Cities of the Silk Roads: Kyrgyz Republic #2

v4ZwQyWHGNOdfxj_pX7gPIWE1R9lOKsw3Tw-mZJCfYg.jpgA defining aspect of the Kyrgyz Republic is its topography. Mountains. Bishkek is on a plain which extends into Kazakhstan and Osh is at the end of the Fergana Valley — but, yes, mountains. High mountains.

82547On the border with China at the far right of this map is Jengish Chokusu, ‘Victory Peak’, 7439m asl. It is very rarely climbed because of weather and access issues and the fact that the most common route involves a 14km trek along the top of the massif of which it is a part, above 7000m all the way. On the Chinese side (pictured at left) it is called Tomur, ‘Iron Peak’ in Uyghur. I think it has only been successfully climbed once from this side.

The big lake in the map above is Issyk Kul, ‘Warm Lake’, one of the largest bodies of inland water in the world. Despite being at an altitude of 1600m and in a zone of ferocious winters, it never freezes. It is, lightly, saline. It is also endorheic. While it has plenty of tributaries (118), it has no apparent outlet and appears to maintain the same level year round. Magic. With its average depth of 280m, it almost certainly feeds an undiscovered underground aquifer, but still. How does it maintain exactly that level? And how do you explain the remnants of two ancient cities which have recently been located on more shallow parts of its floor?

This area has been a crucial landmark on the Silk Roads and was something special for us to see.IMG_0736.jpg

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We got to Balykchy at its eastern end. Karakol at its western end, by road 225 km away, is larger and the regional capital.

I want an excuse to put this photo in but I haven’t got one. Thomas, Swiss financier, Tony, Australian engineer and public administrator, and an unknown local who was interested in this collection of travellers.

You can get the train to Balykchy, one of many important Russian contributions to Kyrgyz public infrastructure.

We had already had some other local colour, high order local colour.IMG_0691.jpg

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Whip in mouth, he is picking up the headless body of a goat weighing 30-40 kilograms so that he or one of his mates can carry it tucked under one leg (!) down one end of a paddock and throw it onto a circular rock cairn.

I was interested to see that all standard game procedures apply — man-on-man, zone defence, the chop out, pop one over the top of the defence to a spare loose man. Ulak tartish, a very popular Kyrgyz sport and a staple of the Nomadic Games. Highly photogenic, and er hem manly.

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We ate at this village in the Headman’s house. Artem is reaching for the right word for his translation during the q&a session. The Headman is wearing a Kyrgyz hat, which in the country were everywhere in evidence. ‘It is shaped like that to remind us of the mountains.’ The Burana Tower, a major Kyrgyz landmark, is featured in the picture behind them.

Hospitality has a fundamental place in Kyrgyz culture. It is a matter of great shame to seat a guest at an empty table. The food must be waiting. Et voila!
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In the foreground are borsok, soft and light doughy things which have been deep fried and are very popular. Three excellent salads with ingredients straight out of the garden, hard-crusted and sturdy white bread, drinking yoghurt, something else — very just from the dairyish — perhaps a dressing to have with the salads, piles of biscuits (including Tim Tam look- and tastealikes), and small mountains of confectionary. The other yellow things are like soft crostoli which might have been dipped in condensed milk. Good, but you don’t need too many of them. A vegetable soup to come and then some sort of meat stew.

Elsewhere you might have the option of shashliks on a metal skewer: like clockwork, two pieces of lamb meat, one piece of lamb fat, two pieces of lamb meat. Plov. Naryn (thinly sliced meat with noodles in bone marrow broth). Or fruit. It was high summer, the height of the growing season and we were given the best of it.

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This is just so unrelated but never mind. Near here, and possibly exactly here, was where the Bubonic Plague which killed one-third of the world’s human population is believed to have begun. The Burana Tower is all that is left of the Qarakhanid kingdom which once dominated this area and far more. It suffered a 100 percent wipeout. One theory is that the disease was carried by fleas in marmot furs which were traded along the length of the Silk Roads. The Plague (1340-1400) definitely did begin in Central Asia and travelled in both directions along the Roads.

Kochkor

We spent the night in a homestay on the fringes of Kochkor, among other things a trailhead for outdoor adventurers. Downtown looked like this.

(For those who have played the clip back and forth back and forth desperately trying to catch it, Myrna is discussing her brother’s interest in eccentric cars and motor bikes. Torquil, with similar interests, had found an old Lada. How do you double the value of a Lada? Fill the petrol tank. Boom Tish!)

Song Kul

The drive alone was worth the price of admission.IMG_0751.jpgThe Tokol Valley. 

We had been driving along the Kashgar-Bishkek four-lane highway constructed by the Chinese to make it easy to get stuff from Chong Qing and Chengdu into Central Asia, before we turned off here: if you like, from the best road in the KR to, in a very competitive field, one of the worst. Our initial destination was the 3600m pass at the end of this valley. A farm every kilometre or ten. It’s hard to tell when progress is so slow and such a battle was being waged against corrugations, potholes, mudslides and missing bits.IMG_0763.jpgA template for the farms. Small house and bigger barn, all mud brick, a woman hanging her washing out, sheep, goats, horses. A stream. You might note the open roof cavity. Ubiquitous in this very difficult climate. The ceiling would be made of mud brick or concrete and, however non-intuitive, this would be considered a system of insulation. The unaccustomed start shivering just looking at it.

Up and over the pass. 3600 metres. The cold was well established, but some people were too rugged to notice.IMG_0787.jpgAnd very strangely, just out of nowhere, came this horseman. Literally nowhere. We were a long way from even the sign of human habitation. A horseman. I accused our guide, Artem, of setting this up. ‘You right Keneshbek? What? Yeah well we’re here now. Now. Come on. Have you got the good horse? The good horse! Yeah just ride out, no need to look at us or anything. Just … ok. Great.’IMG_0779.jpgIt was a moment. A great photo as a result of the sheerest good fortune.

Then down, but not very far in terms of altitude, into the Song Kul (‘Last Lake’) basin. It’s the second biggest lake in the map beginning this blog, thick healthy summer pasture surrounded by very high but quite placid mountains.IMG_0803.jpgBelow: our accommodation, and perhaps more interestingly, our dining room and the kitchen as well. There wasn’t anything else.IMG_0832.jpg

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Dinner: excellent bread, the absolutely ubiquitous tomato capsicum cucumber and white onion salad, lamb and vegetable soup, fish from the lake, biscuits, lollies, red and white Kyrgyz and Uzbek wine, cognac-infused tea or coffee. Complaints? None.

I went off with the walkers, although some animal lovers went for a ride. IMG_0820.jpgThat is what it looked like from up the hill. The yurts are the white dots by the lake at the horse’s rear. There are some petroglyphs on the rock I’m standing near. Couldn’t really … perhaps you needed to be more expert than me to get hold of their full significance.

IMG_0798.jpgThis is how you put up a yurt. Three of the distinctively Kyrgyz tunduks are visible, one at the top of the frame and two leaning on the covers at left. Erecting a yurt is one of the sports at the Nomadic Games. I think I remember Artem saying that the record is less than 10 minutes.

The journal: ‘I’m in a yurt. It’s 150m to the toilet and it’s raining. There’s a leak dripping right on to the end of my bed and creeping up towards me. Very nippy. Probably about minus 5 with a good wind chill factor. How is this going to go?…’IMG_0833.jpg

IMG_0837.jpg‘Sleeping in a yurt loomed as one of the challenges of the trip. Dormitory accomm, snoring, cold, 150m to the toilet etc etc. But it turned out just fine. It was cold. Formidably. We did have a number of people in the yurt. It was 150m to the toilet. Fresh snow is falling on the hill we climbed yesterday. When I wandered off for a pee it was absolutely silent, and still — no animal noise, dogs had been barking earlier — no wind either. The bedding weighed kilos and the [coal and very effective] stove went out, but it was snug. And I was happy.’

Kyzyl Oi

The snow in the night had rendered the next pass impassable, so it was a long and tedious drive back the way we had come, through Kochkor, five hours over the shocking roads rather than two. That might have been one of the reasons that getting to Kyzyl Oi was such pleasure, but there were others.

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We staggered out of the minibuses to be greeted by a herd of children wanting to speak English with us. Unexpected. And being able to do so quite capably. Even more unexpected. Go the teachers of English at Kyzyl Oi.

It was a lot warmer: that was another thing. While a new challenge had emerged — old bitumen road with remnant tarmac like anti-tank traps and craterous pot holes in which goats could hide, razor sharp edges — we had still managed to come down about 2000m to this extremely warm welcome. IMG_0864.jpgThere isn’t much at Kyzyl Oi, just a remote village that wanted tourists, and not just for their money. IMG_2345.jpgThis was where we stayed. Just to the left out of frame an addition was being built to the very well outfitted ablution block (flush toilets and a sewerage system rather than two planks over a big hole). Myrna is with our hostess who brought a desire, an expectation and a capacity for conversation with breakfast. Her elder son was a dentist, another daughter a midwife. The younger daughter helped her with the hospitality. The kid on the right, a very sweet boy, is her youngest.IMG_0869.jpgI got the feeling that this was a town that wanted to be part of the contemporary world outside, where you developed yourself moving on if necessary, you had ambition. It is strange how this communicates itself so obviously. When I lived round there, Nullawil  — a tiny community, a few families really, near Birchip and Wycheproof — was just the same. A clutch of strong, interesting outward-looking people determined to maintain and cultivate those qualities.

As well a river roared past. This is the Kokomeren, major tributary of the Naryn, one of the Kyrgyz Republic’s big rivers. They fish in here. And make catches. How? It’s hurling past at, what, maybe 40km an hour?IMG_0880.jpgThe farmers of Kyzyl Oi take their stock over this bridge on a regular basis. There must be others but it is the only bridge I can remember for 80km. It has taken quite a whack to its concrete pile supports and the girders on this side have collapsed, but I’d hate to be the person trying to rebuild it. Just watching the water power past in a fury was entertainment in itself. We followed it up its gorge for about 60km and not for one second was it less than a noisy torrent until it spread out through the pastures of the Suusamyr basin. But first …

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Worth waiting for! What a statue! Superb. A horse on manback rather than a man on horseback. Fantastic aesthetic and structural balance, well chosen and deft modelling. That’s the one in Bishkek outside the Sports Palace and over the road from the Arzu restaurant celebrating Кожомкул, Kojomkul — a real person who was born in 1889 and died in 1955.

IMG_0883.jpgSources agree that he lived in a village (above) in the Suusamyr basin now named Kojomkul after him, that he was kind and concerned about the common good, that he was unchallenged as a wrestler, and that he was big. Definitely big. How big? 230cms tall (7’6″), and weighing 165kg (350lbs). That big. One story has him lifting and carrying on his shoulders (maybe moving?) a stone weighing 750kg.

IMG_2374.JPGJust out of town there is this memorial, a rickety shelter over a mud yurt where a friend of his (or ‘a distinguished figure’, or from one source, his mother) was buried in 1924. He carried this stone weighing 160kg from the flood plain of the river several kilometres away. (I nearly got it. If I’d had proper shoes on …)

And the horse? Well, it is said that in his prime Kojomkul carried a horse on his shoulders 100 metres to commemorate and perhaps prove the legitimacy of the story of At-Bashi (Horse Head), a town not so far from here. In her blog Madeline Stoddart, an American Peace Corps worker in Kyrgyzstan, tells it like this.

A man, having sold his cattle, began returning to the North on horseback. Exhausted after crossing the Tian Shan mountains, he stopped at Jailoo, a summertime pasture, to rest and turned his horse free to graze under the stars. The man woke as the sun rose over the mountains, but the horse refused to return to him. He chased it down from the pasture, finally catching it in a valley. The horse stubbornly refused to let the man ride, so he hoisted the animal up on his shoulders to walk to a sheltered place for the night. Tired and hungry from the chase, the man killed his unfaithful horse and roasted the meat over a great fire. He ate heartily, then packed for his long journey North. At the edge of his camp, he left the horse’s head, calling the place At-Bashi – in Kyrgyz, horse head. The rest of the horse he carried on his back, eating every night until there was only enough meat scraps to boil for soup. This dish is called naryn, a boiled bone soup with finely cut meat, and where he left the bare carcass of his disloyal horse became the city of Naryn.

Under the Soviets Kojomkul became a chairman of his collective farm, while still competing in wrestling tournaments throughout Kyrgyzstan. A story common to all the sources suggests that he was known for distributing his winnings (goats and sheep mainly) amongst members of his community. He also spent a year in gaol for refusing to write letter condemning a chairman of the neighbouring commune. These are stories entirely appropriate to such an excellent statue.

Suusamyr and surrounds

A high plain, 2500m or so above sea level, surrounded by snowy peaks. We found coffee at the Gazprom service station over in the distance, but ate lunch here in a yurt.IMG_0892.jpgThese foals are tethered to the ground so the mares won’t stray and are easy to milk, because this is the starting point of kumis, fermented mare’s milk, for sale at road stalls for 50km along this busy road (Bishkek to Osh as well as bulk tourism on its southern entry). The owner of these horses showed us how he made it, fermented with a piece of yeasty bread, slightly smoked in some underground container and regularly paddled.

I don’t know how popular it is as a drink; maybe it’s the sort of thing you do when you’re on holiday. But it could be culturally important. After all a bishkek is the paddle used to churn the fermenting milk.

We’d come in from a quiet rural track up to the pastures. It got grubby with rubbish discarded from the additional traffic on the big road as well as high and cold. IMG_0895.jpgAlabel Ashuusu Pass where the sign said 3175m above sea level and Marty’s altimeter app said 3173m. I’m sure we could have got him up those last two metres.

It was a longish drive to Toktogul down the hill through collections of resort accommodation, food stops and roadside stalls — their purpose was clear, their nature more mysterious — to a fertile valley and a circumambulation of the rather splendid Lake Toktogul.

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That night we stayed in this Soviet era accommodation designed for use by Youth League/ Young Pioneers groups.

Its evident decline was offset by this view, the lake and the swim we had in it.IMG_0905.jpgThe lake is dammed at one end for hydroelectricity production. Some of this is sold to Kazahkstan; some may go to Uzbekistan although it has plenty of energy resources of its own. The hydro plant was showing major signs of wear and limited upkeep, but you could get an idea of what, quite recently, had once been.

Tash Komur

‘Hard Coal’. That’s what the name says. A mining town in the middle of what looked like a paradise of minerals, it spread for some distance along the Naryn River here much modified for industrial purposes. Just out of town was this building.IMG_0950.jpgIt’s not a great photo. It’s from the van where I was holding my teeth apart to stop them from shattering. But for me it was history.

I say this is, was, a Russian administrative headquarters — mining? civil? possibly even military but probably not. It says order and stability, and four storeys says substantial, plenty of work gone on in there. The roof is enclosed. The symmetry and once good order of the windows suggest good quality industrial craftsmanship. The mural, that you can’t see, on its wall wants you to think positive if perhaps unaccustomed thoughts and suggests an identity that you might want to aspire and relate to. It’s not the work of nomadic horsemen or ulak tartish  players. And, unused, an anachronism, it is sliding at some pace into disrepair. The grave sites cement these impressions. (Kyrgyz cemeteries look like complex tiny towns with endless small buildings.)

What have the Romans ever done for us (I mused)? ‘Well there was the aqueduct … sanitation, yes …, irrigation, medicine, public baths … roads.’ ‘They brought peace.’ ‘Brought peace?!! Oh shuttup.’

In this case, just imagining, what was brought might have included, say, a big shoe factory, a car parts manufacturer, a huge food processing plant, industrial style tourism, the mining development, the hydro … some of which at least would have been set up for reasons of decentralisation and to give people ‘new style’ work regardless of where the markets said they should have been located. And when Big Brother (wearing his Motherhood costume) withdraws, what then? Who is to say who benefits from the effects of imperial oversight (and injections of hard cash)? Nothing is simple. 

There are two histories at work here, as elsewhere in the Republic: that of 1924-1991; and everything that came before. They don’t marry easily. But that doesn’t make the country any less interesting.

Arkyt

IMG_0939.jpgWe were on our way to Arkyt, scarcely visible at left from up the top of the hill, another remote-ish homestay at the end of an odd little run of Holidayland — yurts with fiber glass roofs, ‘log’ cabins, unemployed frames of rusty steel with flapping fabric, coffee shops but not as we know them. That sort of thing.

And this was The Worst Road Ever. Ever. The purpose of roads generally is to allow/ enable passage. This road had deliberately chosen to actively oppose any ingress. It had an invisible sign up saying: ‘Ye shall not pass. Irregardless. Anyone who ventures further is just so cactus that, mate, I can’t tell you. Fully gone.’ On this occasion that was us.

We didn’t need to go. At the other end was a lake in the middle of the mountainous ‘Yellow Bowl’ so called for its flora. But you didn’t need to take Kiwis or Swiss there. They’ve got better at home. And we’d seen the like. Quite often. And we’d been driving over shit roads for days now grump grump and our bedroom didn’t have a window grump grump grump grump grump.

At the lake, a further 90-minute drive from the village over a 40km cattle grid interspersed with inexpressible voids, three groups of people drew my attention.

