Man-hating women are trying to destroy men’s lives when everyone knows that there are biological differences between men and women that are so genetically coded that the very idea of some form of simple equity completely ignores evolution, history, culture and every good movie I’ve ever watched. Or something.
I finally had the chance to read Clementine Ford’s second book: “Boys Will Be Boys” this week while in Yogyakarta. I bought the book on pre-order but have been so dedicated to working on my PhD and my role at my boy’s school (and another chance to dance) that I didn’t try to read it until I had some time. This is not a book review – more a comment on some of the things that the book raised for me, particularly if I can call myself a feminist. In the name of full disclosure, I thoroughly enjoyed Clementine’s first book, “Fight Like a Girl” – despite how uncomfortable it made me feel. I am quite a big fan of Clementine in general and had the chance to meet her (and get her to sign my book) when I presented at SexRurality in 2017. For a man-hating Femi-nazi that wants to fire all men in to the sun with a giant cannon, she really is nice.
I enjoy reading texts and engaging with content that forces
me to interrogate my way of thinking and examine the way I go about things.
Challenging yourself is a fantastic thing. Accepting that challenge and using
that challenge as a lens to explore your own character and behaviour is an even
greater and more powerful thing. I have always been taught critical analysis –
from my high school days through university through life – I have always wanted
to know the why. Why do I react in certain ways? Why does society? Why can’t I
change my behaviour? What motivates me to change it? Is it intrinsic or
extrinsic motivation? And as a man, particularly a white cisgender
heteronormative identifying one (sorry if you rolled your eyes, but GTFU if you
did) – why am I allowed to do things, say things, behave in certain ways or
even change them – especially when others can not? What privileges do I have at
my disposal that others do not? Do I need to check myself? Do I need to speak?
More importantly, do I need to shut up and listen?
“Boys Will Be Boys” was at times depressing – particularly
for being so accurate and at times familiar. How much people conform to
gender-norms based on their child’s biological sex is one explored well in the
book. This section really resonated with me – especially discussions around the
clothing, toys, play and roles boys in particular are expected to have because
our society is so rigid and confused. It resonated with me because we have
TRIED as a family to avoid these stereotypes. You cannot control outside
influences, but from giving our boys dolls and dollhouses to play with; to
supplying dresses for the dress-up box; to letting them wear pink (gasp); to role
modelling diversity in our household domestic roles; we have tried to challenge
what is normal. The chapter reminded me of the time a friend was shocked we
allowed our son to play with a doll and pram – he told us he would buy his a
lawnmower. I asked him was he worried all that playing with a pretend baby
would make him a good dad. There wasn’t a strong answer.
There are some other great sections on the book – the stark raving madness of the Men’s Rights Advocacy Movement is not something new to me – but a great read all the same. Those groups sit somewhere better misguided fanaticism and terrorism (literally calling for men to suicide outside their local MP’s office to show them your pain) and Ford does a great job of looking at the history. There are more comprehensive books on the topic (“Angry White Men” by Michael Kimmel) but this is a great take with some hilarious points. The sections on rape, the way our culture shields men from their crimes and victim blames are incredible uncomfortable reading – but again, not new. Anyone that has listened to a news report after a rape-murder, when the police call for women to “make smart choices” rather than asking men to have a break from raping them knows this.
Clementine does a great job of breaking down many aspects of
our own society and the fucked up, yet incredibly privileged place men occupy
within. Ford looks at how many men are broken, oblivious and hurting ourselves
and others as they go along. Is it all men? Surely it is #notallmen. I know
from my own lived experience, its not all men – but its plenty of them and not
enough men are doing enough in terms of real action to change things for the
better. This book, as well as Ford’s last one is really uncomfortable reading as
a man. They are both not written for us. In a world that the majority of the
content I have access to is written or created for straight white men – it nice
to have to listen for once, rather than have things provided and pitched right
at me. I’m not the expert here. Or the target audience. Or the champion. Its
not the way things normally are.
