conductor of an invisible choir of voices reciting an orchestrated sound symphony. I had just finished High School. I was 17 and it was three months before I heard a choir perform an acapella sound poem I heard as a similar musical effect. As instantly as Docherty exited the hut, the music of the voices faded and fell to a low volume before rising to a cacophonic babble. Docherty flared red above his light cotton round neck t-shirt.
“What will we do?” he asked me.
I said lightly and pleasantly, accepting my leadership as survival, turning, looking at Docherty over my shoulder, “We walk back the way we came. Follow me.”
Docherty followed me to where the others waited ashen-Docherty greeted his wife shame-faced and she gathered him-and I walked with an easy stride indicating “Follow”. Everybody seemed to realise the safety cue I might best be seen with the red sun leaping through my hair as a young heroine leading Docherty away from dangerous mischievousness. We walked towards the narrow gap between two huts the way we had entered the compound. The silence that fell of the invisible people who lived here and had fled I was sure from their homes at the sound of our approach reassured. It meant we were free to leave. The sun etched a mottle on the trail through the vegetation when I glanced back where the huts described their edge around the circle of trodden red soil that was flat and occupied again only by the three old men I now did discern on the bench seat. I would never know them. We walked across to the red-dirt earth of the hill track we had followed down the mountain to the village and the sun blasted its heat on the steep aspect of the hill as we climbed to its top.
