Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Video killed the photography star

I was sitting on the couch this afternoon idly staring off into space considering something of little importance, as I cannot recall now. In short it was a silent, useless moment of bliss. Awakened suddenly from my daydream I heard raucous laughter coming from my flatmate who was seated at his computer. I enquired as to what was causing him such amusement and he said he was going through old photos, trying to cull some and save the good ones. An album of photos from an overseas trip had reminded him of some hilarious memories and this has lightened his day to no end.

This got me thinking.

I have a camera, which is not that old, in perfect working order…well, apart from the battery life of 3 minutes, which sits in my cupboard drawer and never gets used. I need to get that camera out of the cupboard, take out the battery, buy a new one and then get to the root of this issue! I have moved to one of the most beautiful places in Australia and so far have a few photos of me winning a 6 pack at the local pub raffle and very little else. Documenting my life has never been done so poorly.

I have a digital video camera, which has years worth of videos that currently reside solely on the camera’s hard-drive so if I lost the camera or it died so would years of memories. I am now downloading these 345 videos onto my computer as we speak.

Viewing a selection of these videos has evoked a combination of emotional responses.

The first is happiness that I have a permanent reminder of my overseas holidays, times with loved ones and friends; that when my mind grows weak and vague I will still have these video memories to fall back on.

The second is a mixture of sadness and loss, reminders of happier times with those now permanently departed or serving a new role in my life; memories that are very important and I never want to forget but am not ready to revisit at this time.

Lastly it has shown me that I am not an accomplished videographer – the clips are of varying quality from OK to downright shoddy. I take much better photos than videos.

Is it bad to rely on photographs and video to recall the moments that make up a life? Is it better to document these moments or to let memories reside in the mind alone? My sister has seen video of her birthdays and shudders at what she sees – does this mean that her memories should live in her minds bubble or is the truth a good leveller sometimes – we can only remember correctly if the evidence is there in stark reality on a screen.

I think it is important to have a mixture of both – it is fun to show people how much hair they had, what abhorrent fashions they sported, who they dated, where they visited – documenting the lives of others and yourself has been happening since the dawn of man. Who am I to rock the boat?

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

The perfect cup?

In an ever-increasing pursuit of the perfect cup we frantically press, boil, plunge, grind, filter and inevitably drink coffee but most of us still find it a fruitless search. For every one cup of caffeine bliss I need to suffer through five steaming cups of pig swill.

Before my I step onto my coffee ranting podium I will point out that as far as coffee customers go I am already behind the eight ball as I am a soy milk drinker. I have no formal barista training and would not know the first thing about how to produce the perfect cuppa, but I have been told that soy milk is a worthy adversary of the barista and is difficult to work with. Baristas will say that to reach the desired temperature of soy is similar to parting the red sea or turning water into wine; most that attempt will fail. The common result is the removal of the first two or three layers of skin from the roof of your mouth, followed closely by an expletive laden tirade towards the unfortunate barista.

The next challenge is the beans. My sister explains that it is like gravel and sand. If the coffee is ground too fine then it blocks the water flowing through and the result is coffee that is burnt and bitter. If the coffee is ground too coarsely then the water flows past and you get weak coffee, what I term as ‘hot milk’. So, often it is not the fault of the barista but the ‘genius’ grinding the beans.

That being said I have had plenty of decent cups of coffee in my time; and on a regular basis from the same operator. There are true artisans of coffee production. My barista at Toast Café, Surry Hills was one such maestro, he could make the Toby’s Estate coffee beans sing and I have never craved 8.30am like that before.

Is it the training? Is it lack of attention to detail? Is it bad coffee?

I am not sure.

I have been on a coffee search in my new area and I have sampled around 10 different places on a few occasions. Of these there were only 2 places that satisfied my tastes. There were some truly awful offerings, there were mediocre one’s offered up by baristas who are easy on the eye, and then there were a couple of decent representations of the perfect cuppa. Merlo Coffee is a Brisbane coffee producer and if you get an opportunity to sample their wares then do so. They have not overtaken Toby’s yet but they are doing some good work.

I think if you are wanting to take the trip to your local café and hand over $5 for a cup of coffee then you can rightly expect something half decent, but don’t be disappointed if that is not what you receive. It is a tough business, mastering the coffee machine, a skill that takes time and practice. With so many factors influencing the coffee making process I may have to fall back to my tea drinking days. Well, maybe not just yet.

It is about that time so get the beans in the grinder, warm up the soy; I am on my way and ready for a cuppa.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

The game that stops a globe

Bleary-eyed hysteria.

Alcohol fuelled verbal abuse.