Reflecting on this, “Boys Will Be Boys” and a few other
texts I’ve read relatively recently has made me interrogate myself on where I
sit as a feminist – and namely if I am one. I mentioned at a party the other
day that I could not consider myself a feminist; much to some surprise at the
time – but this relates more to feeling comfortable beholding the label rather
than my ideological standing on the issue. Just to be very clear on my
perspectives, feminism is not a cancer. It is not scary. It is not evil. It is
not targeting men or enslaving men. Men are already enslaved.
I long for a world:
in which men can have more of an engaged and equal role in the raising of their own children without scorn from society for failing to be the major bread-winner.
where men actually do their meaningful and fair share of domestic labour – especially carrying the mental load of their families domestic lives instead of “helping around the home”.
where men take actual responsibility and play a fundamental role in the reproductive labour in their relationships – like being active in contraceptive choices, not relying on women to “take care of it” and considering a vasectomy when you’ve bred sufficiently.
where empathy and compassion are considered important male characteristics.
where it is ok to cry and hug and be physically touched by another man without being called a poof.
where we can shed this bullshit Ocker-AF attitude of what “men are” and stop being slaves.
Equality is needed in our world and men are often too dumb to realise that fighting for it will actually benefit them. Men are drunk on the power we withhold from others, rather than enticed by the possibilities of sharing the burden.
So why not label myself a “feminist”? Despite my belief in the ideology and the goals that the movement is fighting for – I don’t do enough advocacy in that space to call myself a feminist. It must be more than a few words and basically doing the right bloody thing. Sure, we can have a discussion about intersectionality or the role that the patriarchy has in the enslavement of men and the oppression of women – but words are cheap. I don’t deserve a cookie for that.
I also don’t get to choose that I am “one of the good men” (if you haven’t watched Hannah Gadsby’s speech – or her incredible work Nannette: go do it now) for doing what I basically should. I don’t get to call myself a feminist for wanting social justice and equality – I get to call myself a human.
There are far better people (particularly women) out there doing far more work that deserve recognition, praise and all the cookies that men get for doing something that is “vaguely feminist. Until I can do more to earn my stripes – which is doing more then interrogating myself, exploring how to be a better human, and doing what I already should be – I’ll have to wait for my cookie. I’m a definite ally. I’m definitely a believer. I’m just not convinced I’m doing enough to earn the label.
Every dancer has their forte and my Creative Director, Annette Carmichael was just highlighting mine. Sure some can spin and leap and have amazing flexibility – but I was in possession of a “very useful skeleton!”
“Just let him jump on to you, don’t try and catch him”. Simple instruction. Focus. I tried to relax as Scott again tried to put his right leg over my left shoulder and gracefully leap on to my useful skeleton. We were at the start of our intensive journey together. We had a week to recreate the duet in The Beauty Index.
The duet we were working on was a core part of the performance and the source of a lot of adulation and adoration (and the best photos) in the original performance. For the remount, I was assuming a part held by the very talented Sam le Breton last time around. This was my second time as part of a production and to say the rise was giddying is to put it lightly.
In the months after Annette confirmed that we were getting (most of) the band back together to remount “our” work, The Beauty Index, I had worked incredibly hard to get myself fit. I wanted to hit “the Sixty” so much harder this time around, so there were months of weights and fitness classes in the lead up to our first rehearsal. I was going to tear my old role apart! As performers, we all held a lot of ownership in the work – being involved in so much of the original choreography had elevated our sense of engagement in the piece – all those who were returning wanted to lift this remount higher than the original. Never mind the fact that we were opening up for a group of flexible, talented young people as part of a two-show bill. Our pride was at stake!
At the first rehearsal back, Annette told us that Sam would not be able to come back and perform in the remount. This meant someone could come forward – or someone would be tapped to step up. I though about this for a while. Last year was my first time dancing on stage. I was not sure I was up for the physicality of the role. I refrained from stepping forward and committed to thinking about it. There were serious doubts.