The dancers. Twenty or so middle-aged mostly men but a couple of women dancing to an accordion very capably played I must say. They had eaten but weren’t I think drinking. Nonetheless, to my grumpy mind something indeterminately salacious was happening. I could be way wrong about this, way wrong, but it was a bit like lurching through a door and finding the makings of a swingers’ party. Grump grump grump.

The young men sitting on the ground under a tree. (The girls were taking selfies down by the water.) I went past them several times perhaps an hour apart and they hadn’t moved, doing nothing except smoking and looking like they were mortally offended by even passing company. The word ‘surly’ was coined for just such a situation. But surly with slightly menacing overtones.

The chaps staying in the dacha. Up the top there were a small number of places to stay. We walked past them, and their occupants were layed out on the wooden outdoor furniture dead drunk or close to at two o’clock in the afternoon. Fair enough. Their choice. They weren’t bothering anyone.

But I felt bothered. Like I’d had an encounter with a range of cardinal sins. I hadn’t. Just GRRRumpy. I’ve already said. I do beg your pardon. Sorry.

It was a delicious dinner.

IMG_0937.jpgJust by the way, this is what I mean by an open roof cavity. That building is finished. It will stay like that even when the temperature is minus 20. And they are our roadweary vans.

Either on the way there or on the way back we fell to talking about the Kyrgyz ‘cultural tradition’ of bride-kidnapping. Do, as Kyrgyz lore asserts, ‘all good marriages begin in tears?’ Is it worth talking about except as an interesting relic of times past?

A research study supported by a Kyrgyz non-government organisation recorded 24,000 cases of non-consensual bride-kidnapping in the two years 2015 and 2016. This number is inevitably coloured by the process of categorisation and could be lower. Or it could be higher.

Some other responsible estimations indicate that about one half of all Kyrgyz marriages stem from this practice. The same source suggests that two-thirds of these are non-consensual, often involving violence, cultural shame, and, in the very worst cases, rape. If the kidnapped woman has been kept in the house overnight it will be assumed that ‘the marriage’ has been consummated. The stigma associated with leaving a forced marriage, even before the marriage begins, is so great that many women stay out of fear, shame, or lack of an alternative.

Not all bride kidnapping is violent. ‘Ceremonial’ bride kidnapping is exactly that – a ceremony that commemorates a distinct if somewhat distant part of Kyrgyz culture, but where all parties are expressly involved and consenting. Mock bride theft is also consensual. It can be used to evade expensive dowry payments or parental disapproval. It is also sometimes used to speed up an engagement toward marriage or to hide pre-marital pregnancy.

One of the stories told in our conversation was of a bride in a taxi so distraught that the driver stopped and refused to be involved in the process any longer. The bride quickly straightened up, stopped crying and spoke severely to the driver. ‘Just do your job!’ Might be true, but it is an easy out. 3879975.jpgA screen shot from a Russian comedy, ‘Kidnapping, Caucasian style’ using the topic as a central theme to hang the jokes off. Real images of the process look rather more horrible.

The research referred to above suggests that genuine bride theft is a corruption of a consensual tradition and has been steadily increasing since the fall of the Soviet Union. Some believe that, after the generations of gender equality encouraged by the Soviet system, bride-kidnapping has become a tool to reassert the dominance of masculine identity in the Kyrgyz Republic, a country that has struggled with identity politics since long before the Soviets left in 1991. The judicial system often sides with the men in the very few cases that actually make it into the courts.

There are dozens of other countries where bride-kidnapping is to a greater or lesser degree an embedded practice. But without any fear of insensitive cultural intrusion, it does seem like something that could genuinely be left behind forever. Urgently.

Osh

IMG_0960.jpgStill eating? Come on. Everyone’s left.

This might have been at Suzak. We were working our way round the very complex eastern border with Uzbekistan on our way to Osh and the end of the tour. We stopped at this bakery/ restaurant, and this pic appears here to reflect again on the astonishing (and colourful) hospitality that was so often a feature of our time in the KR.

It is the owner’s private garden. There were too many of us for out the front. We would be easier to manage. The food was modest, plentiful and very well cooked. And exactly as requested. We had been driving through the end of the Fergana Valley, this remarkable hub of fecundity, and all along the road were piles of various types of delicious-looking melons. I asked if we could have some. Off someone went to the market and this was the result. Another feast.

IMG_0986.jpgThe rooftops of Osh (from Sulayman Mountain), where we didn’t spend nearly enough time. The thumbnail dip into it suggested a really interesting city with a great deal to entertain a traveller.

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We got there late-ish, climbed the Mountain, the only World Heritage site in KR. It has a museum of some importance built into its side to celebrate the 3000th anniversary of Osh, unlike Bishkek an ancient city.

Sulayman Mountain, sometimes called the Stone Tower, reaches strikingly upwards out of the flatlands of the Valley. It is considered the mid-point of the Silk Roads. That was exciting.

It also contains a shrine that supposedly marks the Biblical King and Islamic prophet Solomon’s (Sulayman’s) grave. According to legend, women who ascend to the shrine on top and crawl though an opening across the holy rock will give birth to healthy children. Saw this. Didn’t do it.IMG_0984.jpgShe may have. It could have been a bit lost in translation but these are her five children. The perky chap in the red polo shirt who spoke good English and wanted to engage in conversation is 10. She is 25.

IMG_0982.jpgThe Mountain is surrounded by the graves of those who want to be buried as near as possible to a holy place. The same phenomenon is obvious in Jerusalem and probably anywhere there is a place with some religious significance.

We ate a celebratory final dinner too tired to do justice to such delicious cooking, a genuinely sumptuous meal. Next day we crossed into Uzbekistan or, as they would prefer, Uzbekiston, and that was an experience.

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Cities of the Silk Roads: Kyrgyz Republic #1

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BISHKEK

Bishkek. What could Bishkek be? See if you can stitch some threads together out of what I remember of our arrival.

Stepping out of the plane at Manas International Airport, a modest and friendly affair, what I was struck by most was the density of rural smells: animals, vegetal matter, whatever was being blown about in the trees. It was like inhaling the country (with a small c), and just as invigorating.

A very large very cheerful chap was there to meet us and collect our luggage putting it into a very comfortable transit vehicle with a very good audio system. Playlist: Taylor Swift, Joe Jackson, Lady Gaga, Astor Piazzolla, Eurythmics, Cuban jazz. Could have been supplied to order, but they were his favourites. He spoke perfectly serviceable English and was fun.

We were driving through avenues of trees, with pasture, densely planted crops and occasional clumps of houses either side. Goats, sheep, cattle — the very picture of rural fecundity.

For five or so minutes, I didn’t even notice the mountains, but there they were: the Ala-Too range, a northern extension of the Tian Shan with peaks almost 5000m high.IMG_0662.jpg

oak-park4_sm.jpgBut Bishkek is on the flat. We were driving through long avenues of mature trees: oaks, ash, poplars, cedars, conifers, plane trees. Completely unexpected and heart-lifting. This planting we later found out was begun in 1890 by Alexei Fetisov, a Russian botanist. So some of these trees are as old as the city itself, a matter to which we will return. Not everything on the Silk Roads is 4000 years old.

We were staying at the Rich Hotel on Frunze Street. Bishkek was called ‘Frunze’ from 1926 until 1991 after a notable son of the city, Mikhail Frunze. He was a hero of the Russian Revolution who became a senior member of the Politburo and whose death was probably orchestrated by Stalin, a consequence of being too successful.IMG_0626.jpgThe Rich Hotel: three glowing stars. A wonderful place to stay made so as usual by the staff who were more like interested mates than hotel employees, to me an important distinction. We didn’t come across any servants in Kyrgyzstan. The reception area and the terrace outside was a social hub which drew a small crowd of chatty smokers, and cats. Both groups appeared to be unattached to the hotel except by familiarity.

Our room, our suite actually, consisted of a large entry space which included a bathroom which had a shower with a fibre glass arrangement not unlike an astronaut’s seat. A small dressing (?) room off. Perhaps. You could decide for yourself. Down a short passage past a second smaller and more functional bathroom to get to the bedroom which was huge with the only small window opening on to a wall. Embossed wall paper throughout in a range of patterns. Unmatched furniture, a door lock that sometimes worked and sometimes didn’t. No room service. Home made art work, home made repairs. A garden that needed some attention with a 10 metre pool. A really good shop that sold proper things (nuts, outstanding biscuits — a Kyrgyz speciality, you didn’t think that did you? no — and first rate yoghurt among them). Simple but copious breakfast. They do your washing. Just lovely the lot of it. Perfect.

We walked downtown. You may remember that we had got up at 3.30 Beijing time, spent several hours being searched and, after quite a while, had arrived in Bishkek a bit spaced out at the identical time the plane had taken off in Urumqi, 7.30am.

From Frunze Street, we turned right at the university for the coffee shops. IMG_0605.jpgMmmm these odd bits of neo-classicism, they were all over the shop. Peer through some trees and there would be another one, not to mention six more statues. It truly is the home of public statuary. Statues, of variable quality, everywhere. I think someone must have theorised this as a fundamental principle of making a town a capital, and then made it happen. As it happens you can learn a great deal about Bishkek from its statues. With guidance, they offer a potted history of the last 100 years.IMG_0613.jpgBelow Marx and Engels, life-size, chatting. V. I. Lenin was reaching out to the masses nearby.IMG_2054.JPGWe couldn’t find the coffee shop which according to my researches was the best and wandered without much aim coming to rest by default in a newish shopping mall, ‘Bishkek Park’ (in Latin letters, everything else in Cyrillic; Russian the lingua franca) which looked like most shopping malls: four floors with a big hole in the middle. The thin crowd suggested Bishkekers hadn’t become completely seduced by the American shopping experience. Verging on ravenous, we found the food court. Four or five pizza shops, a couple of culturally-adapted hamburger shops, a juice bar. We did several circuits saying, that one? Maybe not. How about that one? No. Simultaneously getting hungrier and nuttier. (We’d been up a long time.)

We settled on a cafe that seemed to have an inclusive range of offerings. The waitress rushed out the back to find someone who could speak English. This happened many times. The English-speaker was the capable 40 year-old woman of our dreams and, well … she was just so nice. I had The Businessman’s Lunch: soup, bread, salad. Modest servings, but delicious. I had another one. With coffee and Myrna’s meal that cost A$6.80. I was no longer hungry: just embarrassed.

We tripped over a lot of other things that day. Ala-Too Square which would be better at night full of people with the lights on and the fountains playing:IMG_0608.jpgThe National History Museum, disappointingly closed and under renovation (for more than two years; there is no surfeit of public money in the Kyrgyz Republic):IMG_2048.JPGThe Big Specs, and another one of those bits of neo-classicism:IMG_2008.jpgAttention to the topiary, and something dacha-like through the trees:IMG_2052.JPGThe changing of the guard at the closed Museum. Look carefully for the carefully balanced guns. Great. Yes exotic, but don’t let it colour your thinking. On the pedestal is Manas, the hero of the national epic.IMG_0660.jpgAnd what can be read here?IMG_0620.jpgIt’s an odd image to swamp me so strongly with memories. The sky getting ready to dump the late afternoon rain after a hot day — a mountain thing. The fine aspirations of the architecture a bit scuffed by maintenance problems. Great pavement, reflective of a river bed, chewed up this side by time and mortar that wasn’t mixed carefully enough. I love the reindeer corralled between the bike racks, and the fact that the soil in the beds could be so publicly unemployed. In the background there’s the statue of Кожомкул, my favourite, which I will keep for later.

To the left past him is the interesting way to walk home down Abdumomunov Street with the dance studio in the slightly derelict building with an exterior curved concrete staircase shooting out over the footpath and threatening to collapse at any moment, and the massive new luxury flats under construction. 

Just to the right there is what I thought was a big, somewhat derelict gutter with holes in it. And yes that is right, but these gutters are not derelict. A vegetal lifeline, they are for distributing water as well as collecting it. Bishkek sits in a detailed maze of irrigation. That’s why it’s so green.

images.jpegFurther to the right over the road is the restaurant Arzu (‘desire’, ‘passion’) where we ate twice. Once was the first night, the end of this expansive day. We went with Freya, a tour companion who we had met while getting our passports confiscated in Urumqi.

Flavour? Well, it was Ramadan and after sundown so the crowds had come out, feasting. You didn’t have to eat, you could just consume the scene. Rich people, Bishkek’s upper and middle class, lots of jewellery and glitter, men talking to each other or to their phones, women and children down the other end of the groaning boards. Gangsters? Not really, but you get the idea. Colourful identities. Sculpted facial hair. And most glamorous women observing Ramadan. Some had headscarves, others didn’t. You could make some wobbly inferences about the type of Islam that applies, in Kyrgyz cities at least, from that — mostly Sunni but perhaps cultural rather than formidably religious.

We were tucked out of the way that first night, and we did eat. You can imagine the following as the consequence of a) hunger b) fatigue c) being three of us with different food preferences d) unfamiliarity with the menu, and e) just going for it. A huge basket of assorted bread, one lentil soup, two large salads, a celebration of the tomato (and for five weeks we ate tomatoes as the gods imagine them to be), a serve of plov (Kyrgyz pilaf, a national dish), six huge dumplings (manty, ditto), and the biggest lamb shank you have ever seen (and Kyrgyz sheep can be enormous). All superbly cooked. We didn’t make complete pigs of ourselves, but we did make a hole in it. My journal says: What a feed. 2500 som, today a total of A$48.43.

I also wrote: Courageous, cheery, poor, the very definition of Second World — but just so full of a fluid type of vitality. A vitality that is exposed and accessible, willingly shared. It is a city, back a bit and frequently cobbled together, but no less attractive for that.

I love this photo. (‘What on earth are those people doing?’ OR ‘Come on Dad! You’ve been ages.’)

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‘Comfy and stylish’. That could well be Bishkek.

* * * * * *

In 1876 the population of Bishkek was 182.

The Kyrgyz Republic (as it is known in the Kyrgyz Republic and wishes to be known rather than Kyrgyzstan) is not a heavily populated country. It has only two cities which  are bigger than Geelong — Bishkek and Osh, and there is a huge gap between rural and urban life: wealth, food, culture, religious observance and language (Kyrgyz in the country, Russian in the cities). The population as a whole is a bit less than 6 million, 75 percent of whom are Kyrgyz. Uzbeks are the next largest group.

Unlike the settled and urban Uzbeks, the Kyrgyz have always been nomads. Kyrgyz means We are forty, a reference to the forty regional nomadic clans Manas, a legendary hero, is said to have united against the predations of the Uyghurs 1000 years ago. Unknown.png

The 40-ray sun on the flag is also a reference to these tribes. The symbol in the sun’s centre is a tunduk, the distinctive wooden crown and engineering keystone of a Kyrgyz yurt, a nomadic people’s accommodation.

Bishkek seems to have begun life as a Sogdian or Scythian caravansaray (stopover for food, accommodation, stabling) on the Roads, the Chuy River being a good watering point and the flat land a relief after or before the mountains. For a long time the Sogdians who spread themselves across Central Asia but whose home could be said to be in modern Kazhastan were the enablers of the Silk Roads — the brokers, the dealers, the horse traders. The Scythians once had an imperial influence extending from here well into modern Poland — and then disappeared.

14312840168_26b87019c0_b.jpgIn times past very few people travelled the length of the Roads. Caravansarays (at left what’s left of Tash Rabat, which we didn’t see) were often separated by 30 or 40 kilometres, a day’s travel, and you might travel to one or two further on, do your business and then return to where you came from.

The Khanate (‘kingdom’) of Kokand, a city at the eastern end of Uzbekistan, built a fort (‘Pishpek’) here in 1825 which was overrun and razed by Russians in 1860. In 1877 it became a development site for the Russians and was populated by resettled peasant farmers. (Just giving some idea of the reach of the Russian empire, Moscow is 3750 km. away, about the same distance as Perth to Sydney.) Bishkek (‘Frunze’ at the time) became the capital when Kyrgyzstan officially became a Soviet in 1924. Before independence (1991, the very first time it was ever a nation state), the majority of Bishkek’s population was ethnic Russians. That figure is now about 8 percent.IMG_0635.jpg

Waitresses at the very smart Bellagio cafe in Bishkek.

In terms of the country as a whole, ethnic Russians made up more than 30 percent of the Kyrgyzstan’s population in 1959. That proportion has now dropped dramatically, but it would help to explain why in the late ’80s, the time of glasnost and the breakup of the USSR, 88.7% of the voters in a national referendum approved a proposal to retain the Soviet Union as a ‘renewed federation’. They did NOT want to leave the USSR. But Kyrgyzexiteers, as well as the implosion of the Motherland further west, won the day.

Before 1990, 98% of Kyrgyz exports went to other parts of the Soviet Union. The collapse of the Union almost destroyed its economy. This situation has improved recently, but money sent home by the 800,000 Kyrgyz migrants working in Russia still represents 40 percent of the Kyrgyz Republic’s GDP. Other income comes from minerals (especially gold) and agricultural products.