Unabashed displays of male embrace.

The air thick with conspiracy theories.

The World Cup Finals of football (soccer to you American folk) bring out the best and worst in humankind. People who in the normal course of their lives never consider the ‘beautiful game’ suddenly become informed, opinionated, learned and biased; they bathe in the pre dawn glory and sink in the post dawn sorrow.

I cannot remember what I did six minutes ago but I can remember, sometimes through alcohol-blurred recollection, where I was when the 2006 World Cup was being staged. Why is this? What is it about the World Cup that entrances us so? Is it the rivalry, the desire to know more than your fellow man or is it an artillery-less war, a way for us to conquer our foes without any unnecessary bloodshed.

I have watched almost every minute of the 2010 event – due to co-habitation with a fanatical football fan and a wealth of spare time. This tournament has not been without controversy and the referees are firmly in the spotlight again for all the wrong reasons. I promised my friends that I would not ramble on about the referees so I will just say this – employ video review technology or face ridicule. There, I said it. Sepp, if you are out there, listen and apply.

There have been some big casualties in the initial stages of the tournament – the farcical French have packed their suitcases, taken their baguettes and flown home. The English and US left their supporters with 90 minutes each of nail-biting, cynicism breeding, nausea inducing drama before the final whistle went and the fans could collectively sigh in absolute relief. This relief lasted 3 hours until the Germans disposed of Ghana and booked a second round appointment with the hapless English. They have 4 days to devise a plan to break the Kaiser’s strangle hold. Please no penalty shootouts; England’s strike force would rather drink a sauerkraut milkshake than face another penalty war with Zee Germans.

The Socceroos have departed but in style, sentencing Serbia to the lowest rung on the Group ladder, but they will feel one has slipped through the cracks. To win at the World Cup you need guile, finesse and a barrel load of luck. The signs are positive and we will have many more find World Cup memories in the land of Samba in 2014.

For now I sit and await the next selection of games – sleep deprived, full from a diet of convenience food, adrenalin and heartbreak. I may not agree with some of the outcomes from this current tournament but it has certainly been a very enjoyable ride so far. I am just thankful that I do not have join the hordes of aussie workers, eyes kept open by matchsticks, voices strained from the beer megaphone, wishing that the weekend was here. I can live and breathe the World Cup, an immersion that is rare. For me the days blend into one and when the World Cup finishes my life will be slightly emptier.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

The Pied Pipers of Sippy Downs

Midnight last Saturday, after a belly stretching Middle Eastern feast, a few accompanying red wines and some aviation fuel strength Fijian rum nightcaps, all was well. The French Open Women’s Final was on the television, fellow revellers were in high spirits and the night was flowing smoothly.

When the shrill tones of an alarm penetrated my drunken coma eardrums early the following morning all was not so well. This was not to be a ‘laze about on the couch watching scrubs re-runs with McDonalds wrappers littering the room’ Sunday, I had responsibilities. It was World Environment Day at the local University and I had volunteered, along with my sister, to assist them in any way, shape or form they chose.

I anticipated lugging boxes around, handing out information leaflets, instructing people where to park or not park – the usual volunteer type activities. I did not anticipate working with children, musical instruments and performing.

Following a rushed breakfast packed with grease and fresh fruit and a frantic drive at top speed to the Uni, we reached the information tent at 9.45am. Or so we thought at the time. They could not find our registration forms but judging us to be not too dodgy, pointed at a tent way down the back of the gathering and said that we should go down and help with the children’s activities. The cardinal rule of show business is to work with children and animals for box office success but not for sanity.

We reached the tent in question and were met by the organiser of the ‘animal parade’. I began to be suspicious of what my role here could involve – I had not had a cup of coffee yet and my hangover was not improving. I would also like to point out that at the best of times I am not overly gifted in the handyman realm, these hands are for typing and cooking, not building or labouring.

We were informed that we would be assisting in building panpipes for the kids out of black piping, dowel and electrical tape. There were three different sizes that emit different notes so that in the end there was a mix of notes for the final performance/parade. Performance? Parade? Building things? Oh dear.

After a lightning fast demonstration the baptism of fire began. The first few produced were a little shoddy but after a while Sal (sister) and I had a solid assembly line going. I would cut the pipe and greet the kids, Sal would then take them through the sawing process, and then I would tape the pipe together and send them off to the organiser who would teach them how to play it.

I gave the children my witty repertoire of funny jokes and banter – well on a whole most thought I was a very tall dimwit and I lost scissors/paper/rock a number of times – but it made the time pass quicker. After 2 hours we had finished the construction phase and were convinced our time was done and we were ready to see what else they needed to get done.