I got home and there was a missed call from Annette and a message. Would I step in to Sam’s role? Would I perform the solo? The duet with Scott Elstermann? Play such a key role in the performance? I sat on the couch and stared at my phone. I was a lot fitter than last year – but could I actually do it? The performing? Holding the audience? It is a role that demands intensity and focus. I walked in to the kitchen and asked Jas what she thought. We chatted. Was I comfortable? Was I capable? Was I up for the challenge?
I messaged Annette: “Just got your message. I’m keen”.
Mind is keen, body is….
Annette and I went through details, organised rehearsal schedules, chorography, scores, musical cues. I was bursting with excitement. We had a series of one-on-one rehearsals scheduled to nail down the gruelling solo early. Annette was sick for a rehearsal, so I decided to head in alone and work through some dancing. About forty minutes in to the session, I leant forward innocuously, and my breath left me. Pain surged through my chest – wrapping around me like two hot wires stretching around me from between my shoulders – one around my chest, one down my spine. This was bad. My back was screaming.
I chatted with the physio after my second session with him. It had been two weeks. I’d been swimming as often as I could to free up my back. I was still in pain but recovering. He reassured me I would be fine for the dancing– it was probably a 4-6 week injury, so I was ok to ease back in to things. Six weeks had me up to the last week before working with Scott. Five days of intense rehearsals – two hours a day with Scott, two hours with the rest of the cast. There was not a lot of wriggle room if I pinged it again – but I had an entire show to re-learn, a solo to master and a duet to prepare for. There was not time to rest. Only time to recover.
There were weeks of hot and cold packs. Intense stretching. Intense hope that my fitness work before rehearsals would leave me in good stead to not just recover but be at performance standard. As the performance inched forward, my back freed up increasingly and I was able to perform more of the choreography with an improved range of motion. I would hopefully be fine. Hopefully.
A box, the corner of the shed
One week of intense rehearsals with a professionally trained dancer is a privilege that my football playing, punk rock loving teenage self would never have considered, but here I was. Warm-ups were a treat. Led by some woman who I begrudgingly met in Broome six years ago as I was dragged for an obligation (the incredible, hilarious and talented Sandi Woo) we explored space, movement, our body.
Scott and I worked on our connection as dancers. How to work together. I was in a space that many professional dancers would’ve happily traded for. We worked hard in warm ups to learn how each other moved (well, Scott learned how I moved, I learnt how to move). In footy parlance, we trained bloody hard.
We worked and worked. I slowly got more and more of the details and nuances I needed. Not all, I never got it 100% there – but that is the beauty of working with someone like Annette. No matter how good I got it down, there was the next way to improve. It wasn’t meant to be good enough. It needed to be the best I could do it. And finding that best takes exploration and improvement right up to the final time I did it on stage.
We did two shows for this remount – a Friday and a Saturday night in the Albany Entertainment Centre. It is a pretty serious venue. Early rehearsals had gone well. Dress rehearsal not so well. I, personally, was a mess and as a collective we misfired a bit. Didn’t bring the passion. We needed to step up for opening night.
I’d convinced a few personal VIPs to come both nights – all incredibly supportive individuals that have a special place in my heart. All a long way from contemporary dance devotees. There were some serious personal nerves, but I felt like I could do a solid job. The solo was the killer for me – to go too hard meant being too exhausted for the duet and “the angel” later in the show. There was no recovery time off stage after my solo. Not go hard enough and the solo lacked impact. It was a pretty fine line – the solo channelled anger and hate. Keeping a lid on that is not easy.
The first night, up to the solo felt solid. I was concentrating well. Keeping in time. Keeping myself together. “The Sixty” was so imprinted on my mind and body now that it was ingrained in my muscle fibres. Intensely familiar and personal. There was a zone. I was in it.
The performance progressed, I hit the solo incredibly hard. I screamed, the tortured scream of a broken man. I contorted as my body broke apart. I collapsed in a sopping pool of sweat. Shattered. Chest heaving. I rose for the duet, making my way through the lifts as best I could while my quadriceps screamed at me for rest. Scott and I connected. We broke apart. I focussed on my role. My embodiment of hate and fear and terror.