In terms of commerce there are two large markets in Bishkek. The Osh market sells perishable and household goods. The massive Dordoy Bazaar is the central agency for the distribution of Chinese goods to Central Asia.

IMG_0674 (1).jpgThe bus stop outside the Dordoy market

IMG_0641 (1).jpgAmong other things, we had a swim in the Dolphin Pool with a squad of 10-14 year old boys surging in an uncontrolled fashion up and down the pool. We needed to rent special flip-flops/ jandals/ thongs to enter and had to wait for some unspecified reason, but with the kids’ mums we were able to watch UFC (Ultimate Fighting Championship) mayhem on the TV in reception. 

We went to the Osh market and paid only modest attention to the handcrafts and produce of Asia. Yes it was colourful and yes they did have horsemeat salami and kumis (see some distance below), but I didn’t think I was there for that reason. We sat and had a cake and cup of tea in a no-nonsense restaurant on its fringe and looked at the pictures of horses.IMG_0642 (1).jpgBecause in terms of ‘Cities’ of the Silk Roads, when it comes to the Kyrgyz Republic I should be talking about villages and tracks. That’s where we were headed.

FOR MORE …

Cities of the Silk Roads: China

Where goods don’t cross borders, armies will.

— A theme of the trip, sometimes attributed to 19th century French economist Frédéric Bastiat, actually Otto Mallery, an American writing in the mid 20th century. Considerations:

A) Even if they need management, tourists are goods as well, complex important goods bringing their money, ideas and interaction with them. Familiarity reduces the likelihood of arbitrary judgment.

B) No one has told Donald Trump. Actually, they have but …

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[Fragment of wall image of ambassadors (VII Cent.) in the State Museum of History of Uzbekistan]

The halfway point between east and west, running broadly from the eastern shores of the Mediterranean and the Black Sea to the Himalayas, might seem an unpromising position from which to assess the world. This is a region which is now home to states that evoke the exotic and the peripheral, like Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan and Turkmenistan, Tajikistan and the countries of the Caucasus; it is a region associated with regimes that are unstable, violent and threat to international security like Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq and Syria, or ill-versed in the best practices of democracy like Russia and Azerbaijan …

While such countries may seem wild to us, these are no backwaters, no obscure wastelands. In fact the bridge between east and west is the very crossroads of civilisation. Far from being on the fringe of global affairs, these countries lie at its very centre — as they have done since the beginning of history. It was here that Civilisation was born … It was in this bridge that great metropolises were created that were the wonders of the ancient and more recent world, full of sophisticated architecture, engineering, and people.

This region is where the world’s great religions burst into life. It is the cauldron where language groups emerged: Indo-European, Semitic and Sino-Tibetan languages jostling with Altaic, Turkic and Caucasian. This is where great empires rose and fell, and where the after effects of these events were felt thousands of miles away.

These tremors were carried along a network that fans out in many directions, routes along which pilgrims, warriors, nomads and merchants have travelled, goods and produce have been sold and ideas exchanged, adapted and refined.

In the late 19th century, Ferdinand von Richthofen, uncle of the ‘Red’ Baron, coined the term Seidenstraßen for these routes, ‘Silk Roads’, a name that has stuck ever since.

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We read Peter Frankopan’s ‘new history of the world’, The Silk Roads — from where the excerpt above comes — and thought we should see for ourselves.

We landed in Xi ‘An, once the eastern terminus of the Silk Roads, went on to Urumqi where we got more than we bargained for, and then joined an Intrepid Tour in Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan, which took us eventually as far west as Bukhara in Uzbekistan. Antioch, Damascus and Istanbul were the major trade hubs for the Roads in the west, but Jerusalem — trading in more complex goods — has never been unimportant. From Uzbekistan we went to Jerusalem.

History. Is all this relevant today?

China-One-Belt-One-Road-ST-photo.jpgYes.

And just while we’re there: ‘stan’ is an ancient Persian word for ‘place of’, or ‘home of’. So, Kyrgyzstan = place of the Kyrgyz. Etc.

* * * * * *

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XI ‘AN

There are people who have been to Xi ‘An (‘she-arn’) who have not seen the Terracotta* Warriors, who have not bicycled around the walls of the Old City, who have not climbed up the Bell Tower, nor visited Wild Goose Pagoda, Big or Small. (*I originally wrote ‘Porcelain’. If they had been porcelain I think we would have gone to see them.)

That would be us.

We lay around a bit before venturing off to buy some toothpaste. ‘Down the street’ was a bit further than I had banked on. How many people in Xi ‘An? A big city I know, so perhaps three million? 14 million as it turned out, and growing rapidly. I was a bit short of blood sugar and might have been a bit tired as well, but I suddenly felt the not inconsiderable weight of a big Chinese city and needed to sit down.

We’d been walking past block after block of telecommunications shops, masses of them and not single huge shops but repetitious huge shops: Vivo, Oppo, Huawei, Samsung, Chinese Mobil, Mobitel, Apple, Alcatel, Ericsson, Siemens — not one of each, but six, eight, twelve. QR_code_for_mobile_English_Wikipedia.svg.png

Xi ‘An is the focal point of China’s space program and the city was full of signs of China’s muscular modernity: a hotel concierge providing an Uber (electric) in three minutes instead of a taxi during a rainy peak hour, street stalls with their QR payment codes (like at left) dangling on bits of string. It makes sense when you’re there.

But then just round the corner … swarming …

IMG_0409.jpgThis was why we had come. The Muslim Street. However duded up for tourists — almost exclusively Chinese here tonight — it is one vital element, nominal proof at least, of the history of Middle Eastern contact and influence in China.

IMG_0415.jpgThey’re making and cooking shish kebabs with baby octopi on the next burner — but their hats say ‘not Chinese’. ‘From somewhere else.’ ‘Muslim’. IMG_0418.jpg

IMG_0421.jpgFurther along the street we found women winding spun sugar into Turkish fairy floss, the drinking yoghurt you would get in Kyrgyzstan, Uzbeki bread, endless versions of halva that you could just as easily find in Palestine, a dozen or more bao stalls, boiled lamb chopped into the middle of hard bread and covered with a ladle of spicey broth (which promptly restored me).

And the clincher:IMG_0426.jpgWhat sort of ‘Special Snack’? A halal special snack.

We ate some amazing concoction from this cafe and I went home feeling profoundly satisfied.IMG_0501.jpg

* * * * * *

Xi ‘An, one of the ‘Four Ancient Capitals’ of China, was once called Chang ‘An (‘Eternal Peace’) and was capital for the Western Zhou, Qin, Western Han, Sui, and Tang dynasties. Its chief museum, the Shaanxi History Museum reflects this historical standing. The museum’s name suggests ‘provincial’. It was anything but. It was at least as good if not better than its counterparts in Beijing and Shanghai.

It is popular to the extent that it can be a challenge to get in. You line up before 9am and are given a free ticket which cuts out at 3000, leaving far more than half the queue ticket-less under their umbrellas in the pouring rain. China. Unless of course you look a bit foreign in which case you get herded into the magic Line 4. We seemed to be the only foreigners and from arrival to inside the door poking round took 11 minutes. Which doesn’t mean you’re on your own. There is plenty of company.

IMG_0454.jpgThis remarkable wine vessel is from the Western Zhou Dynasty period, about 800BC. The headless pottery eagle is from the same period. IMG_0443.jpg

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dugu Xin’s 26-faceted set of seals is about 1500 years old.IMG_0477.jpg

We didn’t see the Terracotta Warriors but we did see their domestic and commercial counterparts, smaller, beautifully made, each unique.IMG_0487.jpgIMG_0484.jpgAnd here we have an orchestra transported on the back of a camel. The Silk Roads were introducing themselves.

You think of Marco Polo as opening the way from Europe to wherever it was he ended up: Xanadu? (Did in fact Kubla(i) Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree?) A version of China anyway. His father and uncle definitely met Kublai Khan (in Bukhara, now in Uzbekistan, one of our destinations). After a most fraternal exchange the Khan tasked the brothers with delivering a letter to the Pope, and returning to his kingdom with 100 Christians acquainted with the Seven Arts (grammar, rhetoric, logic, geometry, arithmetic, music and astronomy). Marco’s movements are less certain. He claims to have become an advisor to Kublai Khan. He gets some things wrong, but others uniquely and verifiably correct. We can only conclude that he did get to eastern China.

His Travels or Book of the Marvels of the World was published about 1300AD. However, there had been a lot of traffic over that route before then.

220px-Statue_of_Zhang_Qian.jpgThe museum introduced me to Zhang Qian, a Chinese official and diplomat who served as an imperial envoy to the world outside of China during the Han dynasty. (At left, as rendered in the Shaanxi Museum.) The information in the museum suggests he spent 14 years trying to find ways across the various mountain ranges to the west of China: the Tian Shan (contemporary Kyrgyzstan), the Pamir (Tajikistan) and the Karakorum (Pakistan), each of which has peaks above 7000m. And, in addition, to find his way past the local inhabitants of the region east of Xi’an including the Xiongnu, a coalition of nomadic peoples which included the Hun famous for their ferocity, who had long history of hostility to the Han.

(A footnote: And yes, these are the ‘Hun’ that the British chose to call their German adversaries in WWII. Its source? Speaking in 1900 to German soldiers waiting to sail to China to help lift the siege of Peking in the Boxer Rebellion, Kaiser Wilhelm told his troops to fight ‘like the Huns under their King Attila a thousand years ago’ so that ‘the name of Germany shall become known in China to such affect that no Chinaman will ever again dare so much as to look askance at a German.’)

It seems likely that Zhang Qian was held captive by the Xiongnu for about ten years during which time he married a Xiongnu woman with whom he had child. Remarkably he continued on with his journey getting as far as Bactria (today Afghanistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan-ish) where he spent more than a year in the eastern end of the Fergana Valley, one of the most fertile places on earth, and Sogdiana (eastern Kyrgyzstan and Kazahkstan). He was captured again on his way back to China, but eventually got home where he and the products of his journey were feted. (‘The Emperor will know of the Dayuan, Daxia, Anxi, and the others, all great states rich in unusual products whose people cultivate the land and make their living in much the same way as the Chinese. All these states are militarily weak and prize Han goods and wealth.’ A diplomat’s report.) This was in 128 BC, about 1400 years prior to Marco’s travels.

Some evidence suggests that the Romans had diplomats/merchants in Xinjiang (the westernmost province of China) about 150 AD. They were no longer there when we arrived.

* * * * * *

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URUMQI

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Xinjiang is the largest province in China as well as furthest west. Urumqi (sort of ‘yi-rim-chee’) with 3.5 million people, the largest city in Central Asia, is its capital.

In its museum this artwork can be found.IMG_0533.jpgIt is an artist’s reconstruction of the head of this mummified body from Lop-Nor, some distance south of Urumqi but still in Xinjiang.IMG_0532.jpgShe is known as ‘The Loulan Beauty’ and is important for several reasons. One is that her body dates from around 5000 BC and that the cloth she was buried in still exists 7000 years later. Another is that she wasn’t ‘buried’ at all, or embalmed, or wrapped in protective bandaging. Like other mummified bodies, several of which are on display here,IMG_0537.jpg after her death she was placed in a cave and preserved by the climate (a consistent low temperature and minimal humidity).

But the most important reason by far is, as the tag notes: ‘According to scientific test, she belongs to ancient Europoid.’ She’s Uyghur; she’s not Han. Uyghurs (‘wee-gurs’) were here first. They own the land. Children of the soil, they should control it. Their wishes should prevail.

She has recently been re-assessed by some Chinese scientists appointed by the Provincial Government who have confirmed that in fact the mummy is only 4000 years old — and, great heavens!, is Han.

Just as Tibet’s formal name is the Tibet Autonomous Region, Xinjiang’s full name is ‘Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region’. As noted in Wikipedia, which doesn’t usually use words like ‘hardline’, they have something else in common.

220px-Chen_Quanguo.jpgSince hardline official Chen Quanguo was transferred from Tibet to govern China’s Muslim region in August 2016, he has overseen the construction of a network of extrajudicial internment camps. He has also stepped up surveillance of residents by using advanced technology as well as increasing police presence, and passed severe regulations to curtail religious and cultural expression. According to estimates by rights groups and researchers, at least tens of thousands – or possibly a million members of ethnic minorities – many of them ethnic Uyghurs, are currently being held in “re-education” camps in the region.

While were there we had companion who was Uyghur. For fear of possible reprisals, I can’t show you a photo, I can’t tell you his or her name, in fact I’ll have to gloss over much of what we were told.

I can show you this photo which sums some of the experience up.IMG_0548.jpg

Police presence. When we were alerted to it, we noticed there was a police control station at every significant intersection. There are 700 of them in the city centre alone.

unknown1.jpegMonster golden Buddha in what is billed as an environmental park, Urumqi’s latest major tourist attraction. We were warned by email before we arrived we would not be able to go to the Red Mosque (as advertised; a stolen photo at right, obviously something to see). Police have closed this area. So this ‘Park with Buddha’ is the new option.

The Buddha is approximately five years old, the same age as the Hilton Hotel built next door on the outskirts of the city. There is no significant history of Buddhism in Urumqi or Xinjiang as a whole for that matter. Fake religious news.

We didn’t go in; it all looked a bit new, raw. We read the ‘Civilisation Convention’ on a massive billboard. 

Love the Motherland, love Hongguangshan (the name of the park), safeguard ethnic solidarity and maintain stability … Treat others politely, respect elders and take good care of children, care others [sic] and take pleasure in helping others 

We drove past the usual forests of tower blocks but a lot of these were unusual. They were only three-quarters finished: no top, variable heights, no windows, limited cladding. What’s going on there? I asked. ‘The building has been stopped. The government building funds have been transferred to making prisons. There are 10 million Uyghur in China. One million are in gaol.’

The Uyghur are Muslim. Our companion’s spouse and four brothers went on a pilgrimage to Mecca. These five people have been imprisoned now for more than a year. What they are charged with, their whereabouts, and their future are all unknown. Why has this happened? Does our companion fear for his/her freedom? ‘Of course. Every time there is a knock at the door. Why do they do this? To wash the brain…’ 

There are several children in this family. Parents are fined 200 yuan (40 AUD, a lot in this context) every time the children speak Uyghur at school. (In this case 3200 yuan so far this year.) Teachers who speak Uyghur to their students are fired. Uyghur stories and songs have been banned from the curriculum. Doctors who speak Uyghur to their patients are struck off and imprisoned. ‘One year women who wear long Uyghur dresses in the street were stopped by police and their dresses were cut short with scissors. This year headscarves are removed and they are fined. Next year they go to gaol.’ Rugs and cushions on the floor to sit on are banned.

Downtown is littered with building sites, literally hundreds of them, covered in green screening fabric. What is happening behind that fabric is that pointed arches are being removed and replaced by rectangular openings. Curves and angles are being straightened out. All decoration that smacks of an Islamic past is being removed. 

This is the square outside the Grand Bazaar, the old hub of Urumqi.IMG_0566.jpg

Just incidentally, to the right of the neck of the big instrument (might be a dutar or a dombra) you might be able to see the four guys who were playing up a storm with hand drums and wind instruments the second time we came here. Central Asian rather than Chinese music. They were wonderful. We had to be searched and go through a metal detector to enter this square.

To the right is the base of a huge minaret. That and the ever so elegant building behind are scheduled for demolition. On the left is the market, once one of the busiest in Central Asia. From the suggested best photographic point to show its crowded alleys it now looks like this.IMG_0562.jpg

The markets are mainly used and run by Uyghurs. But more generally, Urumqi’s previously burgeoning economy is being run down quite deliberately as a means of controlling its population. With unemployment now a serious problem, priority is being given to Uyghur recruitment into the police and armed forces. It was suggested that these ‘turned’ Uyghurs were among the most brutal members of the police.

The Chinese have renamed Urumqi (‘beautiful pasture’) ‘Wulumuqi’ because, our friend said, they can’t say ‘Urumqi’ and anyway it’s a Uyghur word (actually probably Mongolian, but definitely not Han). Over the last decade the Han population of Urumqi has increased by 800,000, a mass importation of the dominant Chinese ethnic group just as has happened in Tibet — part of the game which has accelerated mightily in the two years since Chen Quanguo took over.

But what a game. Myriad insults, large and small. Every move covered. Fenced in from every direction. 

The Museum we visited is new but built before the latest dispensation. 

IMG_0547.jpgThe sign accompanying this display says:

Gorgeous Costume and Hats Graceful Women and Handsome Men

The Uyghur Nationality’s costume had condensed the national spirit, embodied unique creativity and ability of presentation. …Through various kinds of caps, it reflects the Uyghur peoples’ natural and unrestrained individual characters. Precious jewelry, gold and silver ornaments all reflect the invariably limitless and lofty sentiments of Uyghurs who like to explore nature, integrate quintessence of works of god with their heart, and create their own beauty.

How much longer will it be there I wonder. How much longer will that excellent museum be open?

* * * * * *

Qualifying all these impressions, we went out. Our friend persuaded us and negotiated an excellent deal on the tickets to ‘The Silk Road: A Millenial Impression’, a song and dance show of the type that is often so tired it nods off and falls to the floor during the first act. But not so. It was simply amazing. About 1200 people were entertained in a most superior fashion.