To our surprise we were told that it was great to get the panpipes built and now we had to assemble our panpipe troupe as the parade was about the start. Ben you lead the green team, Sal the red. Hmmm, excuse me Sir? Lead a musical parade?

So off we went blowing our panpipes, hoping that our lungs wouldn’t expire and the children didn’t get lost or bored. Of the 65 pipes we gave out only about 6 and their owners found their way to parade so a bulk of the music was down to Sal and I. After a tour of the grounds accompanied by a butterfly on stilts, a woman dressed up as a tree and the world’s largest platypus, we arrived at the main stage to raucous applause. The kids were ecstatic, as were their parents so it was a job well done.

As I slowly walked back to the car to head home I thought to myself what a unique experience it was and how it was something I never would have thought I would do on a Sunday morning. But that is how life is a lot of the time, doing the unexpected and running with it. Makes life enjoyable and breaks the monotony. I have to go now; Sal and I have a panpipe performance to arrange. Just kidding!

Monday, May 31, 2010

The 'Lost Sydney'

I have recently relocated to the Sunshine Coast, an hour’s drive north of Brisbane and a world away from Sydney. Don’t get me wrong, both places have their appeal and likewise both have their idiosyncrasies that if left to fester would drive a man slowly mad.

The city of Sydney pulses to the tune of a collective 4 million heartbeats, a living, breathing leviathan that left unattended would destroy itself in spectacular fashion. Each suburb is unique in its demographics, awkwardly blending together to give Sydney its multicultural identify – if Sydney were to complete an immigration form, the nationality/ethnic background section would be involved and stupefyingly complicated.

Most people consider Sydney to be the:

Eastern suburbs, sandy beaches, glossy shopfronts, wanky hotels and sun kissed locals;

City with its hustle and bustle, deal-making, suited and booted frenzy accompanied by a flashing lightshow and traffic noise symphony;

Inner City enclaves inhabited by life’s kaleidoscope of characters, minute coffee houses, trendy restaurants, inexpensive boutiques, brothels and live music dens;

North Shore, frantic by day, whisper quiet by night – NSW’s version of Civic in Canberra; and

Northern Beaches, a coastal strip housing the super-rich, the super tanned and the super surfers.

It is this thinking that neglects the other 90% of Sydney, the undiscovered country, the ethnic multitudes who provide Sydney with its rich diversity, food that the mere mention of turns a mortal into one of Pavlov’s dogs, cross cultural unions that mend ancient rivalries – the Sydney that the guidebooks, travel documentaries, tourists and let’s be honest, most Sydneysiders who reside in the aforementioned areas, have forgotten about - the ‘Lost Sydney’.

I have not ventured into the dark depths of the ‘Lost Sydney’ much as I was trained to not consider it – “it’s dangerous out there”, “dodgy people live out west”, “it is too far away”, and so the list goes on. But I did venture forth on occasion and always enjoyed what I found. Cabramatta is a hidden Eden of Vietnamese culture, Parramatta has some superb cafes, and Lakemba dominates the Middle Eastern cuisine. The best avenue for experiencing these suburbs is through the stomach – food is a fundamental element is the culture of most people. In a suburban restaurant you can discover the magic of the hidden Sydney.

I am now 1200km away from Sydney so alas it is up to those of you who live or visit there to discover what lies outside the inner realm. The horizon promises a wealth of unique, eye opening and influential experiences – it just takes you to venture forth and discover. Don’t live the cliché; create your own Sydney. I know I will the next time I return.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

In a holding pattern

I am a plane, gliding through the clouds, in sight of the landing strip but forced by the tower to circle endlessly, to gaze from afar, to pine.

This is limbo, a land that no one wants to inhabit. It is not a scary place, nor is it joyful. It is the waiting lounge of life, a place for drifters.

I am in a situation where I am floating – a man caught between the land of his past and the land of the future. There is lot to love about both, so many memories inhabit the land of the past and there is potential in the future.

This is a time where the mind is constantly conflicted. Which gets the focus? The present is the easy answer – people will say to just enjoy the moment, make the most of time you have left in your current town. This is great advice and, at times, easy to take on board. But the nature of the human brain is that it drifts. Thinking occupies time, dreams of what lays ahead, dreams of what has passed.

I have decided to take this advice on board. I aim to make the most of the month I have left here, to get out and meet new people, catch up with old acquaintances, dine with lifelong friends and soak up the surroundings.

Yes, I may return one day to this fine city, but these times will never be here again. You cannot bottle a moment; it lives on in memory only.