We hit the crescendo of the duet. A backwards hinge. During rehearsals it had been decided this part needed more action during the remount. We were to run backwards before quickly connecting and hinging backwards together. Annette had wanted us to be more “reckless”. Adrenalin surged through my body, dripping with sweat I came to the point that I ran backwards.
I neglected to look back and relied on the fact that I had a highly skilled professional on the other side who would (should) connect and catch me. He always did in the rehearsals anyway. We brushed arms. I threw my head and body backwards. We flicked in to position. We held. My chest heaved. I squeezed my glutes and abs to effortlessly rise in to a standing position and walk into our next position. I fell. Slumping to the ground. Shit. There would be a note for this….
A little less man-love
We ran through notes of the performance the next night. Scott saved me the night before, scooping me up of the ground in a tender embrace. We paused. I walked off in to the next position and tried to forget about it. To move on. We covered it well, but it was not right. The rest of the show had been great – our returning performers had stepped up to a new level. Our new guys were incredible. There was a lot of excitement within the group to go better on the second night, but the duet needed to be perfect. Thankfully, we (I) had a final chance to make amends. We got our note on what to work on for tonight. I would try to not fall over. A little less man love.
It was a big night for me. A front row filled with family and friends. There was a lot of nerves. My eldest brother had come along. Tony was a long way from his comfort zone attending and I felt a lot of internalised pressure to perform well. I felt like I couldn’t just be good tonight – I had to go to another level again. This of course, failed to recognise how far I’d come in the eighteen months since I decided to give dancing “a bit of a go” for the first project – but family, ego and emotion aren’t really logical things.
There was also my brother-in-law and good friend who had travelled from Perth just before flying out of the country to make the show. Mikey had attended the previous year’s show (and also Annette’s Creation of Now, which Jasmine had a large part in). He may be the “Manpack’s” greatest fan and is well known to the cast. His infectious enthusiasm and desire to understand the work has made him stand out amongst our impressive throng of groupies and admirers.
Mikey knew Sam wasn’t in the show. He knew rehearsals had gone well. He knew I was pumped up to perform again and he was surprised to hear that there had been changes to the show overall. We had breakfast together that morning, but I still hadn’t told Mikey I was now in the lead role. I was excited for the surprise to hit him – as it wouldn’t become apparent until just before the solo. There were a lot of things go through my head.
We were on to the second round of the Sixty and I realised I wasn’t breathing. My heart was pumping so hard I could hear it above the snare in the music. Adrenalin was reaching towards redline. I had gotten myself a little too wound up.
This wasn’t entirely unfamiliar to me. In some games of football and soccer, if it was too big an occasion and I got myself too lathered up, I would struggle to get “in” to the game. I would float through, not performing at the level I wanted. In those situations, I needed a reset. Either a long break or a big hit to the body. I careered through the rest of the Sixty, missing a beat, slightly out of time here, slightly fast there. Imperceivably to most in the audience, screamingly obvious to me. We lurched in to the second last group of sixty beats, a time to “break apart”. I bent my back, almost falling. I broke again, arching and driving my shoulders back. And again. I fell. On to my back. Fuck that hurt. I looked up and flipped myself to continue to dance. I think I was back in the zone now. I could hear the music again. Feel the timing. My head was back in the game. Just. I found my hit to the body.
The performance raced though time and space. The solo didn’t exhaust me this time. Scott and improved our duet. The reckless bend was just right. My body allowed me to unhinge. There was less man love. There were small moments of panic. Of adjustment. Of problem solving on the fly. I didn’t dance as well as I did the first night, but I fixed my mistakes better. Our duet was better the second night.
And most importantly in a team sport – the rest of the cast were more solid the second night. As a group we had improved again. The young performers in A Light Shade of Red hit their straps too, shining and rising to another level. We joined them onstage for the finale, took our bows and danced on stage. We’d done it. Somehow.
Community dance is incredible. The growth I’ve felt within myself is immeasurable. The bonds and friendships that develop priceless. I’ve been able to role model to my two young boys that men can dance and choked back tears during their stage debuts perform just a few weeks after our remount. I’ve been able to show to family and friends that dance is a lot different than they may think it is. Even if the appreciation is mainly on the physical requirements – a lot of those who came would never have come to a dance performance without a community connection.