First we ate. A gigantic buffet.

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The most popular dish was ripped up spit roast lamb. I counted four of these consumed, I don’t know how many I missed.

 

We did a few things wrong but were generally treated as somewhat exotic members of the family.

 

One of the clever aspects of the design of the show was that the dances were meant to reflect a trip across the Silk Roads, so dances from Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Persia and so on, and that of course was great. But the first half was Uyghur. And if you’re thinking those dancers don’t look Chinese … you actually mean Han.

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What this gal was representing I’m not sure but it was the high point of the night. The crowd howled. Men rushed forward to be entangled with the snake.

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* * * * * *

Unrest. That’s what it is called. On the 5th July 2009 riots broke out in Urumqi during which an unconfirmed number but probably around 200 people were killed and several thousand injured. Government sources suggested that most of the dead were Han, and it is certainly true that Han were targeted by Uyghurs. The rather remote flashpoint appears to have been the failure of the central government to investigate the deaths of two Uyghur migrant workers in Shaoguan, 4000 kilometres away. 26 Uyghur ‘ringleaders’ were subsequently executed.

Unknown.jpegUrumqi is situated in a highly strategic location. In essence to go west from China by land you have two options. The first is to find your way round the Taklamakan Desert, one of the world’s largest, to Kashgar and then north to Bishkek or Andijon through the river valleys and mountain passes of the Tian Shan. The second, much easier, is to go round north of the high mountains. Urumqi is the key to that route. (Both are part of China’s ‘Belt and Road’ initiative.)

That means that this has been a contested area for hundreds of years. The fact that Xinjiang shares its current border with eight countries — Mongolia, Russia, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Afghanistan, Pakistan and India — suggests its historical complexity.

The disagreement between the Uyghur and the Han government about which group has greater claim to the Xinjiang region has a long and often violent history. The Uyghur believe their ancestors were indigenous to the area, whereas government policy considers present-day Xinjiang to have belonged to the various dynastic rulers of ‘China’ since around 200 BC. Uyghurs have been classified as a ‘National Minority’ rather than a ‘Nationality’ group. Thus they are considered to be no more indigenous to Xinjiang than the Han and, unlike other defined Nationality groups, they have no special cultural or other rights.

Historians point out that 400 years ago, the Qing brought in Han, Hui, Uyghur and Kazakh people as colonists after the Mongols who had previously lived in the region were driven out or slaughtered. Before that it was populated for hundreds of years by the Xiongnu mixture mentioned above.

But matters like that have been easy to ignore as the struggle has become more defined: just two ethnic groups at loggerheads. Forget the rest. A census of Xinjiang in the early 19th century indicated that 30 percent of the population was Han and 60 percent ‘Turkic’ (a language group, mostly Uyghur). In 1953 this had changed to 6 percent Han and 75 percent Uyghur. By 2000 the recorded population was 41 percent Han and 46 percent Uyghur, some of whom at least believe they live in ‘Eastern Turkestan’.

Yellow Han people have not the slightest thing to do with Eastern Turkestan. Black Tungans also do not have this connection. Eastern Turkestan belongs to the people of Eastern Turkestan. There is no need for foreigners to come be our fathers and mothers … From now on we do not need to use foreigners’ language or their names, their customs, habits, attitudes, written languages and etc. We must also overthrow and drive foreigners from our boundaries forever. The colours yellow and black are foul … They have dirtied our Land for too long. So now it’s absolutely necessary to clean out this filth. Take down the yellow and black barbarians! Live long Eastern Turkestan!

‘Tungans’, the ‘blacks’, are Chinese Muslims. When this was written some years ago it wasn’t a matter of religion but of ethnicity. What would the The Loulan Beauty have made of all these wrestles with identity, at once so fundamental and so trivial?

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* * * * * *

I asked the hotel clerk if we could get a call for 4am. Our plane left at 7 and it would be 30-40 minutes to the airport and an international flight. He was nonplussed. ‘Do you mean Uyghur time sir?’ A moment of panic not having a clue what he was talking about. I showed him our schedule. It was quite clear. He just thought it was very early. ‘Too early.’ I did know that all of China is on Beijing time, so for example it was still quite light in Urumqi at 10.45pm. What I didn’t know was that on Uyghur time it would have been a more sensible 8.45. But it was a suitable departure point — a muddle, with murky undertones.

Our taxi got pulled over by police a couple of kilometres from the airport. I wondered if we had a Uyghur taxi driver; but it wasn’t him they were after. It was us who were searched. They also went through our luggage perfunctorily and put it through an X-ray machine tucked away in their roadside cabin. We went through another search as we entered the airport. Very very very thorough body searches. You haven’t had a body search till you’ve had one of these. At check-in a metal detector, and our passports were confiscated for a time. Kept, taken perhaps, rather than confiscated. I may have had a lithium battery in my packed luggage. We got our passports back. All this is happening with a very nasty underlying tenor. People used to their customers being angry and frustrated, developing a rhinoceros hide coupled with a ready sneer. Then customs. Another check and search, and this was weird. I had to remove my shoes for a hand check of the soles of my feet and between my toes. Then we both were sent off to a small room to stand on a platform which moved back and forth making buzzing noises. What that was none can tell. Another metal detection and hand luggage search at the gate before we got on the plane.

We were tourists, AND we were departing! Was there a message to take with us perhaps?

* * * * * *

How exciting it was to see the Muslims of Xi’an (who as it happens are mostly Hui, another ethnic group), celebrated, lauded, important contributors to the culture and tourist industry of Shaanxi. How troubling to meet the Muslims of Urumqi, conflicted, repressed, angry, despairing. In both cases because they are Muslim. China, mate. China.

Getting off at Bishkek was a breeze, such a breeze. We just wandered through. It was, and remained, a gust of the freshest air.

TO DRINK IN THAT AIR …

 

 

 

 

 

The Stations of The Cross, 30.06.2018

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Via Dolorosa‘ means the Way of Sorrow or Grief.

In Jerusalem’s Old City, the Holy City, it runs about 600 metres from the Lion Gate in the Muslim Quarter to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Along its path are nine stations representing the path from Pilate’s judgment and Christ’s subsequent flagellation to the site of the crucifixion. The other five which make up the structure of a spiritual pilgrimage which informs some Christian practice are located in Holy Sepulchre. 

IMG_1447.jpgYou identify the stations by metal markings like this one, Station III at the Armenian Church.

Although this was not the case when we were there, the Via Dolorosa can be furiously busy with pilgrims. On the 30th June this year (2018) I took photos at each of the Stations thinking that they might have something to say, among other things, about contemporary Jerusalem. Some explanatory notes follow, but start with the pictures.

 

I. Jesus is condemned to death by crucifixion by Pontius Pilate and is scourged.

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II. Jesus takes up the Cross.

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III. Jesus falls for the first time.

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IV. Jesus meets his mother.

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V. Simon of Cyrene helps Jesus to carry the Cross

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VI. Veronica hands Jesus the handkerchief.

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VII. Jesus falls for the second time.

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VIII. Jesus comforts the women of Jerusalem.

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IX. Jesus falls for the third time.

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X. Jesus is disrobed.

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XI. Jesus is crucified.

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XII. Jesus dies on the Cross.

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XIII. Jesus’ body is taken down from the Cross.

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XIV. Jesus’ body is laid in the tomb.

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NOTES

I.   The Old City has four Quarters — Armenian, Christian, Muslim and Jewish. (It once had five, including the Moroccan ‘Quarter’ (?). As noted the Via Dolorosa is firmly embedded in the Muslim Quarter and begins at what is now El Omariye School, a Muslim institution not over-endowed with equipment but not on its uppers either. We were taken there by a student and the first photo is the view out the window — immediately next door is the second most sacred site in Islam, not a church nor a mosque, but Jerusalem’s most familiar landmark, The Dome of the Rock.

It is an exquisite and, to us, inaccessible building.

The site’s great significance for Muslims derives from traditions connecting it to the creation of the world and to the belief that the Prophet Muhammad’s Night Journey to heaven started from the rock at the center of the structure. It may also where Muhammad convened a discussion with Abraham, Moses and Jesus.

However, in Jewish tradition the rock also bears great significance as the ‘Foundation Stone’, the place from which the world expanded into its present form and where God gathered the dust used to create the first human, Adam, and also as the place where God’s divine presence is manifested more than in any other place. So … no real pressure.

Since its completion in 691 under the Ummayad Caliphate, the first Muslim Dynasty, it has also been a Christian church, St Augustine’s, following the First Crusade (1099AD).

The second photo is the ‘Ecce homo’ arch immediately adjacent, near where Pilate produced Jesus after his scourging with the words intended to be ironic if not sarcastic: ‘Behold the man’.IMG_1437.jpg The plaque embedded into the Church of the Sisters of Zion here. Tunc ergo tradidit eis illum ut crucifigeretur. ‘Then therefore he delivered him unto them to be crucified.’

II.   The police presence in Jerusalem is constant and quite formidable. That is the barrel of a semi-automatic assault rifle, standard police weaponry, peeping through the metal grid.

III.   Outside one of the Armenian Churches. Although it might be anticipated that carrying a cross or part thereof might occasion a fall (or three as the Stations suggest) there is no biblical reference to this occurring. It is one example of the embroidery of the story which has taken place over 2000 years. Pope John Paul II made an effort to encourage the use of another more biblical version of the Stations beginning in the Garden of Gethsemane and including Peter’s denial and the crucified thief’s conversion to little apparent avail.

IV.    A decoration on the external wall of the Armenian Church. ‘Me. Stma. De La Esperanza Malaga — Espana.’ Probably referencing the Virgin of Hope of Macarena of Seville’, the weeping Madonna, a free standing icon. Why a hopeful Madonna should weep is unclear. Unlike most such images, the Seville icon has never been dressed in black, except once — for the funeral of the bullfighter El Gallo (‘The Rooster’).

V.   Just to confirm this was Station V., this is the rest of the plaque you can see in the top left corner.IMG_1451.jpg

VI.  Another importation. ‘A medieval Roman Catholic legend viewed a specific piece of cloth, known as the Veil of Veronica as having been supernaturally imprinted with Jesus’ image, by physical contact with Jesus’ face. Ecclesiastical wordplay [not an unknown entity] can convert the Latin words vera icon (‘true image’) into Veronica. It came to be said that the Veil of Veronica had gained its image when a Saint Veronica encountered Jesus, and wiped the sweat from his face with the cloth.’ No element of this legend is present in the Bible.

VII.    A minute separates these photos. Something happened.

VIII.   The first deviation from the straight and very narrow, a there-and-back up a flight of stairs. At that point also set into into the rock wall is this.

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Much kissed, this symbol reads ‘IC XC NIKA’, shortened Greek, meaning ‘Jesus Christ conquers’. ‘IC XC’ is how the symbol of a fish, ‘ichthus’, became used to identify fellow Christians in the early years of the church.

IX.   Another imagined fall at the entry to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. We are now in the Christian Quarter. A thousand large trucks would not be enough to remove all the material of this sort from the Holy City.

X.    The forecourt of the Church. He used his foot very skillfully as a brake.

XI.  There is some uncertainty about the location of Calvary/ Golgotha, the skull-shaped hill where Jesus was crucified. When visiting Jerusalem, (Major-General) Gordon of Khartoum (who also fought in the Crimea, China, India and the Sudan — what a taste for war he must have had) believed he saw the shape of a skull in rocks just outside the city walls, commanded an excavation and warmly congratulated himself on having found the site of Jesus’ death. Today that is a small quarry with a large bus station almost on top of it.

Our story has the crucifixion inside the walls, and certainly we have been climbing upwards towards the top of a fairly undefined hill. Jerusalem is a very hilly city and this includes the Old City. Some of the east-west ‘streets’ are called ‘Ascents’ and so they are.

The guide (in the red top) in this photo is telling her clients that the crucifixion occurred at or near the black-screened area with the dome on top. She’s paid to know these things. So, Station 11.

XII.   One of the many chapels in the Church, but the decisive one as far as the Stations go.

XIII.   The Stone of Unction where Christ’s body was laid after being removed from the Cross, site of the most fervent expressions of devotion we observed. Unction? Unguents, salves, ointment.

XIV.   The entrance to the Holy Sepulchre. The smokey atmosphere comes from an abundance of incense. The huge queue to enter the Sepulchre is out of sight on the left. The actual rock is not visible via this means. For this you need to go to the Coptic Chapel at the rear which is generally inaccessible. Far from reverent and calm the atmosphere is like that of a football crowd. Once a year when the  Pentecostal Fire descends from the Dome it can be dangerous to be in the unruly throng that gathers to view this ‘miracle’. You will not have noticed that there are 43 lamps over the entrance, 13 each belonging to the Greek, Latin and Armenian churches and four to the Copts. In the past there have been regular fist fights and worse here between priests and devotees of the various Christian sects.

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* * * * * *

Last note. The best evidence, historical and archeological, we have places Herod’s Palace where Jesus was sentenced by Pilate not far from the Jaffa Gate near the Tower of David, about a kilometre from the nominal starting point described above and making it most unlikely that Christ followed the path described on the way to his crucifixion. But then the Tower of David is not the Tower of David but a fortification built under the Mamluk Slave Empire — Muslims, and a long and fascinating story in itself — in the late 13th century AD.

Jerusalem, a city of endless paradox and dissimulation.

The Little Town That Couldn’t

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Saturday 7 February 2009.

We were looking for somewhere a bit cooler, anywhere really which would provide some respite from the heat. Marysville, I thought, only an hour and half away would be five degrees cooler immediately and that would only improve in the evening and at night. The cool change would come late in the day and on Sunday we might do the Three Lookouts walk and come back from the Falls through the tree ferns along the creek or, maybe if we were feeling adventurous, climb Sugarloaf and have a scramble along the Razorback in the Cathedrals …

The car’s thermometer said 47.5 when we turned right at Eltham towards Yarra Glen and the northerly had turned ugly. Scatters of small branches were frisking about on the road and landing on the car. From the lookout at Christmas Hills the Yarra Valley was grey brown with dust. The smoke cloud from Wandong had just become visible but it was well away over our left shoulders. Well away, and not in the direction we were travelling. We stopped at Tarrawarra to look at the art. The rammed earth walls of the gallery were startlingly hot to the touch, but the valley view framed by the northern glass wall was stable, unthreatening.

We had some late lunch at Healesville. The sun behind the smoke cloud over in the north-west had become photogenic, a disk of magenta. ‘Still a fair way away’, I said to a bloke watching as we came back out of the cafe onto the street. ‘Yeah maybe. But,’ he replied pointing, ‘have a look there. There’s another one’. And so there was, a new one, now to the north. But damp, temperate, green Marysville would be safe. That was its speciality. Despite being embedded in thick forest, it hadn’t been touched on Black Friday in 1939, nor Ash Wednesday in 1983.

The Black Spur was reassuringly itself, one of Victoria’s treasures with its long winding avenue of straight and tall mountain ash. The Fernshaw Reserve at its foot seemed cool and inviting and the car’s thermometer was dropping already. By the time we got to Dom Dom saddle it was down to 38, so comparatively cool we opened the car windows for relief. No smoke; therefore no fire. At Narbethong down the other side of the Spur, clusters of watchers were standing around chatting but they didn’t seem anxious.

We turned off right to Granton and there was a fire tanker filling up at the side of the road. We started talking about turning back, going home. Myrna did. But I thought there would be relief on the other side of the hill. A swim in the Marysville pool would be perfect.

About three kilometres from our destination we saw smoke to our left, low and slow, but there were licks of flame at its base, and it seemed sensible to get out of the way. There were other people whose business it is to control fire. Myrna put her foot down. We turned round. No panic. We just turned around and went back through the Granton hills, through Narbethong and up over the Spur.

On the way home we listened to Richard Stubbs on ABC local radio. Talking to those who had been affected by the fires in Horsham, Bendigo, Kilmore, Bunyip, he seemed audibly moved. We were glad that it was all so far away. But by the time we got to Coldstream there were dozens of small grass fires racing across the paddocks. The cool change with its associated wind change still hadn’t come. Once on the Eastern Freeway we were back in town, inviolate. We had left nature and its elements behind for the well-insulated version of life that most urban Victorians, most Victorians, live.

I rang Marysville’s Tower Motel the next morning to apologise for our no show and to explain the reason why. We would want to stay there again, as we had so many times in the past, and I wanted to make sure they understood. I got the owner’s mother. ‘It’s all gone’, she said. ‘All gone.’ ‘What’s gone?’ I asked. ‘The town. It’s all gone. Look at the television. The ABC. It’s all gone.’

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It must be 35 years since we began going to Marysville. It was a pig in a poke, a happy mistake, somewhere we chanced on that we thought might be painless and different to go with young children when you got fed up with the city. A bit of water, hills, trees, maybe snow in winter. 

Unknown.jpegI wrote that about nine years ago and as I remember now and I think correctly, the very first time I discovered Marysville was by going to a conference there, a retreat, a charette, an event designed to correct the problems of the world. That would make sense. That was one of the things Marysville was for, one of its primary purposes. We stayed at the pub (at left). It was cold. That would always make sense. 