So I am about to knock on the cockpit door, take control of the aircraft; quit the endless circling of the airport and set course back to the present. I still have time to make the most of this month, to create lasting memories and leave without regrets.

Then in a month, I can board the plane and whisk myself away towards the horizon of opportunity. What a trip it promises to be.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Beaches

I have just returned from a delicious lunch with a friend who is visiting from the UK. In the course of a chat over a Vietnamese feast fit for 10 (eaten by 2), she remarked how she was not a beach lazing holidayer, more a trekking, sightseeing, photographing, generally doing kind of traveller. The idea of spending umpteen thousand dollars to go sit on a beach, get a tan, occasionally swim and not touch even the faintest skerrick of a foreign culture does not appeal to her. Nor to me to be honest.

Is this an Aussie phenomenon? Are we so blasé about tropical getaways because a large percentage of our population lives so close to the ocean? I know plenty of people who holiday to the Whitsundays, Gold Coast, Byron Bay – you name it – but rarely are they from a city/town close to the beach. Why spend the time and money to travel to a beach when one is a short walk, drive or bus ride away?

I am soon to be relocating to the Sunshine Coast of Australia, a laid-back area 90km north of Brisbane. It is the holiday destination of thousands every year and many people go for a week and stay for years. It is exciting but not the beach part so much. Admittedly I am not the hugest beach person but I like a trip to the sand and salt water as much as the next man. It is the lifestyle I am looking forward to – the climate, the slower pace, the lack of planes, trains and anything else that emits 150+ decibel noises with unnerving regularity. Not the beach. To me it is an added extra. This is due to the fact that I have had ready access to the beach for the past 18 months and let’s be honest, so many times in life we take what we have for granted. If I was moving to Canberra or the bush I would be crying about the lack of beach – perspective is needed at all times.

People like many different things about the beach – for some it is the salt spray, others the sand littered with scantily clad bronzed beauties, some the sound of the rolling waves crashing into the shore, others the feel of the sand between their toes as they take their morning run. It is the image of the eternal summer that gives the beach its pull on our psyche.

I have come to realise lately that we need to be happy with what we have and never take it for granted. This is easy in theory but hard in practice. Too many of us crave the unknown, that which is out of reach or unattainable. Get out and enjoy the beach, lake, river, paddock, mountain, lookout, walking track – get out and make the most of what is on your doorstep for one day it may all change.

Me, I’m going to head north, embrace a new life and go to that beach. I will go there, soak up what it has to offer and enjoy it. That way if I ever find myself in an office in London, in the dark, staring out of my cubicle at a sleety, grey murk outside I can dream of that beach and the times I spent there – and avoid jumping out of the office window for one more day.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Thinking

One of the features that defines being human, that separates us from the animals is a consciousness, a sense of self. Thinking is a major component of being human; an essential cog in an intricate machine.

Thinking is the single greatest contributor to our state of mind – without thoughts we would not be human. Thoughts of all shapes and sizes swirl through our heads, thousands a day and we seemingly have no control over them. Most of us are at the mercy of our thoughts – they can bring you to a state of ecstasy, provide crisp clarity, cloud our days and drive us to the depths of despair. To even attempt to control our thoughts is a process steeped in complexity, riddle and mystery.

I have never really had control over my thoughts. They have always won the battle, controlled the play, and held all the cards. I have made progress; thoughts do not rule me like they once did, I can now watch them come like a wave, and then wash away again. This is a breakthrough, as thoughts need to be tamed. Someone once told me that you need to cut the thought off at the thought stage, or it becomes an action or emotion and then behaviour. This was a revelation as I had never broken it down in my mind, examined the process. To me thinking was like breathing, an ingrained part of being alive – no one thinks to breath, to pump blood through his or her veins – it just happens.

Lately I have been doing a lot of thinking. A favourite author of mine spoke of one of his characters seeing things in his mind that were not real, but could be, and it was that possibility that drove him mad, drove him to murder. Shakespeare also used this ploy with many of his characters, planting seeds of thought in another’s mind and then casually, slowly, and purposefully sowing those seeds until the desired outcome was reached. This often resulted in bloody murder, torture and mental anguish, the staples of medieval entertainment.

It is amazing how thoughts can creep up on you, waiting patiently for the most opportune time to strike. They can floor you or raise your spirits in an instant. I have had many conflicting emotions of late, my focus flitting between scenarios, concepts and memories with unnerving speed and vigour. It has not been pleasant, but life can be like that. The key is to not focus on the thoughts, to not entertain them, don’t invite them into the confines of your mind, as they will spill their drinks, stub their cigarettes on your couch and kick the cat. They need to be kept at the fence line and vetted with stringent and thorough critique.