This remount was a huge moment for me. Last time around was a leap out of comfort zone to discover I enjoyed dance. This time around was a nervous return to explore a new level. It was like SCUBA diving after learning to snorkel. There were serious moments of doubt. There was a strong feeling of being held by those around me. There was just incredible support from everyone– James with his genuine words of support, Sym, Rob and Nic’s notes on my progression, all the other critical components that got this off the ground and me on the stage. I refuse to list you all in an arbitrary shopping list – but these productions require many hands, many minds and many hearts.
The Manpack 2.0 was incredible. What a group of talented, well rounded, supportive and empathetic Aussie blokes who happened to do a bit of dancing. Everyone a brilliant person – everyone in their own way, critical to the success of this show the second time around.
Community dance has given me the chance to interact with some incredible professionals. Some incredible gracious, generous and genuine individuals who created an environment for me to step up and thrive. Sandi Woo was a reassuring force for me in both performances. We have come a long way since our first meet and greet and I would like to think I’ve stepped up the quality of our interactions since then. It was such a privilege to have had such a quality human being and seasoned professional support our cast through these two seasons. A talented champion.
Pina Busch Fellowship Alumni Scott Elstermann. Our bro-love got a bit too much for everyone else by the end, but what a bloody talent. Seriously. My admiration (bordering on adulation) was not unusual – the ManPack were transfixed whenever Scott rehearsed with us. To have not just the honour to rehearse so closely was so special, let alone watch him perform. And personally, to actually have the chance to perform a duet alongside Scott is something I’ll never forget. I don’t know what Scott is going to achieve over the next few years, but I’ll watching. You should too.
Finally, the force that is Annette Carmichael. Annette has an amazing ability to turn everyday people in to performers. It is not about 15 minutes of fame – but an opportunity to expand their personal identity. It draws you in and allows you to grow. Annette convinced us that we were worthy of the audience’s gaze. She built us up to be ready to take on the challenge – and stepped back as we stepped up. Her ability to weave a special place of magic for everyday humans to do something extraordinary is unique. Denmark and rural WA is fortunate to have her.
I love this project. It has given me far more than I feel that I have given it, as the returns were so great. From the mental health benefits from expanding my creative mind; to becoming part of a Manpack; to taking up a new challenge. The physical benefits. The new opportunities. The improvements and impacts for our family and my relationship. The joy of seeing two small boys take to the stage a few weeks after my own show – the original reason to jump off and be involved was to show my sons they too could dance if they wanted to.
This project has brought me so much and genuinely made my life better than it was. I owe this project. I owe Annette for believing in me to fulfill my role in it. There is no pressure or obligation to repay the debt, but a passion to ensure that others have the chance to challenge themselves and reap their own personal benefits.
The next chapter: Annette is seeking Two hundred women (!) to perform in her next dance performance called Chorus (Denmark, Albany, Mandurah, Bunbury, Perth and Ravensthorpe) Workshops will take place across the South of WA July – Dec 2019 leading to performances in March 2020. Don’t make excuses – if I can, anyone can. Email your interest at email@example.com.
A beautiful and honouring documentary from Rob Castiglione from last time around:
“The Government has come and cut a whole range of programs to fund Safe Schools. My statement is — the better allocation is going back to the programs they cut, rather than Safe Schools.” Thanks for the statement, Mike Nahan. You’ve inspired me to write to the Education Minister after she shot you down.
We’ve seen how effective targeting Safe Schools was for conservative politicians Federally and on the east coast – so it is no real surprise that WA conservatives have finally caught up. Hell, everything from policy, to road safety campaigns, to health systems to education initiatives comes from Victoria about five years late – so there shouldn’t really be a surprise. In fact, the Safe Schools Coalition launched in WA years after it had been running successfully over east since 2010.