The first time we arrived as a family it was Autumn, and the massive European trees were awash with colour. It seemed as though around every corner there was another vista, something brilliant to see, another clutch of picturesque houses, mostly elderly from an Australia that had passed, with extraordinary gardens, huge banks of rhododendrons and camellias. The main street: an avenue of elms, branches reaching into each other across the road, petrol bowsers from the 1940s, occasional pieces of mock Tudor, the pub, the Cumberland guest house with its brick salute to modern times … the town was an intriguing Antipodean version of southern England with a thin wash of colonial style surrounded, closely, by magnificent Australian bush. Everything was a walk, and every walk a pleasure.

In winter, Marysville was the dormitory for Lake Mountain, with Donna Buang, the nearest snow to Melbourne. The groomed trails, in summer like golfing fairways, were home to cross country skiers. But there was tobogganing and, as the snow reports say, ‘sight seeing’. You could walk to the top, turn left and in good weather catch glimpses of Buller and Stirling before completing the circuit through alpine moss beds and tors of quartz. Our kids saw their first snow up on the mountain. We kept going back.

Like Sorrento, Ferntree Gully, Daylesford and Lorne, it was a town that belonged to the guest house era, a day’s journey from the city to a version of nature both beautiful and civil, to a time before jet skis, offroad motor bikes and downhill racers, to places where people could just enjoy sitting quietly, with the hills or the sea and each other for company. It was a place for romance.

But in time cars became more common, more reliable, faster; the roads were improved to all-weather tarmac; and Marysville became a way-station on a day round trip rather than a destination in its own right. Visitors would stop at the Bakery for a cup of tea and country cakes verging on the epic, fuel up at the Mobil or visit Uncle Fred and Auntie Val’s lolly shop, not knowing that a couple of kilometres away at Island Hop or at the falls or in the beech forest along Lady Talbot Drive or a bit further on among the big trees at Cambarville were sites of sheer delight.

Over the decades the town stayed the same. Shop owners would come and go, but their enterprises varied only modestly. In essence little changed. It was home for loggers, for retirees, for casual workers who needed cheap housing, for people who serviced the still operating guest houses and other tourist accommodation. It was place to honeymoon (a most important destination for this), to take your corporate group for team-building exercises when you didn’t want distraction, to lie back and think.

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We found Fruit Salad Farm, down in a dip on the fringe of town, for a start because it was cheap, but also because it was simple in the extreme. It was a place you always slept well. The kids played their first Pooh sticks in the creek that ran through the property. I found my way through the thickets of a book there when I was stuck trying to write it anywhere else. Several times I spent time there trying to recover from a disease that no one could pin down. Chronic fatigue syndrome? Myalgic encephalomyelitis? Post-viral syndrome? I walked every day and usually after a week went home feeling better.

We ate dozens of times at the pub snug in the lounge near the fire, where the food was good, wine was cheap and the service unfailingly friendly. We have celebrated more elaborately in the dining room at Marylands Country House. On one memorable night we dined in an establishment up on the Woods Point Road, the only customers, perhaps for some time. We ate Swiss, we had stories, we swam in someone else’s nostalgia, and left with photos that we still have of a couple of feet of snow covering the town.

We watched the mud brick adventure happening in Kerami Crescent and the expensive but delightful fantasies occurring in Keppel’s Court and at the end of Murchison Street. There was the exquisitely judged bungalow at the junction of Barton Avenue and Murchison Street with the wonderful garden. A year ago, and as it happens in many days since, we were thinking about buying a property there — 28 Sedgwick Street, a big block with a 40 metre oak tree in the northern corner of a well-established garden with long lines of berry canes, and a small but cosy logger’s cabin with views north down the valley to Sugarloaf.

And now it’s gone. It’s all gone. You can talk about resilience and the spirit of the people and how we’ll fight back. All that. Terrible things have happened in these fires. Unlike some of my mates, I have lost no loved ones, no property, nothing tangible at all. I was just a tourist. But for now, and for these reasons, my heart is broken.

That was then. Nine years and three months ago.

* * * * * *

It was a fire like few others.

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A satellite image from the night of 7/2/09, and below from higher up earlier that day.

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From one side of this photo to the other is about 550km, all of eastern Victoria. That smoke is coming from the Kinglake/ Murrundindi / Marysville fire.

From the report of the Royal Commission into the Black Saturday Fires:

‘The wall of fire that burnt Marysville that night was over 140 metres high. It travelled at speeds of up to 120kmh, burned at 1,350C and created blasts of exploding gases that erupted in lateral pulses as large as 600 metres. The radiated heat alone was so fierce it was capable of killing people 400 metres away.’

IMG_0370.jpgDaryl Hull found shelter in this small lake next to the football oval where the residents had gathered. Giving evidence to the Royal Commission, he said:

‘The smoke suddenly got very thick and very very dark, the colour of charcoal, and was bubbling towards me over the lake. I knew the fire was about to hit and at that point I thought I might die. Then there was an explosion and everything was luminous orange, and embers began to shower down on me. The embers hissed as they hit the water around me. To take cover from the embers I ducked underneath the water. From under the water I could see the embers descending, like orange lights through green glass. I would surface for a breath, sheltering under the branch I had found, and then duck under the water again. When I surfaced I could see the school going up in flames in front of me. Those flames came across the surface of the water like a massive blowtorch.’

This was at 7.15pm. We had turned around about 3.30. 

Afterwards, a police sergeant said that the main street in Marysville had been destroyed: ‘The motel at one end of it partially exists. The bakery has survived. Don’t ask me how. Everything else is just nuked.’ Reports on 11 February estimated that around 100 of the town’s population of approximately 500 were believed to have perished, and that only ‘a dozen’ buildings were left. After a brief visit, Premier Brumby described the situation: ‘There’s no activity, there’s no people, there’s no buildings, there’s no birds, there’s no animals. Everything’s just gone.’

All but 14 of 590 houses and commercial buildings had been destroyed. (One of the painful things for the residents was that the town was declared ‘a crime scene’ because of the possibility of arson and entrance was forbidden to them or anyone else for six weeks.)

Just before the fire peaked several hundred people had gathered on the football oval and a very courageous and very lucky group of police guided them in convoy out the Buxton Rd to safety in Alexandra minutes before it became impassable and the roof really fell in.

Nonetheless, 173 people died in these fires, 39 in Marysville. Ken Rowe was one of them, a sometime colleague with whom I rarely agreed on professional matters but that didn’t interfere with our amiable relationship. Like a lot of the residents, he was transitioning up from the city to retire to his garden and trees in Hull Road.

David Sebald, the real estate agent, was another. We’d had quite a few conversations with him and his wife Marlene (who also died in the fires) about Sedgwick Street. He was excellent company, and a real enthusiast for Marysville, for a time its main booster. 

IMG_0371.jpgHe may have had a hand in two low impact bits of pre-Fires community tarting-up: the wisteria walk and the re-making au naturel of the gutters in Murchison St. Nice, but not decisive. But bear those in mind in terms of scale as we proceed.IMG_0358.jpg

He’d just had a new subdivision round Timber Jinker Place approved and was positive, excited, that the town was ‘on the verge of really taking off’.

* * * * * *

And that’s the thing about Marysville. In our time of contact with it, the town has always been on the verge — when it was in the mood anyway; more commonly it was to be found lying back on its haunches some distance from the verge, somnolent — of taking off. But it never did. For us, that was one of its chief attractions.

In the past it has had its moments.

Logging has been big. But what with one thing and another, including agitation by green types, the bottom fell out until there were just enough loggers left to sprinkle around the front bar of Keppel’s Alpine Hotel, the pub whose walls were decorated with photos of massive trees and spectacular feats of felling them. 20 km away in Cambarville, a former logging settlement, are stands of mountain ash which were more than 90m high. They’ve now been whacked by lightning and are a bit shorter, but they remain formidable, thrilling. There have been times when logging has mattered around here. But Marysville’s mill, Sund’s, closed years ago, the two at Narbethong more recently. Tourism became the go.

VJY2134.jpgThe five guest houses at their peak used to accommodate 500+ visitors; this in a town with a resident population in 2008 of 406. (Marylands above and below) However modern people no longer want to stay at guest houses. They don’t play croquet. They like BnBs with or without Air. And you might now go to Bali rather than Marysville for your honeymoon.

The Cumberland had been updated and was quite a solid proposition. We would go there for our version of luxury. It was right in the middle of the main street, which may have been to its advantage, and it did fair to good convention business. But it expired completely in the conflagration.

5519f86a-607c-41fa-93d6-6d1dc0fe9743.jpgThe Marylands’ drawcard shifted from the croquet lawn, the full-size pool table and the rather limited concrete swimming pool to gourmet-ish food and queen-size beds. But during our time it was always teetering, full of fond memories rather than paying customers. The Mary-lyn became a successful haven for semi-permanent residents over 50 and, pre-fires at least, was an important staple of the town’s economy. It was destroyed and hasn’t been replaced.

Every time we came another shop, another set of shops, was having a farewell sale, had already packed up and gone or had a new set of owners. We wished them all well, but like everyone else we never spent much money in them. 

VictorianCollections-medium.jpgCrossways, opposite the church at the T-intersection, has somehow stayed alive since the 1920s. This photo includes a large sign saying CABARET attached to its roof. CABARET. Unimaginable in Marysville.

The Bakery too was an exception. It just burst onto the scene, a new enterprise in a new building, and for years ran at full bore. Marysville is near two of the great motor bike rides in Victoria: the Black Spur and Reefton Spur, and on Sunday mornings the Bakery would be bulging at the seams with bikies hoeing into the prize-winning pies, vanilla slices and large mugs of country coffee. IMG_1814 (1).jpgThe verandah would be aswarm with flocks of the King and Crimson parrots memorialised in its doors.

The Motel did all right too. In fact, weirdly enough, the three buildings in the main street the fires didn’t destroy were the three steadily going concerns in town, Crossways, the Bakery and the motel. (The pub which was utterly flattened might be considered a fourth.) The church went.

The time had already come when there weren’t enough residents for a footy or even a netball team (the Marysville Villains of the past). Or a lot else. 

* * * * * *

We came back for the first time about nine months after the fires on the way back from the Alps to Melbourne. I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to see what had happened, but we both were curious. Will Storr wrote a ‘one year after’ story for The Australian in which he says, ‘There’s nothing tender or poignant about this scene; there’s a violence in the razed spaces of Marysville. Even after all these months, its wounds are still raw and shocking and open.’ And at that time that’s exactly how it seemed to us.

The walks were gradually, very gradually, re-opened and we came back to do them. Some re-routing had occurred and, not only had they been tediously slow and manically cautious in restoring them, it felt a bit like they, whoever ‘they’ were, couldn’t leave well enough alone. But a new building went up here and there, a monster information centre and a palatial police station early in the piece, along with some really tinny new housing, more fire resistant presumably but ugly as sin. Most residents were off in portable cabins 3km out of town at ‘Camp Marysville’. I don’t know anything about that, but there is this feeling that the people or many of them who lived there had been isolated like refugees.

IMG_0353.jpgThe VIBE was built covering half the major block of Murchison Street where the pub and the Cumberland had been. To stay there, as we have, you need to schlep your bags about 100m from where you park your car. And I hate to say this but the reception area and the people who worked in it shrieked: Somewhere else, not here. We don’t belong. We want to be somewhere else.

It was suggested to us that the reason the building is so bad was that the architect had never been to Marysville. The documentary evidence is to the contrary. There were consultations with the residents. Can’t you just imagine them. A team of bright young things with orange shoes, no socks, tight black trousers and very sharp collarless shirts, up from the office in Docklands, blowing fluff in the face of a small recently traumatised group of 70 year-old Marysville stalwarts who had no idea what they were talking about. Because, truly, only art-speak is worse than architecture-speak.

Metier3 (!), the architects. They say:

We set out to re-establish the charm of an eclectic alpine village, by creating a fine-grained urban design response to enhance and rebuild the street. By taking cues from the local built character, materiality and rhythm of the streetscapes, the design’s visual and performative qualities are strengthened. [Check out the photo. Just how performatively fine-grained can you get?]

We now have the opportunity to recreate its charms in a contemporary fashion, and focus on rebuilding quality spaces that will cater for the needs of today and the future. Understanding these things, we have built up our design to reflect such elements as the individual dwelling rhythm of the streetscapes, the charred trunks of trees once burnt by wildfires and the snow on the adjacent ranges.

The conceptual response we have adopted in our design response, is one of figuratively rebuilding the streets — Murchison Street in particular, to create a fine-grained urban design that responds and reflects the town’s character. These elements present as individual buildings to Murchison Street, however are actually elongated ‘fingers’ of buildings that are connected to a delicate white-glazed walkway to create an holistic facility.

What is formally created, is a series of pure building volumes that remain unmistakably of this place. The simple shapes express a traditional alpine village, maintaining values while giving the downtown area archetype of the traditional house with pitch [sic] roof.

Construction was completed in early 2015, and the Hotel and Conference centre is the centrepiece of the town and surrounding shire.

And so as its ‘centrepiece’ — and that is unarguable — we have this horrible black elephant, a monument to misery with its blank-faced address to the street, dominating the built town. They might have visited Marysville but how could they have had no idea just how awful and out of keeping the finished building ($28m, partly funded by the Victorian government) would be.

It’s not just the look, or the fact that we have a team of architects who can’t tell the difference between a pitch roof and a pitched roof — it’s the functionality.

For example, you enter Radius, VIBE’s eating place, straight off the street. There is no vestibule or lobby. So on an icy night like the first time we ate there, every time someone came in or out of the giant door there would be a blast of cold air chilling all the diners sitting within 15 metres. The extractor fan over the cooking area wasn’t working effectively and the only way to get rid of the smoke, yes smoke, (smoke! might be to go with the charred tree trunks) was to open the door for through-flow of air. It was intermittently freezing. Last weekend, some years later, I noted this problem still seems to exist. 

It opened in February 2015; it was for sale May 2016. Asking price $13m. Marysville.

Unknown.jpegThe Kerami Manor and Day Spa with its commanding position on one of the hills overlooking the town is more successful. It knows where it is — built on the site first of Marymeadows Guesthouse (Eric Dowdle who built and owned these guest houses as a chain had a thing about naming), and then Kerami Lodge which, before the fires, was sliding downhill both literally and figuratively at an accelerating rate.

We haven’t stayed here. Prima facie, it looks bit fussy, but that might be just the right style — cosy, leather, magazines, flock wall paper, contemporary versions of chandeliers. The 35 people who have reviewed their stay on Travel Advisor have unanimously given it five stars.

But the bakery …IMG_1817 (1).jpg

Peak hour, Sunday breakfast. We were there a week ago celebrating our 45th wedding anniversary. The pies are probably still great but they stopped winning prizes in 2006. Or was that when the steam went out of the proprietor’s engine?IMG_1819.JPG

Fraga’s up the street was lively in its own Marysville-ian way.IMG_1871.JPG

images.jpegAnd The Duck Inn, the new pub, was a real find. Very well situated on the main drag, terrific food, great place to sit, cosy fire, excellent service. A real bright light on the horizon. One interesting thing was that the new baker in the bakery might have been Vietnamese, the person who checked us into the motel was Chinese and our hosts at the Duck Inn were assertively Korean. An Asian infusion might just be a launchpad for recovery.

 

Unknown-2.jpegThe new church is another success, a massive improvement on the old one (at left) which was a bit picturesque insofar as anyone noticed, but pretty much worn out. Marysville’s climate is quite hard on weatherboard as a building material.

The new one has great lines, a smart and easy entry with protection from the elements. It’s notable but nestles beautifully into its setting. In fact most things about it look just right.Unknown-1.jpeg

 

But is there anyone going to it?

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The thing that was striking about our recent visit was not the commercial building. We assume that will take care of itself and fall into a pattern probably very similar to that of the past 20 or 30 years. 
There was a lot more private housing than when we had been there last. $700m won in a class action against electricity provider SP AusNet in December 2016 has now been distributed. 
The gardens are coming back little by little. The preferred plantings are exotics, and autumn is on its way to becoming as colourful as it once was.
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IMG_0374.jpgThe view across the oval. With a couple of exceptions the new housing is still fairly unimaginative, fairly stock-standard suburban, rather than holiday resort inventive. But it has improved markedly from the first efforts of the recovery. 
One of the reasons for the slow pace of progress is the rigidity of the new building regulations applied after the Royal Commission: everything double-glazed, sealed against ember attack, no flammable cladding etc etc. This increased the cost of building, already suffering from having to cart everything over the Spur, by about 150-180%. (The Royal Commission did hear from experts who were emphatic that no building should ever occur again in Marysville.) Matthew Guy, as Planning Minister, relaxed these standards in 2014. (That’s a good example of the edges, the urgent matters set in stone, that get rubbed back over time after a disaster.)
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But the availability of building stock has had little effect on the number of permanent residents. Our main informant told us that it is about half what it was before the fires — meaning about 200. Lots (comparatively) of people are building, but they are building holiday homes. They ‘hardly ever come up here’. He lived in Buxton because he couldn’t afford to build in Marysville. There were 31 kids enrolled at the school immediately after the fires; there are now 50, enough for a going concern. But only just.
But it’s a luxury going concern. I might be way wrong about this but for its three classes it looks to have a dozen rooms. It does include a kinder on the same site but that’s in a separate — large — building. This is all set off by its proximity to a huge multi-purpose building, one purpose of which is to provide a multi-purpose room or rooms. Community Health is another. Dr Lachlan Fraser, Marysville’s health service, who was a figure in the firestorm is located there. (His story.) And then there are the change rooms/ club rooms. As I mentioned above it’s hard work trying to draw a footy team from a population of 200 skewed towards the elderly.
The Villains Objectives are to:

• facilitate the ‘importation’ of country football fixtures to Gallipoli Park over the next few years (in much the same way that Tasmania do with Hawthorn, albeit at the grass roots level)
• market Gallipoli Park as a regional venue of high quality that not only attracts imported football fixtures, but taps in to the financially lucrative football club pre season training camp market
• develop an Auskick centre for primary school aged children
• develop junior teams in a nearby league.