I have been trying to focus on all the positive things I am privileged to have in my life – the friends, family, material goods, health, memories and experiences. Life for me is not all apples but nor is it misery and doom. There is a lot to be thankful for, a lot to cherish. When the thoughts circle I am ready to be selective on which I consider and which are confined to the scrap heap.

I wish you the best with your thoughts, let them influences you, excite you and enthral you, just don’t let them rule you. It is a fine balancing act.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Chin National Day

Occasionally we are privileged to experience something so unique, so fresh, and so foreign, that we wonder how we happened to be there at all. The chance to be involved in a moment so unlike anything you have previously experienced is rare and should be embraced.

Recently I was fortunate to have such an opportunity presented to me and I clasped it with both hands. The event was the annually celebrated ‘Chin National Day’ and I was clueless as what to expect.

Accompanied by an equally puzzled Kate, we travelled to the celebratory venue with my Mum. She works with refugees, assisting them to manage their transition into Australian life – drivers licences, English lessons, day-care, hospitals, housing and counselling. She has been assisting a community of Burmese refugees, the Chin people, who she warmly describes as a loving, peaceful, caring bunch, with a pinch of mischievousness mixed in.

The Chin people are an ethnic minority of Burma (Myanmar), with many now residing outside of their homeland due to the oppression and systematic human rights abuses of the ruling military junta. Most of the Chin people my Mum works with have spent many tough years in makeshift refugee camps on the India/Burma border and the transition to Western life can be very hard.

This year marked the 62nd anniversary of Chin National Day, a day of historical importance, emerging through the course of the Chin’s struggle for self-determination. In February 1948, instead of the traditional hereditary system of chieftainship, Chin representatives were elected at a conference in Falam town near the Mizoram border. The final day of the conference, February 20, was thereafter recognized as Chin National Day. Although the military junta rescinded this agreement in the early 60’s, the Chin people still consider themselves a separate state and celebrate their national day with gusto.

After a short drive we arrived at a local primary school in Goulburn, the venue for the celebration. On first glance it was hard to determine if we were at the right place, aside from a collection of flies and a few leaves from the surrounding gumtrees, nothing stirred. Then a speeding blur of metal and beaming smiles appeared and we knew we were in the right place. The Chin people, my Mum informed me, are reliably tardy when it comes to schedules.

We were escorted into the school hall where I immediately felt uncomfortably tall and the unfamiliar sensation of being an ethnic minority. Other than the westernised look to the hall, this could have been anywhere in the world. As I sat down on a bright orange plastic school chair I felt too close to the ground, but also a sense of anticipation at what lay ahead.

The Chin people were dressed in traditional clothing – intricately patterned woven shawls, shirts, dresses and headwear. To the untrained eye, mine, they looked similar to Native Americans in their dress. On stage there was a ceremonial flag for the occasion with 2 birds featured in the middle. I needed to find out the significance of the birds.

The celebration began with a ceremonial address – delivered by the local leader of the Chin community, followed by an explanation of Chin National Day and its significance. So far so good; nothing untoward, no surprises.

Traditional songs and dances have significant cultural and spiritual meaning to the Indigenous people and the Chin are no different. Well, in some ways. The Chin youth boarded the stage with seemingly limited enthusiasm and began to dance. The dances were representative of the rice harvest and the stars; performed admirably. The backing music was the intriguing part. No percussion or unique ancient traditional instruments here, the backing music was delivered via an electric keyboard and an electric guitar. It was Burmese soft rock applied to an age-old custom. Many would find it ridiculous but for me it added to the intrigue and spectacle of the evening and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Prayer is tough to understand in a regular church. When delivered through a barely functional microphone in the Chin dialect it becomes near impossible to a solely English speaking Australian. I didn’t know whether to stand or sit, when to say Amen or the context of the sermon. I did my best ‘smile and nod’ impersonation and waited for others to act.

By the end we had witnessed two dances, a number of speeches, some solo vocal performances and learned some of the Chin history. There was only one thing left to do; sample the traditional food.

A feast of biblical proportions was laid out on trestle tables: enough food to feed the attendees and probably half of Goulburn. I spied a curry dish and, on confirmation that it contained ‘cow’, ladled a generous serve onto my structurally challenged paper plate. Add some rice, salad and a glass of lemonade and I had the makings of a feast. The curry was tasty, unlike any curry I had eaten, and it was a fitting way to finish off the evening.

Before we departed I wanted to thank the Chin leaders for having me along to their celebration. I also needed to get some clarification on the birds featured in their flag.