An in some ways – you have to give Mike some credit. He hasn’t JUST attacked Safe Schools. He didn’t just come after a program that has run in one form or another in WA since 2015. Mike rolled this in to the Moora College issue to make it really difficult to argue against if you love rural kids. A side note, what he is referring to is actually called Inclusive Education WA here – but conservative voters wouldn’t recognise that, so I understand why he didn’t used the right name.
So lets have a look at some things.
We’ll put aside the details on the program it self – the ridiculous and often homophobic/transphobic claims around the material and how it is implemented have been answered elsewhere.
Just to be clear: If you think Safe Schools has anything to do with Marxism, sexualises children, brainwashing kids in to being lesbian/gay/bi/trans/intersex or parents don’t have a say – you are an idiot. Seriously. You are. Sorry (not sorry) you are offended, but you obviously lack to ability to critically analyse the homophobic hate propaganda peddled by disgusting creatures such as Lyle Shelton.
If for some reason you need to be convinced, go read any of these and come back:
Welcome back. So – this program won’t turn your kids gay or trans – but what it aims to do is create school environments where every students can learn, every teacher can teach and every family can belong. Bloody shocking.
Mike Nahan has done a great job this week of reminding WA that this program exists. It existed under his government of course, running while he was Treasurer since 2015 – but why get caught up on that. I know he hasn’t:
“There are very few new programs that the Labor Government has come up with, one of them is Safe Schools”- Mike Nahan (quote from ABC)
Mr Nahan also cares a lot about rural people and the Moora College. So this hugely expensive program will be cut to fund the Liberal Government’s refurbishment of the College. Just so we are clear, Inclusive Education is funded for $1.2 million dollars. Over 4 years. Costs of refurbishing Moora College are predicted at being somewhere between $700k (Mike’s estimate) to $7.2 million (Labor’s numbers). This doesn’t include ongoing running costs or the existing maintenance budget ($350k).
“If we win government, [we will] renew the funding for Moore Residential College, no operating costs. Landsdale College, Herdsman Eco Centre and the farm schools, not a large amount of money, by cutting back at Safe Schools and putting that money back into existing programs for education.” – Mike Nahan (quote from ABC)
If we win. Great line. Only issue with this, of course being the next election isn’t due until around 2021. Inclusive Education WA would’ve been funded approximately $1 million dollars in that time, with $350k left to put towards the refurbishment. Other small issue is that Moora College will close at the end of the year, so Mike’s new Liberal Government 2021 will have to refurbish it, and reopen it and set it up with a maintenance budget.
“The Government has come and cut a whole range of programs to fund Safe Schools. My statement is — the better allocation is going back to the programs they cut, rather than Safe Schools,” – Mike Nahan (quote from ABC)
Now, good on Mike for sticking up for the rural kids at Moora College. The problem is – Mike can’t help Moora now or next year. So why pledge funding to it three years out from the next election? Why target a program that was running (admitted Federally funded by the Liberal Government) when Mike’s party was in power?
Well – I my personal take is that it is a dog whistle to conservative voters. This paired with his attack on mainstream media reeks of Trumpist populist politics.There are other things he could’ve focussed on to “cut” once (if?) he regains power in 2021. Its a big budget. Targeting Inclusive Education WA is not accidental.
This is the reason I was moved to write to Education Minister, Sue Ellery today supporting her rebuttal of Mr Nahan’s comments. Calling for her to continue to support Inclusive Education WA. It is why I’m pleading with you to write to her, or email her and thank her. Today.
“Safe Schools is an important program designed to ensure safer school environments, for those public secondary schools that decide to access it,” Education Minister Sue Ellery said. (quote from ABC)
Don’t let populist politics impact on vulnerable WA kids. LGBTI kids experience some terrible outcomes without support from families and schools. Programs like Inclusive Education WA. So stand up, step up and stick up for these kids.
They are our future, they deserve to be loved and supported – don’t let them down.
WA just banned lightweight plastic bags and the whole word imploded as dog poo was left on grassy parks, bins became filthy and nappies spewed their unrestrained contents in to the streets. The NT banned plastic bags six years ago, but here in WA it is a day-by-day struggle to survive in this new landscape.