Not actually play there, but hope that someone else can use these magnificent club rooms.

IMG_0377.jpgAt country football games it is customary to nose cars up to the oval fence, all the better to honk after a goal. But I don’t know whether this car park will be much used. Ever. 
Just behind where I’m standing to take this photo is a substantial skate park. Up the hill next to the brand new ‘Men’s Shed’ the size and style of a three-bedroom home, is Marysville Youth Space, between them missing only ‘men’ and ‘youth’. The former Information Centre is being expanded to include another community space and an 80-seat theatrette as well as a smaller venue for watching the two films about Marysville available to visitors.
I don’t begrudge these facilities to Marysville for one instant, but what I’m looking at, what I feel I’m looking at, is buying shoes three sizes too big to grow into when the feet in question are actually shrinking. ‘Build it and they will come’ hasn’t been a principle that has defined life in Marysville.
The Royal Commission estimated the cost of the Black Saturday fires (in toto, there were many others besides Murundindi/ Marysville) at $4.3b. Insurance companies footed about one quarter of that bill; the state and federal governments made substantial contributions. The Red Cross bushfire appeal raised more than $372 million in total. This grew to over $400m during the period of disbursement. About 2/3 of these funds went on housing support, another big whack went on cleanup and recovery.
But money is not the issue. I had a feeling that we were looking at architectural attempts to assuage the guilt we feel about what happened to Marysville, and that those attempts are misguided. They miss the point of Marysville. They don’t understand cosiness, intimacy, romance. They don’t get the climate. They don’t know the meaning of a — controlled — open fire and the strange comfort of the smell of woodsmoke lingering in the mist. Fraga’s has got quilts stitched into its bench seats. Their impact might be subliminal, but they say where we are and what sort of people we are. We’re not off to Squaw Valley or Whistler. We’ve come over the Black Spur to a quieter time, and we don’t want a martini; we want a scone and a cup of tea. If we want more we’ll go down to the fire in the wall of the Duck Inn and have best sausages with creamy spud complemented with exceptional mashed peas and a glass of Yarra Valley red. And think we’re Christmas. Because we are.
So you might modify your school message. Currently:As a consequence (of the destruction wrought by the fires) our School, Pre School and Maternal Child Health Centre all combined/relocated to the same site to see what we have today – a proud and purposeful showcase of 21st century state of the art facilities, teaching and learning.’
I think I’d talk about care, personal interaction, affection; maybe the chance to use some of the facilities in the monster clubrooms but probably not. I’d talk about how our school provides shelter, as well as developing alertness and historical memory, how we are a calm family together like rural schools should be.
I came across this while I was thinking about this blog:
There is something miraculous about Marysville. On 7 February, 2009 it was at the heart of one of the worst bushfires in Victorian history. Most of the town and the surrounding bush was destroyed. Forty-five local residents died in the fires and it was estimated that nearly 90% of the town’s buildings – including the police station and the primary school – were destroyed. Yet four years later, while many of the trees are still blackened, the town has recovered. It looks modern and chic. The eucalypts are green with new shoots and the most obvious evidence of the devastation is the photographs which recall the day the town was destroyed. Marysville survives because of human tenacity, because it is a popular tourist destination and because it is beautifully located in a picturesque valley surrounded by heavily timbered mountains. The air is fresh and bracing and it is especially attractive when the flowers bloom in spring and the trees shed their leaves in autumn.
 
It’s a very well-intentioned puff piece, and it’s wrong. It’s missed it all, or most of it. It’s drive past material. That’s not what’s happening at Marysville. There isn’t anything miraculous about it. It will never be modern and chic. It will be itself, which is bigger and more interesting than that.
This came from another news article.
‘Bruce Ackerman, with his extraordinary portfolio of seats on local committees, has a remarkably well-informed perspective on the town’s structural recovery. “Initially, in the press release we said it would take two years, but I knew it would be five,” he says. “Then we educated people it would be five years, but I know it will be 10.” His assessment of the town’s spiritual recovery is starker yet. “Oh, we will never get over this,” he says. “Never, never, never.”‘
But we’re back. We still love it. Our hearts are true.
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Blog 99

e335b6cc53ad7431d5351305b28654f2.jpgGeelong by night

Yes. There are now 99 blogs on my website. On the 20th of January this year someone living in Canada where it was a Saturday and probably pretty cold, read 49 of them. Well … ‘read’, looked at, clicked the web address, spent a moment, ‘visited’. Some sets of statistics would allow me to know how much time this person had spent per click. However despite the welter of information available to me, that is missing. Nonetheless I suspect that because he or she went carefully through various series (apparently) it might have been more than a moment. 

Could that be because of their addictive quality? Mmmm. Yeah … probably. That’s my story. But even though in October last year someone from Malaysia seems to have either read one blog 62 times on the same day or be suffering from untameable chorea of the index finger, a hard-eyed analysis of the available data suggests that this has happened just the once.

But yes, there are 99 blogs which I have launched off into the ether. Each time there are some fairly predictable results, and just as often there are results which are well beyond my capacity to predict. It’s no news to say there’s a lot happening out there in the digital universe that is incomprehensible to the common man or woman.

* * * * *

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The purpose of preparing these blogs is not to deliver careless slights designed to undercut Geelong’s inexorable rise as an international powerhouse.

They began as long-ish pieces of writing about travels. Originally I circulated these by email in Word files accompanied by other files of photos. Sue Mann, Ms Digital Technology herself, pointed out that you, one, could do all this much more efficiently by using a blog shell and suggested WordPress, which is where you are right now. 

WordPress has its virtues. Unless you write to surfeit (which I do) it’s free, it’s pretty simple to use and incorporation of photos has improved recently. It also has its failings. The capacity to format is very limited. (See my ‘Contents‘ page for a good example of how things go wrong.) Just the one font for example; just the one text block. It huffs and puffs if you try to stuff too much into the one piece, and sometimes expires if you’re open too long which produces the familiar infuriating losses. 

But, and this is important, all my stuff is in here now. It’s not just that I’m old and failing or lazy. Moving to another format would be like shifting house. What happens, I wonder, if it goes down? Unless I take steps — steps in the fog, I don’t know what they are — I lose the lot I guess. And that would disappoint me.

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Sphinx Hotel, Thompson Rd, Geelong West (maybe Rippleside, but round there)

To return, my purposes: The blogs did begin as long-ish pieces of writing about travels. So they’re aides memoire, and they work very well like that. I am my most serious, consistent and appreciative reader. I am sometimes given pause by the way they ‘become’ the trip or the experience. If I go back to read my journals or look at all the photos I took I can find another story. But I don’t mind that. The finished articles are already the result of after-the-fact sitting down and thinking about what happened, going back over journal entries, collecting more information to try to make sense of puzzles and fill in gaps, and filching other relevant material and images from the internet. 

And then I publish. Or as we say these days, ‘share’. To ask why is to flip the lid off a well-populated can of worms. Why do we do publish? I suppose I want to show you what I’ve made/ to tell you what I’ve been doing or thinking about. Something like that. 

Unknown.jpegEven though there are bigger issues to be resolved here — how come everything on the internet is ‘free’? — it’s not to make money. Several unknown people have contacted me about ‘monetizing’ the site, but even if I wanted to there are so many reasons why that wouldn’t work. The most promising proposition would have yielded about $130 a year and I would have had to make some serious changes to what I wrote and wrote about, how often, how long and how it was set out. It might generate a vast new audience and produce $135 a year. Or I might as though by magic become Taylor Swift. But, hey, nice of them to think of me.

Do I want a vast new audience? Not really. In a resolutely old-fashioned way, I send notification by email to about 100 people I know, friends, relatives, contacts from the road. Maybe 40 of them read it and, although I hope not, it is quite possible that some find it annoying. But there’s always the bin. Bottom left. Easy.

Also in a resolutely old-fashioned way, most of them are not ‘followers’. Twenty people have chosen to be automatically notified by email when there is a new post; 15 others use WordPress and get a notification of anything new in their newsfeed. (There. Lost half my audience already with this dizzy sophistication.) As well as a couple of friends I know, these 15 include ‘Surviving Victim 2015’, ‘Angels of Passion’ and ‘The Riparian Times’. I have the idea that WordPress might be bunging random oddities into this list for the purposes of encouragement.

Brief pause for entertainment: Excitement at Geelong’s Eastern Beach.

eastern-beach-geelong_r_gb_supplied_1600x900.jpg

I don’t think I’m looking for approval although that, of course, is most welcome. In this primordial version of digital interaction, my readers rarely ‘like’ what they’ve read. But some, a few, are diligent commenters. Among this crew Joan Holt, Andy Webster and Jane Cav are the standouts. Some blogs draw more comment than others and I hazard for very differing reasons. The first blog about the death of Girin Flat might have reminded readers of their own experiences of the ’70s; The Knee might have garnered a sympathy vote; The Miracle pulled in the footy crowd; and The Nakasendo Trail (see below) is usually people asking me questions.

The most generous ‘comment’ has been a long email from Michel Faber who went to the trouble of providing a very thoughtful and positive response to ‘Dancing with Mr Su’ as well as a boxful of suggestions for copy edits. This, from the author of The Crimson Petal and the White, one the the 21st century’s really good books, made several of my days.

That’s what people do. They send me emails — emails not texts or tweets or likes or ‘comments’ — and we correspond. It’s the old days round here and one clear purpose is to keep in touch. 

But in terms of purpose, I’d say, beyond anything, it is just what I do and have been doing since I could, which is now a long time ago.

More fun at Eastern Beach

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What happens?

When I send out my notice very generally speaking 80-120 people visit the new blog that day, 45-60 the next day. It tails off after that. Generally speaking.

Supporting something the makers of soaps have long known, the blog about Mitzi and Simon’s wedding got 480 views in the 12 hours after it was posted. (How does that happen? Who are these people who want to look at the wedding of someone they’ve never met and never will? How do they find out?) The post about the Boat People was also comparatively popular, very quickly. One reason might have been that it was shorter than usual. I note that since my first blog was published on October 12, 2012 — ‘London’, the beginning of a trip to Europe — the number of blogs I write in a year has diminished but their average length has doubled. Could be a mistake. (TLDR. Look it up. It’s modern.) However, 180 people, about 175 more than I anticipated, have had a look at Dancing with Mr Su which is about 35,000 words. It was a pleasant surprise to find that there was a market even of that size for this precious set of 20-year old memories.

Someone looks at something every day, every single day! (it’s busy traffic out there), on average 18 times. A heap of this traffic, the considerable majority, is people looking at my blog on The Nakasendo Trail, the reason being that it has been hooked up to Oku Japan’s Facebook page. It has received 9997, 10,014, 10,017 hits since I wrote it in September 2013. This shows several things but primarily the power of Facebook (from which I abstain). 

I have gone back to read this blog lots of times a bit puzzled and vaguely wishing it was a bit less feeble. Maybe I could have tarted it up a bit more, filled out more of the detail.  But I also think these people could have been reading about the crisis of Catholicism as visible in the decorative effects of St Peter’s, or the distinctive religious sunglare of the epistle to the Ephesians. Far more interesting. But the excellent Adam Downham from Oku (who was good enough to meet up with us on Shikoku) has written: ‘Our team often point your blog out to guests curious as to what the trail is like; there’s no better honest description since the newspaper articles, as grateful as we are to have them, tend to speak in hyperbole.’

And I would never ever ever indulge in hyperbole. Never. Not even if the Five Horsemen of the Apocalypse rode in here right now. Six.

The men of Geelong … and the womengeelong-beach-victoria-11495.jpgUnknown.jpeg

 

 

 

The greatest number of hits in any one day (1744) came after a Croatian site, ‘Dubrovackidnevnik‘ (‘Dubrovnik Diary’) made reference to a small portion of Croatia: Don’s Party which with Bosnia: Not Don’s Party are two of my all-time favourites. A sort of half-hearted and confused umbrage had been taken to my comments about Dubrovnik, a sacred site on its promontory there in the Croatian consciousness.

‘A group of tourists recently published a report from Croatia on their blog, and about Dubrovnik had some criticism. ‘It is very beautiful from a distance. Up close it’s another old town with highly polished limestone streets, including the famous Stradun down its centre,’ the tourists wrote. The criticisms were directed at prices. Namely, tourists wrote that they paid a lot for the most common food. [in fact — ‘Dubrovnik didn’t have as many tat shops as Venice, but it had its share. We paid a lot for ordinary food. Despite its remarkable history as an independent and highly civilised state, we were at a tourist destination.’]

‘Most of the text on Dubrovnik is related to the Homeland War and the attacks by the JNA during the war years. ‘Why would anyone bomb the world heritage? Because of little attention or because you’re stupid. Or to see where you could go with it. Or simply because you do not care,” the tourists wrote. They also visited Cavtat, but they had only praise for it.’

You might be sharing something with your friends, you might think you’re just sharing something with your friends, but of course you’ve thrown yourself on the mercy of the digital cosmos. Once you put it up it’s in the ether, the heavily populated void where anything can and does happen.

I know that if there is a hit from Turkey, it’s probably Onur; Croatia, Don; India (when he’s there) Geoff; Poland, Marta. But today, let me look: 32 from the United States, 6 from Malaysia, 8 from Canada, three from Singapore, two from The Netherlands, one from the UK, and one from Serbia (and will they have read … yes they have … On Being Serbian. I bet they were completely mystified.) I have no idea who any of them are, nor what they are making of what they are reading.

The same is true of course of any author who publishes. However there are well developed gambits, advanced strategies, indeed whole inclinations designed to manage the issue. How much can we tell about Shakespeare’s precise nature or that of Jane Austen from what they wrote? Very little. They are extremely well-disguised; the work is the thing. (As a counterpoint we could always throw in Norman Mailer I guess.) But generally they don’t insert pictures of themselves and their close friends and relations for just anyone to contemplate, and for that matter in order to match the correspondence of text and pictorial evidence.

What’s with this willing abandonment of privacy? Is it perhaps unwitting? If ‘witting’ means ‘fully conscious and attentive’ then there might be something in that. You just do it. And compared with the Twitter wars and the complete abandonment of mannerly and civilised discourse in digital comment, I have got off scot-free. Scot-free. (Originally meaning exempt from Royal levies. Wonderful.) Maybe it’s a process of keeping your head just so high. Not very. Finding the sweet spot whereby you can imagine yourself as an authorial and public figure free to write what you like while retaining an illusion of privacy.

With this in mind, if you search ‘McRae’ or even ‘McRaeblog’ (which is most of the unique address of the site) you will go for dozens of pages before there’s any sign of it. However if you Google ‘Frognie Zila’, and why the hell would you, coming in at number six is this.

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And when you go there you will find what’s below, a photo I have taken included in a discussion of what was in Le Printemps in the French Quarter of Shanghai. Note: I have never pulled this out of the run of the blog, nor titled/captioned the photo nor in any other way given it an individual identifier. So how did that happen? Crrrrazy eh. frognie-zila.jpg

I did Google ‘Frognie Zila’ because I was getting so many hits on this as the entry point to my site. When you search, nearby you will find access to an article: ‘6 Bad Brand Names in China: Lessons from intertextuality’ (which includes the same photo, cropped but almost certainly pinched from my site) which says a number of useful things that I had only provided as implications.

Vladimir Djurovic in ‘Branding Mag’ writes: ‘From a purely verbal identity perspective, Chinese consumers have minimal recognition of the name (there is no Godzilla in Chinese culture; frog is not read as evidently as for a Western English speaker). This illuminates the importance of the underlying Chinese name as the verbal identity asset which carries brand equity in China, while the alphabetic name functions as a more visual asset and plays a lesser role in anchoring the memories and brand associations.’ (The other five dud names: ComeBuy; Lance From25; Helen Keller (a brand for spectacles!); Greenland Being Funny (for a shopping mall); and Biemlfdlkk. It is a worthy  but wordy article.)

All serious writing is palimpsest, and the internet is making it easier and more routine.

There now. That’s the educational function of this blog served.