It didn’t take long. The birds are the Hornbill – a male and female. The Hornbill is native to the area the Chin people originally resided and it is a fiercely loyal bird. The Male bird hunts food for the Female and any offspring. Their bond is a lifelong one. If the Male bird dies then the Female will not find another Male, she will starve to death. This is meant to symbolise the closeness of the Chin people, that they are loyal, they stick together through any crisis. I found it to be an appropriate symbol and was very thankful for the explanation.

As I weaved my way through the crowd and out into the summer evening heat I was thankful that my Mum had extended me an invite to this celebration. Sure, it was not on time, speakers did not turn up and the music was bizarre, but the emotion and resilience of the Chin people had impressed me and warmed my heart. They said see you next year and without hesitation my reply was, “yes you will.”

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Cityrail adventures 1 (well kind of)– Cabramatta

On Cityrail adventures: I have put together a list of all rail stations within 50km of my house and using a random number generator I pick a place, then travel to it, have a coffee, lunch or beer and then return. This trip was not undertaken by train, but by car, as time was short. In my mind it is still a Cityrail adventure.

I have often heard of Cabramatta, the food, and the people: a city within a city. Up until yesterday I had shrugged off peoples insistent suggestions that I visit there. However yesterday I did venture to Cabramatta and what I saw and experienced blew my mind.

Cabramatta is a suburb of Sydney, located 35km south west of the CBD; a nondescript area of the city, surrounded by dry, grassless fields, tacky ethnic mansions with lions and gargoyles standing sentry on their fences, and vast series of highways – expanses of tarmac stretching in every direction. This is not a wasteland but it is close. It is not the area you would expect to find a thriving, vibrant, rich community.

Community is the best way to describe Cabramatta. I have not been to Vietnam but I have visited Hong Kong and Cabramatta reminded me a lot of Kowloon’s hectic city streets – street hawkers, market stalls selling fruits, sweets, vegetables, meat and seafood, and the tailors flush with fabric awaiting the next customer. There was vibrancy to the scene, people scurrying to and fro, the urgency apparent. It was also a place inhabited by Asian people; Anglo Australians were in short supply. This gave the street legitimacy, improving the experience, allowing the visitor to get lost in the moment. This wasn’t Sydney; it was Hanoi – well, in my mind at least.

I had heard many positive reviews of Tan Viet, a local restaurant and so my mate and I headed there for some lunch. Tan Viet is very popular with the locals and this day was no different. A line snaked out the door and down the pavement. After a short wait we were shown to a table. The restaurant smelled of fish sauce, oil and onions and was packed to the rafters with eager consumers. With a cup of tea in hand we perused the menu. It took about 5 seconds as we both agreed on the crispy chicken and soup – this was the dish of the house and every table was eating it. To accompany I had a soybean milk drink, Roger a sickly sweet concoction that resembled an icy cocktail, minus the booze.

When the main meal arrived it was understated but delicious. The delicately flavoured noodle soup paired well with the saltiness of the crispy skinned chicken. I quickly saw what the locals loved about this place. After 30 minutes we had polished off the lot and had the shared grin of the diners we sat with – a grin of satisfaction at a job well done. For $14 each, including drink, it was a bargain and I would not hesitate to return.

A quick dash across the main road and we arrived at the local cake shop. I was keen to purchase a treat to accompany my afternoon cuppa. I settled on pandan sponge – a lime green sponge cake. Apparently the cake is either dipped in pandan juice, or the pandan extract is used in the cake making process. Either way it was an interesting cake, although not one I would flock back to buy.

As we left Cabramatta I lamented that it had taken me so long to visit. Cabramatta is a shining example of the value of multiculturalism, a little slice of Vietnam in the middle of seeming endless urban sprawl. It was such a rewarding experience and somewhere I will hasten to return with my friends in tow.

Friday, January 22, 2010

Combination

This random word generator exercise is stretching the brain. Each time I write for the blog I get my random word and then write a short piece based on it.

Today’s is ‘combination’. Yep. Good one huh? Starting with a piece of original fiction I will attempt to explore ‘combination’.

Dressed entirely in black, moving with catlike agility and military precision, the team of shadowy figures descended on the vault door. Imposingly robust, the door was an impressive and threatening testament to man’s ingenuity; its design and size injected a sense of hopelessness and fear into would be assailants. The only way that the team was penetrating this barrier was with the combination; a luxury they didn’t possess. However, within their team they had an unwilling participant; shackled, out of breath and paralysed by fear was the key to the door’s puzzle. Albert Koelsher was the man who had designed the vault door: the only man alive who knew how to penetrate it.