So now, as WA joins South Australia, Tasmania, the Northern Territory and Australian Capital Territory in banning lightweight plastic bags,and in preparation for when Victoria gets its act together, I’m looking at how our family has tried to make some small changes to reduce our plastic use and waste generation.
Full disclosure on these ideas: we did have a head start, being in the NT when the ban came through there; and we do live in a town that pro-actively decided to #BanTheBag early; and we do hang out with a lot of really environmentally conscious humans who don’t have a blog to share their ideas on.
Now, personally, I think this ban is great. Is it full-proof? No. Will it remove all plastic bags from waste – of course not. But we have to do something.
Making the argument that other’s won’t change so why should we – especially if it personally costs us puts you in the same category as Tony Abbott on climate change and Malcolm Turnbull on paying taxes. Or Andrew Bolt on plastic bags. Have a look at the company you are keeping before arguing with me about needing plastic bin liners or the fact that Indonesia and China will keep producing plastic. Save your breath. Go explain your position to a drowned turtle on the beach somewhere.
Now, in my local town, one little store took the plunge and went early banned the bag before the mandatory period. People continued to shop there and despite the other IGA in town abandoning a voluntary scheme one day in to it after failing to prepare its staff in customer service and education; the IGA X-Press kept its doors open and hordes of angry shoppers didn’t ransack the store. Amazing.
How any store around the state is coping day-today now the ban is mandatory, is anyone’s guess; but I’m sure they survived the initial looting.
In the wider world, in what can only be described as an amazing example of a feckless corporate entity being completely unable to read the room, Coles launched its Little Shop Collectables. I assume it all ties in with Coles “Better Bags” scheme in a move that just leaves you shaking your head. Seriously, who is running the joint. If you ever needed a reason to not shop at a major store, that would be it. Coles and Woolies have struggled with the banning of the bag, and will no doubt slowly adjust. How places like Aldi, or Bunnings, or farmers markets keep people from burning the place down is anyone’s guess.
So, how do you survive without a bin liner?
News flash. You don’t actually need one. I know this is a hard concept to understand, but the “necessity” of a bin liner is a lie. Bin liners were a solution to a problem we didn’t have and using plastic bags from the shops as a bin liner is just an extension of that. the outcry that the ban on plastic bags will lead to more people buying heavy plastic bin liners is right in one sense – except it doesn’t make sense because you don’t NEED a bin liner.
Now, I hear you – my bin might stink, or my bin might get sticky, or my rubbish won’t be a neat little bag of waste to carry out. It will be ok. We use newspaper to line the base of out bin, and shockingly, just empty our bin in the big bin when it needs to be emptied, and horrendously, give is a little wash with some vinegar and water if it needs a rinse out. There are great videos on line of how to make a bin liner out of newspaper. Aint no body got time for that – I just jam it in there.
Now, you might not buy the newspaper. Then use what comes through your junk mail. But that’s not recycling Carl – no its not, but wrapping biodegradable food waste in a plastic bag and putting it in the bin is not a better solution. Got dripping meat carcass that you need to put in the bin? Wrap it in paper first and empty you bin before it starts to stink.
Don’t buy newspapers ever or get junk mail – grab one of the free community newspapers that is available in your shopping centre – there’s the sweet little “good news” ones if that takes your fancy. Or, save your how to vote cards from the by-elections we seem to have every second week and use those.
You don’t need a little bag when you are buying fruit
You know how you have to put your apples in a little plastic bag before you take them to the counter to get them weighed? You don’t. Its a bit more hair-raising dealing with a couple of dozen loose fruit at the counter (not a euphemism) and can take more time – but you don’t HAVE to use the little bags. Use your own reusable bags and wash your fruit at home if your worried your bags aren’t super clean (you were probably going to wash your fruit anyway).
Same goes for meat. Our local butcher encourages people to bringing in their own containers to reduce the amount of plastic bags he uses. Have a chat to your local butcher, or your supermarket and see if they’ll let you do that too.