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Geelong? Ah it’s just Geelong. I spent ages 1-8 there, and much as I wanted to, just not quite old enough to go off the wheel into the water at Eastern Beach (see pic above). It’s quiet down there at the other end of the Bay. If you use it as your blog’s yardstick, you can, you know, pump it up a bit. Like, help out.

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Palimpsest. A Footnote. (Another problem with WordPress: you can’t have proper footnotes. No ‘foot’ I suppose.) Originally: parchment or other writing material that the writing has been scrubbed or scraped off so it can be reused. In contemporary usage: something reused or altered but still bearing visible traces of its earlier form. In my mind: the building up of layers of borrowings and allusions to thicken out meaning.

The Knee

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Yes. My left knee. And the mighty muscle groups of my thundering hams (att. G. Ainsworth), visible in this new (to me) form of imaging.

The knee is the largest and most complex joint in the body. As is customary when finding out more than skin deep things about the body, the correct response is to reel back in awe. Not a simple hinge, its components glide and roll about on each other.

images.jpegThe posterior and anterior cruciate ligaments are key elements holding it together. Appearing in pink in the middle of this simplified illustration, they are ‘cruciate’ because they are arranged like an ‘X’, a cross. The medial ligament at right here protects against excessive lateral movement. They can all be torn from their moorings or ruptured. Ruptured ACL? 9 months after surgery before you’re going again.

Knees are the body’s shock absorbers. The load exerted on each knee joint during walking is three times body weight (bang 240kgs, bang 240kgs, etc and that’s just strolling along), climbing stairs about four times, squatting more than five. Cycling interestingly is only 1.2. Swimming too is lower because of the supported nature (bike seat, water) of each activity.

The major cushioning apparatus is visible in the digram above as well. The two ‘disks’ made out of fibrous cartilage are the medial and lateral menisci. They protect the ends of the bones from rubbing on each other and effectively deepen the sockets into which the femur, the thigh bone, attaches. They play a role in shock absorption, and when the knee is forcefully rotated and/or bent, can be cracked or torn.

The white material on the end of each bone represents hyaline cartilage preventing bone from ever rubbing on bone. Many times smoother than Teflon, the smoothest artificial substance ever produced, this form of cartilage — most unusually — lives without a blood supply and therefore can’t heal itself. Once it has formed in childhood, the cells hardly grow or develop further. Wear and tear is irreversible. If the cartilage is cracked, torn, or worn through, the bone of the joint itself will suffer. We call that osteoarthritis. Bone grinds on bone. Inflammation and pain result.

* * * * * *

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Does that look it needs a replacement? I asked the radiologist. Mmmm, she said nodding sagely, not much daylight there.

I have had trouble with my knees since my early teens. ‘Long-jumping into hard pits’ was one causative diagnosis. Sore knees stopped me playing football for what I like to think would have been the pinnacle of my glory days. I had my first (of three) athroscopies of the knee more than 30 years ago. (Arthroscopies: key hole surgery of the knee to tidy up tears in the cartilage surface and remove floating pieces, now widely discredited in terms of impact and usefulness.) An osteopath looking through my history recently found the first reference to knee pain in 1991. Lately, coming down mountains, not going up so much, the grind of bone on bone is so tangible that I imagine I can hear it, and sometimes I can.

However. However. However.

Have you had any trouble washing and drying yourself because of your knee? How much has pain from your knee interfered with your usual work? (including housework)? Could you do household shopping on your own? Could you walk down a flight of stairs? I even struggled with, How would you describe the pain you usually have in your knee? (It’s not regular. It comes and goes. Sometimes it hurts. A lot. But you know … )

These are questions from the Oxford Knee Score to assess what sort of intervention you might need with graded multiple choice answers. Answering best and as honestly as I could I scored 42, the interpretive key for which was ‘Mate piss off. There’s nothing wrong with you. Step out of the way for people who actually need help.’ And you go along to the surgeon’s rooms and are sitting with mostly men, just as it happens, who are knotted up with arthritis, need help standing and then get along, just, with a stick.

An imposter perhaps?

Eighteen months ago I had a discussion with a most impressive Irishman, a knee surgeon, who pointed to what the right questions for me were. Eighteen months later I went to see him again and talked about lying awake at night with pain, beginning to drag my left leg consistently, and taking far too many anti-inflammatories which were beginning not to work. I seemed to have made up my mind and he didn’t dissuade me.

One salient issue is just how long the artificial joint might last. If the answer is 15 years and you’re 55, you might want to think about that. But if the answer is probably 20 years, as it seems to be at present, and you’re nearly 70, well …

So I washed myself down with chlorhexidine, told forty people serially what my name and date of birth were, and de-suited up.

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“I regard the theatre as the greatest of all art forms, the most immediate way in which a human being can share with another the sense of what it is to be a human being.”

— Oscar Wilde

Unknown.jpegThis quote, although intended to reflect on the performing arts, also quite aptly defines the goings on in a surgical operating theatre. The term ‘Theatre’ conjures images of live drama and suspense. It is a rather appropriate and symbolic idiom. Historically, the first operating rooms were amphitheatres in which the surgeon, dressed in street clothes, performed operations on a raised table or stage, surrounded by several rows of students and other spectators who could observe the case in progress. Needless to say, this was by no means a sterile environment but the spectacle was certainly captivating.

Brian Devitt, my splendid Irish surgeon, to the left above, wrote and shared this.

The structure of the operating room has evolved over time. In reality, the amphitheatre no longer exists, having been replaced by smaller, less populated, and cleaner rooms. Nevertheless, the symbolism continues. There is a still a well-established routine. The actors (surgeons) are adorned in distinctive costumes (scrubs, gowns, and gloves) for the show. Next, the patient, the main character in the production, is wheeled into the room for the performance with prodigious ceremony, assuming centre stage under the spotlights to join the awaiting cast (scrub nurses and junior doctors) for the main act.

The operating room is a surreal place with countless rules, which are policed by the ever-vigilant theatre sister. As a medical student this is one of the most foreboding venues one must venture during rotations. With so much going on, you are always in someone’s way, despite trying to conceal oneself, chameleon-like, against the walls: ‘Don’t touch this. Don’t stand there. Keep your hands in. Stop breathing.’ Life is less ominous as a doctor when there is a specific role to play. In a junior capacity, the doctor is often the whipping boy, suffering a baptism of fire in this high-pressure setting. Although, with added experience and seniority, the now surgeon assumes a greater leadership role within the team.

The theatre is generally a very calm environment. Most cases are routine and have a set procedure. The most hectic period is at the beginning of the case when the anaesthetized patient is wheeled into the operating room on a trolley and transferred to the operating table for surgery. Orthopaedic surgeries normally require a very specific set-up, and in some cases a specialized system of traction is employed to facilitate the reduction of a fracture. Following this, the surgical site is painted with antiseptic solution and isolated with sterile drapes. What follows next is probably one of the most simple, yet effective advances in reducing surgical complications in recent times; the surgical time out. Everyone stops. A checklist is read out, detailing the procedure, highlighting that the correct side has been marked, and ensuring the necessary equipment is available and appropriate antibiotics have been given. Finally, surgery can begin.

To watch a gifted surgeon operate is like watching Riverdance. Every step, each movement is choreographed and purposeful. The surgeon speeds up during routine dissections and debridement [removal of damaged tissue], but slows down when making critical decisions and approaching vital structures.

Each team member should be synchronized to facilitate the surgeon. As is often said facetiously, the assistant’s job is to make the surgeon look good. There’s generally not much room for conversation during a case. Commands are given clearly and succinctly. The scrub nurse is a crucial team member, supplying the correct instruments swiftly, safely and ergonomically to the waiting surgeon. In many cases an experienced nurse will know what the surgeon needs before he asks. The eponymously named instruments can be confusing, particularly to the junior surgeon. An exhortation is often heard to ‘give me what I want, not what I ask for.’

Thankfully, in most cases the final scene of these endeavours finds a healthy, happy patient. Life in theatre is tough and tiring but very rewarding. Once the final curtain has been drawn, sleep is not difficult to find. That sleep is deep, restful and well earned.

* * * * * *

I asked the physician consulting on my case if they cut the bone out or if it was just resurfacing. These questions… you don’t even now what you’re asking half the time. He stifled a roar of laughter and indicated that yes the bone would most certainly be cut out. Not only that, but it would hurt like buggery.

This is one absolutely consistent theme of people who I have spoken to about knee replacements. The one area of absolute agreement among participants, qualified professionals, relatives, onlookers, grocers who have met someone once whose cousin … is the degree of pain, described by my consulting physician as ’10 times worse than a badly-sprained ankle (or, in technical terms, 10xb-sa). … And it doesn’t stop!’ he amplified. ‘Not immediately anyway.’

So I woke up in an opioid-induced haze. Not asleep yet not quite awake, and unsure if those cows I was chasing were real ones, and if they were what I needed to do about it. These are the glories of Targin, a mixture of oxycodone and naloxone. Oxycodone is a narcotic pain reliever and naloxone belongs to a group of medications known as opiate antagonists used to lessen the constipation caused by oxycodone. But in case that doesn’t work, and it doesn’t appear to, there are regular doses of Coloxyl and other incentives to internal movement.

How was I feeling? Fine. Great. I got out of bed — a cautious and controlled swing of the new one, it could have fallen off — and tested it on the floor. In terms of stability (and feel) it felt remarkably like it did before.Boy, did I get told off. In my defence, I did this because I was making an extra effort to urinate. I ate and drank and watched a series of television programs which wandered in and out of my conscious reality.

The next day I walked 647 steps — I know that because I had my phone in my pocket — and tackled the stairs down to the coffee shop. The nurses began calling me One Day David.

The second morning was the only time it really hurt, but even then maybe only 2.6b-sa or even less. A second chemical weapon was employed which blasted this problem to smithereens.

* * * * * *

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Now here I am eight days later sitting at home blogging away and uncertain about tone management. 

It’s going well. Can I say that? Just nice and flat? Going well. Last night it hurt but I’ve been off everything but Panadol (and anti-inflammatories and blood thinners — no one’s taking any chances here) for a few days, and I have this visual metaphor of the knee unfreezing — it remains quite swollen — and exposing the actuality of what is under the ice. Pain in this case means not being able to find a comfortable rest point. Wherever you put the leg, you need to move it again immediately to try something else. There will be a name for that.

That’s on the one hand. On the other I walked up to see my GP today — I suppose that’s about a kilometre — and going up and down stairs is no problem. In fact I’m back to normal pattern (one step, next step, next step, not one step one step, next step next step) for going up and am close for going down. I’m not doing my physio in an orderly way because I think I’m getting quite lot of incidental exercise, and while walking is easy there are certain lifting actions that feel like a horizontal incision is being ripped apart with the terrible mental presentiment that that is actually what is happening. I tend to avoid actions like that. And any lateral pressure. There is some disorder in any recovery.

Three months they say before walking is as normal, another few weeks before I can drive a car. In the meantime I have no trouble getting to Trutrack for a coffee fix.

So. Good I guess. But not triumphalist. I’m not running down the road to the gym yet, and I’ll be sitting round quite long enough to have me chafing. But yeah. Good I guess.

And mightily grateful for just how skilled these clever, kind and thoughtful people who advised, operated on and nursed me were.Slide2CAC.JPG

 

 

Mountains #2

BONUS PIC.

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Greetings from Railton, Tasmania. Topiary Capital of the Southern Hemisphere.

And no it wasn’t planned. That was just what she happened to be wearing that day. (Donald Trump on the right do you think?)

But let’s continue on with our journey through prime mountains. Begin by mounting Sheffield’s finest viewing platform.IMG_0031 (1).jpg

 

MT ROLAND (15/1/18)

Altitude: 1233m

Screen Shot 2018-01-26 at 4.40.20 pm.pngAs far as I can tell this range is called the Mt Roland Regional Conservation Reserve. But Mt Roland is the highest peak with Mt Van Dyke the second highest.

Coming from the east, as visitors do, it’s the beginning of the Western Tiers. I drove past it years ago and it took my breath away. The dolerite crags just seem to soar impenetrably.

Route: There is a track up the face which has been closed because of its danger. There is also a ridge walk from one end to the other which would probably take several days.

The standard track is 4 km along a firetrack which actually climbs quite a bit, a very steep but relatively short climb up a creek gully (400m up in just over kilometre), 3 km across a button grass plateau and a nice little bit of bouldering at the end. Height gain of 600m. and about 16 km there and back.

On a good day like we had it is quite an easy walk — medium more correctly, it does have the climb up the creek gully. But we’ve tried five times and failed twice, mostly because of weather — it’s Tassie after all — although one time a late start didn’t help. 

Just to be clear, this is where you are headed. The looming presence is intermittent, but tangible and enough to leave you dangling. How on earth are you ever going to get up there?IMG_0052.jpgMt Roland is not isolated. It’s only 15 km from Sheffield (with great murals, Mural Capital of the etc.), and the plains surrounding it are littered with holiday houses and farms wanting to make the most of the formidable view.

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You start from O’Neill’s Rd. This road quickly shifts into a rough four-wheel drive track gaining height quite steadily as it sidles up across the foothills of the cliffs. It runs through a glorious wet, eucalyptus forest with massive stands of tree ferns.

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After half an hour there are stands of curly-branched John Glover gums the name of which I don’t know. I used to look at his paintings and think he had a visual infirmity when it came to trees. But then I started looking and found them all over the island.IMG_0048.jpg

This section is completed when you come to a log bridge spanning a gully with steps formed on the other side. Lots of steps. You’re going up a crack that is not the one in the picture below (another section of the Mt Roland range) but which is very like that one.IMG_0097.jpg

In or after wet weather, of which there is plenty here, the track is both muddy and slippery and in places a water course. We’ve moved into nothofagus country which means lots of mosses, lichens and exotic tortured shapes, Lord of the Rings country.IMG_0062.jpgIMG_0064 (1).jpg

It was neither wet nor muddy on this lovely day and we duly popped out at the rest point at Reggie’s Falls with certain of us raring to go after cup of tea.

You walk almost straight out onto the plateau with its wonderful views, button grass and expanses of flowering alpine heaths, bushes and orchids. There is a kilometre or so of duckboard to get you across what can be wetlands.

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IMG_1101.JPGFake Mt Roland (above) is to your left. It looks a lot like you’re walking over to the high point but actually that’s only a precursor. There is still another 40 or so minutes to get to the peak with dead but still lovely scorparia flowers on the way.IMG_1126.JPG

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IMG_1123.JPGI don’t want to go on about this but that rocky track is a water course in the wet. It can look like the ‘track’ at the left which is actually near Tongariro in New Zealand. But not today. No impediments today. Simply a perfect day for walking.

 

You go up this gully visible between the two rock outcrops in the photo above, climb left, and you’re there. And on a day like this, ‘there’ is quite something.

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MT FIELD WEST (22/1/18)

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Altitude: 1434m

Screen Shot 2018-01-26 at 4.41.22 pm.pngLook at that for a mountain! The peak is the lump to the right. The Naturalist, another peak only 5m lower is to the left of that on top of a crowd of ‘organ pipes’, columns of dolerite, a very hard igneous rock which when weathered collapses into boulders. Dolerite columns and boulder fields are found almost everywhere in Tasmania.

Climbing Mt Field is not the issue. Getting there is.

If you look at the photo again you will notice Myrna crossing one of the endless boulder fields that make Mt Field such a challenge. (There is a Mt Field East too, a congenial domestic climb for a Sunday afternoon. But for the sake of simplicity today the destination will be called Mt Field. Both of them are only an hour and a half from Hobart.) 

Route: There is only one ‘direct’ route to Mt Field. But I may never get to the peak again so we thought for the sake of completeness we’d include a major deviation.

Urquhart’s Track up from the Lake Dobson car park, Snowgum Track across to Rodway Hut. That’s all normal. But then out across Tarn Shelf, up over Newdegate Pass and back to K Col intersection. From there resume the normal route out up the spur and across the pincushion plateau. Back the most direct way through Lion’s Den.

The Lake Dobson carpark is at 1000m. But you have to climb over the Rodway Range before you can start the ascent of Mt Field again, so up to 1300m over boulders, down 200m, up 450m. About 25 difficult km. A big day.

IMG_0173.jpgWe began very early for us. We were walking around Lake Dobson at 7.00 and got up the gravel road to the ski huts quite smartly. Someone, possibly the skiers, has built a kilometre or so of duckboard across a shelf going in the right direction which is always most welcome. We were at Rodway Hut (below on the left) before 8.00. With magnificent views of Lake Seal a few hundred metres below and Tarn Shelf crisp in a very clear morning, that could have been satisfying enough.IMG_0186.jpgTarn Shelf is a destination in itself.