This is how I remember the heist tales of my youth – before high tech gadgetry, military weaponry and superhuman strength got in the way. Safecrackers, working against an imaginary clock, sweat pouring off their brows, attempting to crack the combination. That final click, the sounds of metal cogs turning and steel doors opening – the sounds of success and relief.

People often comment on whether another person has the right combination of skills, attributes, knowledge etc. It is this combination which some feel is the key to success, power, prosperity and popularity. Aristotle once said, “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts” or words to that effect. I this is so then the combination of a person’s attributes is not as important as the person themselves – however I feel the combination of the parts is the essence of the person. “We are but a sum of our life’s experiences” is another quote I enjoy and this speaks to the importance of combination. I think that Aristotle may be a little off the mark when applying his theory to humans.

Combination is also widely used in Asian food. Most of us would have experienced the westernised version of Chinese food – infused with MSG and vegetable gums so that each dish is very similar to the next – meat with gluggy sauce and rice. One of these bastardised dishes is the ‘combination’ dish, seemingly a mish-mash of last night’s ingredients  - the Asian bubble and squeak. I am sure this was not the original intention, and revered Chinese chefs would be sick to the stomach, but in Australian Chinese restaurants this is a dish to miss.

People are forever searching for the right combination – food, art, design, sport, attributes, love, work; combinations form the basis for our society. Without combinations it would be a sterile environment indeed.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Consumption

I travelled to a friend’s birthday over the weekend and the group of friends in attendance are keen consumers. Aside from the material goods they covet, this group has a shared love of consuming booze. Large quantities of it. Quickly.

No excuses accepted; no questions entertained. Simply a ruthless, devil-may-care, unapologetic consumption of beer, wine, spirits and anything vaguely alcoholic, over a sustained period. And no, we are not irresponsible teenagers out to rebel or prove a point. We are grown men, many with families, children and mortgages. Grown men who, in some ways, find it extremely difficult to outgrow binge drinking.

I am not proud of this behaviour, but will not apologise for it either. No one became abusive, rude, objectionable or anti-social towards residents of our Nation’s Capital. This was a well-behaved congregation of beer chuggers.

But it is a worrying trend. As a group we have grown out of a number of activities we enjoyed as teenagers and young adults. For example, I no longer:

steal road signs that have my surname on them,

run nude at parties,

skull jugs of beer for money,

gamble my last $10 on a pokie,

eat the same meal 5 nights in a row,

sleep til 3am and rise at midday.

And the list goes on and on and on.

I drink rarely and I do enjoy a beer with the lads. When drinking I refer to myself, and a number of my contemporaries, as ‘Pringle Drinkers’ – once we pop you can’t stop. This is possibly the worst type of drinker.

In discussions with mates it seems that most of us share the view that commencing drinking prior to lunch and finishing a few hours before most people are heading to work is something we are not interested in doing anymore, yet we continue to do it. It is a real mystery. The power of peer pressure? The need to remain young in our minds?

We all have areas in our life we can improve and booze consumption is one of mine. Sure, some of the funniest and most entertaining times in my life have been linked to booze, but also some of the lowest.

But fear not, alcohol is not the only thing that I enjoy consuming. I am an avid reader and keen eater – ‘consuming’ habits that are far less life threatening and anti-social. The key is finding a balance between the good and the bad.

Monday, January 18, 2010

Reminder

The unrelenting madness of the modern world means that every moment is accounted for, rushed, absorbed, calculated, appraised and treasured. To control this madness the modern day human relies on a series of electronic aids to attempt to control as many of these moments as is possible. Email, calendars, alarms, reminders, to do lists, personal assistants – whole economies are kept afloat through the reminder industry.

Then there are the human elements – assistants, wake up calls, secretaries; people whose lives revolve around organizing moments for others and hopefully themselves.

I am beautifully disorganized. When I know I need to be somewhere or meet someone I am always ridiculously early – but the key is actually remembering the occasion or to set a reminder. This is where, for me, the process falls over.

I have no interest in filing, cataloguing, arranging, organizing, reminders, alarms – I like my life to take a more fluid path – free from the constraints of planning. This is nigh on impossible and instead I find I am missing out on a lot as I am unprepared, disorganized and often absent.

What is the answer?

Option A: I could move into the hills, see no one, wear a loin cloth, live off the land and communicate with smoke signals but I have never liked camping and am not great at hunting or fishing so not a viable option.

Option B: I could drift aimlessly through my current life, living each moment, setting no reminders – however I would frustrate every person I know and end up alone and probably at option A.

Option C: Utilise the technology available but not overuse it. I use my mobile phone alarm and a Google calendar – this is probably enough, along with a complete reorganization of my bedroom and cupboard.

I think that C is the only respectable option. I think that reminders are tools to assist us in navigating through the confusing maze of our lives and should be embraced not feared. By using reminders I can keep on top of things, remain friends with my mates and don’t end up living in a cave and being mistaken for a yeti by inquisitive children or conspiracy theorists.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Escape

I was making my bed this morning and out of the covers flew a butterfly. It was a strange thing to appear out of a bedspread and I watched it apprehensively flutter around my room and rest on the windowsill. Try as I may I could not coax it to fly out the open window. For the butterfly, the idea of escape has not entered its mind; it was content to stay on the windowsill, in the comforts of my room. I thought that it would be happier outside – as butterflies obviously have feelings – but on the outside there are all matter of foes. Children, birds and small animals all pose a threat to the butterfly; all reside just outside the window. Knowing it would surely perish inside without food I coaxed the butterfly outside. It had an escape, even if that was not in its original plans.

I have always been trying to escape from something. For too long the grass was greener on the other side of the fence. I am not sure why; it was just the norm for most of my life. A life, upon reflection that has been a blessed one and far more comfortable and fortunate than 99% of the worlds population.

What makes our generation so restless?

What is it we are hoping to find out there?

Many of my school and university friends are unmarried, unsettled, and not dissimilar to how they were ten to fifteen years ago. They have not been idle; travelling the world, been in and out of love, had rewarding careers, cultivated meaningful relationships. But they have not settled down, laid roots, or anchored themselves to someone or somewhere. Is this a form of escape, an unwillingness to conform to society’s rules or an inability to commit? Does is matter that they are not settled? Is being unsettled the way it is now for our generation, the way it will be moving forward?

For me, change is refreshing, not challenging or terrifying. Change is an escape. The ability to live another life, see how other people live, experience their jobs, cities, friends. Escape from one thing can result in stability somewhere else. Many people fear change; they need the regularity of routine. To them the idea of escaping consists of an annual holiday or buying a different brand of cereal. There is nothing wrong with this; I envy these people to a degree. To have contentment must be wonderful. To wake up each day, doing the same routine and be genuinely happy must be a great feeling.

The search continues, and for me it is an exciting journey. Escaping will continue to be a part of my life, in many forms, and that is OK.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Oh Forty, why are you approaching so swiftly?!

I have recently read a highly entertaining book entitled “Fat, Forty and Fired” by Nigel Marsh. Former work mates gave it to me on my last day, as it was applicable to the situation I was heading towards. Although I am neither fat, forty or fired I understood the sentiment and accepted the gift. It proved to be great read, full of humour, insight, and sadness; however the ending was disappointing as for over 200 pages Marsh had strived to build a better life, be more in touch with his family, achieve personal goals and just as he is reaching the summit of his achievement mountain he accepts a job and regresses back to his former self. It was like he was saying you can attempt to swim against the tide but ultimately you will be swept back downstream. This was a devastating blow as I had followed his progress with a lot of inner “well done Nigel” and “way to go, I can do that too” – to be faced with hopelessness at the end is disappointing.

However, enough on Nigel Marsh and onto the subject of 40. I recently calculated that I am closer now to 50 than I am to my last day of High School – an interesting, sobering and in some ways, terrifying proposition. In a short 6 years I will be 40 and 6 years does not seem that far away.

I always imagined 40 as a time when I would have a house, dog (or cat), wife, and kiddies. That is not to say this will still not happen, but it is not looking that way at the moment. The key to this is that it is no longer a problem as times change, we change, and our priorities change.

In 1985, when I was 10, life was much simpler. My days consisted of eating jam sandwiches, playing run across or handball, riding my bike and fighting with my sisters. To be 35, let alone 40, seemed a world away and I guess, in a way, it was. We put a time capsule in the ground at my primary school where it was to stay for 25 years, the year 2010, when it would be opened. I imagined returning to the school playground in 2010, hopping out of my hover car, ably driven by my robot servant, and catching up with my schoolmates of 1985. I may very well attend the surfacing of the time capsule later this year, however the hover car and robot may be noticeably absent.

It is funny how much the future does not resemble what we imagined. Many times it is better than expected so it is not all doom and gloom. I think it does show that age should not be a limiting factor, an invisible barrier or yardstick we are confined or ruled by. Age is just a measurement and nothing more. How many people have defied their age to perform amazing feats?

Yes I am very close to 40, but what does that matter? It really has no bearing on my life unless I have an expiry date of November 2015 and no one has told me. If that is the case, I have work to do…you can find me in the garage, I have a hover car and robot servant to invent.