Eight tarns (alpine lakes, often glacial) big enough to go on a medium-scale map, a dozen or so smaller, so as you walk through them you have all these water effects and reflected light as well as the remarkable alpine vegetation — including pencil pines and some pandanus — squeezing itself in between the rocks.IMG_0187.jpgIMG_0198.jpg

Further along there are stands of dead pencil pines dramatically weathered.IMG_0203.jpg

We got to Newdegate Hut at the end of the Shelf by 9.30 and set off over the Pass after cup of tea.IMG_0207.jpg

The views from the top of the Pass were consistently grand this day. Unusually, long perspectives were possible.IMG_0221.jpgDuckboarding takes you across the very top of the Pass through the pincushion and water pools. Mt Field is sitting over in the distance with its top in cloud which remained there for most of the day.IMG_0231.jpgWe got this clear view of the bird’s head of Mt Field and The Naturalist as we skirted back along the Rodways.IMG_0234.jpgAnd this is what you’re looking for. It never seems to come. Newdegate Pass is visible just to the right of the outcrop, The Watcher. Not apparently far, but it’s a mushy, rocky track with two or three boulder fields and plenty to trip on.

Turn right (left in the photo) with gratitude. Time for lunch. Except we did another hour.

Round the base of the horseshoe on to the ridge …IMG_0236.jpg

Past the much photographed Cleme’s Tarn …IMG_0237 (1).jpg

Up through the bushes …IMG_0238.jpg

And the rocks…IMG_0240.jpg

Through the mist on the plateau …IMG_0247.jpgIMG_0250.jpgThat’s from the top — a currawong welcoming us.

We turned around and had been walking for ten minutes when it all cleared.IMG_0258.jpgThat’s the peak of Mt Field West.

And this is The Naturalist which we thought we would also climb.IMG_0255.jpg

In the far centre distance of that photo above you can see a boulder field which stands between us and getting home (about half way actually). This one.IMG_1325.JPG

We got to the top of that, there was an elegant little alpine garden, and then an hour or more getting through the Lion’s Den, a valley of boulders which asks for huge steps, jumping and hand climbing — quite a lot for that time of the day. There are no photos because no one seems to take photos of the Lion’s Den. They’re too busy just trying to get through it. Not for the faint of heart. I think I had just gone into a slightly dismayed version of automatic.

We got back to the car at 7.30 scarcely able to move. It had been overly ambitious. I admit it. Freely.

A week has passed. This time next week I’ll be lying in hospital with a canula or two plugged in my arm dazed and confused with a big bandage on my left knee. And? Je ne regrette rien. These are photos of a precious adventure.

Mountains #1

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It might boil down to the view.

Many words have been written about the attraction of mountains and in fact the historical anomaly of contemporary interest. They used to be things to be avoided, homes of hobgoblins, monsters and wraiths. When in the fashionable mind they became romantic spectacles, it was not to actually tangle with them. Observe, applaud if you must, and then leave well enough alone.

Australia doesn’t have much in the way of mountains. Too old. And the ones it does have you mainly walk or even drive up rather than climb. So why bother?

I was sitting on top of a boulder at Seager’s Lookout still a bit ragged from a major encounter with Mt Field West — this, Myrna explained, was a hair of the dog — when we discussed this most recently.

Grandeur. What would grandeur be? Bigger than usual? Certainly. But there is something else about the light, often generated by the eccentric and highly changeable weather you get in mountains, that could suggest an encounter with grandeur. Yes you do see how things are and how they are made, geologically anyway. 

Yes you can see how things are laid out and you are given an idea of scale — and of your own very limited importance. You see things that you can’t otherwise see. Ever. Like what grows in alpine areas above 1000m in Tasmania, in summer one of the world’s great floral shows.

All mountains, even ones which are proximate, have their own character. Above, for example, is Feathertop, the Queen of the Alps. There is no King. With its narrow ridge and winter cornice it is unlike any other mountain nearby, and the walk from where Myrna is standing to the summit, head out all the way, is a blue ribbon affair. I like to get to know them. But who knows why? That’s the question, isn’t it?

Flipping the focus, there’s the challenge. Can you? What will it be like? How hard will it rain? How soft will the snow be? When will it start hurting? Even when you’ve done it before, you just never know.

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But it’s probably just the view. (The Ovens Valley from the top of Feathertop.)

* * * * * *

Myrna rarely needs persuasion to climb a mountain. I thought I’d like to climb some of my favourite mountains again before getting a new knee. Just in case. You never know. This is a record of that experience. 

* * * * * *

MT FEATHERTOP (27/10/17)

Altitude: 1922m

Screen Shot 2018-01-26 at 4.47.01 pm.pngRoute: there are five ways up Feathertop, including the one noted above which starts near Mt Hotham at an altitude of about 1600m. We thought we might go up the Bungalow Spur which starts in Harrietville (alt. 500m). It is a common route for people planning to camp on the mountain but 1500m up, a big climb. About one-third of its 12km length is the remnants of an old tramway on a reasonably generous grade. We planned to go up and down in a day.

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The track starts in thick alpine forest following a creek before jumping up along a steep rocky track. Once you get to the top of that section you’re on the tramway and you just have to lie back into the idea of a long steady climb.

You begin to get glimpses through the canopy like this confirming that you’re getting somewhere.IMG_0603.JPG

Feathertop has been burnt fiercely several times in the last decade and some of the landmarks have gone — Wombat Gully for example — and that was a good one because it proclaimed progress and used to be good spot for a cup of tea. But you can tell you’re rising. The dominant trees are now large and crowded Stringy Barks rather than the tall but spare Mountain Ash further down.

For a kilometre or two around the halfway mark a storm the previous week had brought down lots of dead trees left after the fires. Even the living ones are very shallow-rooted in the rocky soil.IMG_1372.JPG

There was another patch where the stags were monumental.IMG_1367.JPG

Two-thirds of the way you pass the site of the ‘Bungalow’ of the Spur. Nothing remains except a cleared area, some grass and a few bits of cement. What it says is that ahead there is a steeper climb through snowgum on broken rock for 40-50 minutes, but at the end ‘head out’ near Federation Hut where people camp. And it’s a good moment.IMG_0619.JPG

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You cross that hill ahead, the bottom of Little Feathertop, on a very weathered track and come to this wonderful snow gum, almost the only one on the ridge that survived the fires, and only because of its isolation.img_0659 (2).jpg

IMG_0418.jpgThe rest is still mainly ‘old man’s beard’, dead trees now above new growth. Snow gums don’t shoot from the trunk or branches after burning but they do regrow from the base.

And then you’ve got to get up the top, a steep rocky climb to gain another 200m vertically.thumb_IMG_0657_1024.jpg

IMG_0641 (1).jpgAnd we did. We’d been lucky with the weather, and getting down was the usual kilometre too far, but it was in sum a great delight.

 

MT DIFFICULT/ GAR (28/12/17)

Altitude: 809m

Mount-Difficult-e1448857381905-990x280 (1).jpgThe peak’s nobility is complex, not obvious, perhaps because you have to fight a bit to get there. After climbing, the route enters from the right and makes its way across the face of the scarp.

Screen Shot 2018-01-29 at 10.41.38 am.pngRoute: Mt Difficult (Gar — Jardwadjali for nose) is the highest peak in the Grampians’ Mt Difficult Range, a fishhook-shaped affair in which the mountain is only just located. Our usual track has been to enter at Beehive Falls, climb up to the plateau, do the there-and-back leg to Briggs’ Bluff then eventually come down to Troopers Creek campsite.

Fires had closed this track until recently — the tops were still unrecognisably bare — and Troopers Creek campsite was still closed. We still could probably have come down there but it would have meant a 6km walk back to our car along Roses Gap Rd.

We’ve done that before, but this day it was in the mid-high 30s and very muggy, and after 16km of scrambling we mightn’t be in the mood. So, just there and back. In at Beehive Falls, forget Briggs’ Bluff, straight on via the slightly rerouted track to Mt Difficult and back again. About 20 km. Altitude gain, about 650m. But rough work.

Below, the trig point is just visible to the right of Myrna’s hat.

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From Roses Gap this classic Grampians gravel track, undulating gently besides a creek bed, takes you to Beehive Falls 1.5km away. Most climbs throw you straight in without letting you catch your breath. This is 20 minutes of amiability.

We’ve been to Beehive Falls at least five times and I can’t remember them ever running. A finger-thickness trickle was coming over as we climbed up.
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As I have remarked many times it’s hard to take photo of ‘steep’ or ‘high’ and this is another failed attempt. Assume ‘steep’, and dry loose rock.IMG_2178 (2).jpg

As I remembered it you got to the top of the falls — 200 or so steps as well as the loose rock path — and then, for some relief, you were out on the plateau. But I had forgotten.

This comes next.

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thumb_IMG_0883_1024.jpgIMG_2177.jpgSomewhere on that cliff face is the track. And like these things often do, it goes on and on. Four or five distinct false dawns.

Going up I knew it was steep but we just chugged along. Coming down — sliding, barely in control, on my bum — I had no idea how we’d got up there. That, to some degree, is the nature of going up and coming down.

Once up on the plateau and an unusual 30 minute walk almost in a straight line along flat rock strata, Briggs Bluff with its bird’s mouth dominates visually. The Wimmera Plains stretch out uninterrupted to the north.IMG_2181.jpgAnother climb follows, steep and high steps up into the bottom of a vertical scarp which the track chases, climbing past caves sometimes gradually sometimes steeply to a crack in the cliff. From here you get the first view east.IMG_2185.jpgLake Lonsdale in the distance. But that’s the track. Through the regrowth and down a sharp and rocky V to the intersection with the loop which overnight campers follow. It’s been opened recently as part of the trail from one end of the Grampians to the other. We haven’t walked it and won’t today.

It’s all very dramatic in a Grampians sort of way.IMG_2182.jpg

A stiff climb up huge inclined slabs of sandstone. Red face. It was hot and we could have done with a couple more litres of water. There is none on the mountain.IMG_2187 4.56.41 pm.jpg

This is to gain enough height to walk somewhere near the contour before the final boulder scramble to get up into the peak. Scrambling where you have to use your hands that is. The track has already been a scramble. I’d forgotten. No photos of the last stage because I was cactus. IMG_0914 (1).jpg

But the view, the view …IMG_2189.jpg

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Spettacoloso.

Now let us cross Bass Strait for the second two — a symphony in dolerite.

 

 

Boat People

A knock at the door of one of the ‘scattering’ of cottages in Coburg, Victoria, just before Christmas 1852. Christina McAskill answered. A ragged young man stood there. ‘Your cousin Helen, Malcolm McRae’s wife, came on the ship Ticonderoga. I am Christopher [aged 17], her son. We were landed at Point Nepean and I have walked from that place with another young man [probably Finlay his younger brother]. We followed the beach till we came to Melbourne.’

Their epic 100 km walk through this most foreign of lands had taken them eight weeks. They had survived on shellfish and water offered by local Boon Wurrung Aboriginals. But Helen (aged 41), her daughter Janet (11), and her sons John (15), Farquhar (6) and Malcolm (2) were dead.

They had been among the 795 passengers (and 48 crew) on the Ticonderoga, a double-decker clipper, just 52m long, chartered by the Highland and Island Emigration Society to bring ‘cleared’ Scots to Australia. Campbells, McDonalds, McKays, and McWilliams as well as McRaes were on board.

There is some evidence that people who were already sick embarked from Liverpool. There is also evidence that conditions on the boat were appalling. ‘The ship, especially the lower part was in a most filthy state, and did not appear to have been cleaned for weeks, the stench was overpowering, the lockers so thoughtlessly provided for the Immigrants use were full of dirt, mouldy bread, and suet full of maggots…’ Of the 795 passengers 199 had been under seven.

At least 100 died on the way. (19 were born during the 90 days in transit.) Another 380 had ‘the fever’ (probably typhus) or dysentery when they disembarked at Point Nepean just inside the Heads of Port Phillip Bay. ‘The Argus’ reported that all told more than 180 died. Generated by this incident, what became known as Ticonderoga Bay became the site of Victoria’s first quarantine station.

Christopher and his father served out their indentured positions and went on to become farm workers and eventually owners. I’m one of around 800 of their descendants.

* * * * *

I was offered 500 words to tell a story for the Australian McRae newsletter, and that’s it.

It’s a story all right. My father thinks Christopher’s walk might be apocryphal. It would be too grand, too heroic, too unimaginable for his taste. However it is true that Christopher did arrive out of the blue at his mother’s cousin’s house in Coburg and that he was not transported with the main group who over time were ferried by boat to Melbourne. There is plenty of evidence for everything else.

This is one remnant of the experience at Point Nepean.

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Christopher himself made a rough memorial at Pt Nepean out of wood with this inscription. Later proving himself to be a very capable newspaper correspondent, he probably didn’t include the spelling mistakes. His memorial degraded with time but was seen by a mason who also happened to be a McRae and who decided to construct his own facsimile out of stone. And it’s still there.

 * * * * *

‘Boat people’ have always been arriving and settling elsewhere, often unbidden.

‘Clearing’? ‘The enforced simultaneous eviction of all families living in a given area.’ It was a process that took place over 150 or more years in Scotland: a transformation from subsistence to commercial farming, from common ownership and operation to the establishment of sharply-defined individual/ family property. In Das Kapital Marx described the clearances as ‘the robbery of the common lands, the usurpation of feudal and clan property, and its transformation into modern private property under circumstances of reckless terrorism.’

In the Highlands those evicted were often moved to coastal regions where kelp-gathering and -processing was one way of making a living. But in the first half of the 19th century the bottom fell out of kelp prices, landlord debt reached record levels and the same famine that began in Ireland in 1845 due to failures in the potato crop gripped Scotland. It was this famine that gave rise to the Highland and Island Emigration Society which sponsored around 5,000 emigrants to Australia from the affected areas of Scotland.

These are likely to be the remnants of a McRae croft on the Isle of Skye which we went looking for and found on a walk. The story was that one of the methods of eviction the (Scottish) landlords employed was to burn the roof timbers of these buildings. There was nothing available to replace them with.CNV00037.jpg

There were 27 McRaes on board the Ticonderoga initially (the dead were thrown overboard, sometimes in groups of ten) and lots of other Highlanders but they had also collected about one-third of the company from south-west England — Cornwall, Somerset, Devon — where presumably the same sorts of things were happening.

It’s a refugee story.

 * * * * *

The arrival of the Ticonderoga attracted attention. We know that because it was covered by ‘The Argus’, a newspaper of the time.

Terrible state of Affairs on board an Emigrant Ship at the Port Phillip Heads – Intelligence was brought to Williamstown, on Wednesday evening last, by Capt Wylie, on the brig Champion, from Adelaide, that a large ship, named the Ticonderago [sic] ninety days out from Liverpool, with upwards of 900 Government emigrants on board, had anchored at the Heads. A great amount of sickness had occurred among the passengers, more than a hundred deaths having taken place, and almost a similar number of cases being still on board. Nor was this all. The doctor’s health was so precarious that he was not expected to survive, and the whole of the medicines, medical comforts etc, had been consumed. (Just as it happens the doctor referred to survived and had a family here. He was comedian and writer Michael Veitch’s great-grand father.) 

These things occur to me.

The first gesture at European settlement of Melbourne occurred in August 1835, that is people stepping off a boat intending to stay, find and build a way of life in that place. These events are occurring only 17 years later when ‘Melbourne’s’ population was 23,000. ( A year later in 1853 after the discovery of gold, it was over 100,000.) That tiny settlement has a newspaper, and quite a sophisticated one.

In addition, it is a newspaper which can publish news (from 100km away) the day after the event occurs (6/11/1852). 

There is a public scandal. You can understand that issues of shipping and disease, especially when combined, might excite people living 25,000 km away from ‘home’ in very fragile circumstances. But the situation is such that there is a capacity to be scandalised. It’s possible. There is no cover up. The newspaper leads with the story. The journalist appears to have had very good access to any information he seeks.

Loud voices are raised. The commentator ‘Observer’ writes (‘The Argus’, 31/12/1852): ‘Being a sea-faring man and curious to know the state of the vessel which had been the scene of such unparalleled disease I went on board, and very soon ceased to be surprised at anything which had taken place on board this ill-fated vessel. The miserable squalid appearance of the passengers at once attracted my attention, and on looking down the hatchway, the smell and appearance of the between decks was so disgusting, that though accustomed to see and be on board of slave vessels, I instinctively shrank from it.’

Aspersions are cast.

‘I have no hesitation in expressing it as my decided opinion that the disease in this ship was mainly caused by the carelessness and inattention to cleanliness on the part of the master and his officers, and the want of ventilation. … Why is this ship allowed to come and vomit her diseased and dying freight in the midst of an over-crowded city? Men despair of the Government ever doing anything effective in these matters, unless it is forced upon them by the voice of the people through our independent press.’

Denials are issued.

From a report issued by the Land and Emigration Commissioners (11/2/1853): ‘Mr. Latrobe says of the ship itself, that “looking to its structure and capacity, no vessel could have been better suited to the purpose, and there can be no doubt but that under circumstances securing the unbroken maintenance of order, cleanliness, and general discipline, a yet larger number of persons might have been conveyed in safety to the colony.” But he adds, that “with an unorganised body of emigrants of the classes selected for the “Ticonderoga,” little surprise can be felt that no ordinary exertion of abilities could suffice to introduce at once system and order, and overcome that repugnance to cleanliness and fresh air which distinguished certain classes of the labouring population of Europe.”’

So it was the victims’ fault! Not keen on cleanliness and fresh air!

This is a refugee story. It could have been in today’s paper.