Handling nappies and dog poo
Now, we were pretty obnoxiously good about nappies and used bamboo cotton washable nappies for 90% of the time with our boys, so are pretty smug and annoying on this. Part of that effort was a desire to not contribute to landfill in a massive way when we moved to Indonesia for six months with a three month old. Not, again, I know that washing nappies takes energy, which is normally supplied by fossil fuels, but I did seem better than disposable nappies ending up in the river behind our house.
But when it comes to disposing of your dirty nappies – just ask your self: do I NEED to put this in a nappy bag, or can it go straight in the bin. Sometimes, things have gotten explosive and a bag is needed – but if your using scented nappy bags to keep your bin smelling “fresh”, you are a) misunderstanding the use of your bin, and b) spending too much time near it.
What about dog poo? Well, this might shock you – but wrapping biodegradable poo in a plastic bag and throwing it in the bin might not be great for the environment.
Even biodegradable bags aren’t that great at biodegrading in landfill with your tightly rapped schnauzer shite in it. So, again, use newspaper. Seriously, if you think using a couple sheets of community newspaper is any more gross that picking up a huge steaming dog turd with a sheer plastic barrier between you and the faeces – you don’t own a big dog. At least using a sheet of newspaper gets the turd out of your line of sight.
Just buy less plastic
Obviously. Yet not that obvious. Try and buy things in glass, or at worse recyclable plastics. Try to avoid buying pre-wrapped fruit and veg – don’t give in to the stores. I know people with disability or the elderly need some pre-cut vegetables to diversify their meals – but it should not be the norm.
Likewise, think about recycling and reusing – what can you get from you local op shop that is plastic that you need. We can all be better at this, but next time have a look and see what you can grab – from containers to office supplies.
What goes in my bin
Between our compost bin (and before they got foxed, our chooks), recycling and reusing – we’ve dramatically reduced what does go in to our bin each week. To the point we’ve now reduced our bin pick up to fortnightly. Yep, you can do that in some places, it saves you money on your rates and forces you to evaluate what goes in to the bin. Call your Council and ask. We also use a much smaller wheelie bin. Just don’t forget on your on week.
Composting is amazing. There are ways to do it in the inner city and you can get composting in your apartment too. We use our composted material in our garden beds for growing vegies (and self-seeded pumpkins) and it dramatically reduces the amount of fresh waste you throw in your bin. You start analysing everything that goes in. The City of Melville is even letting residents use their green waste bin as a compost bin – which is just amazing in my book.
Shaving and toothbrushes
I’ve just recently made the switch over to dual edge razors and I’m angry at myself for not doing it sooner. It always bothered me that I was throwing out so many disposable razors. Even the reusable handle style ones have a plastic head. I tried an electric razor for a while, but that just left me with short stubble. So, after years of living off of a three-to-four day shave cycle to minimise my razor use, I jumped on to Beard and Blade and bought a double edge razor and some shaving soap (to get away from the mass produced stuff).
I have to say, its early doors, but the shave I’m getting is much, much closer (first one was too close, but once you have the knack on pressure, the shaving rash subsides). I’ve doubled down sive then an ordered some more blades for my razor. I’ve been really impressed with how long they’ve lasted, but i also wanted to buy myself a wooden toothbrush. Again, early days – but I’ve been really impressed with it, and every time I brush my teeth I know get to look at myself smugly in the mirror in the knowledge that my tooth brush handle (the bristles aren’t wooden, unfortunately) won’t end up in landfill for centuries.
That is what this is all about. The smugness reduction of what ends up in landfill and doing our bit – despite those who aren’t doing there bit.
I’d like to indulgently start with the two things I learnt about that I treasured the most from my Kokoda trek – a greater understanding of my beautiful Grandfather and what I learnt about myself and my family. They were my greatest learning and my greatest gains from my trek – but there were things that made that possible. This is what I learnt.
I learnt about why my Grandfather never really talked about his time in PNG. It was horrific. From being isolated as a platoon on ridge during the Battle of Isurava, fighting for his life; to being severely wounded trying to carry his platoon leader (Butch Bissett) out of the field; to being lost; to seeing his mates die; to fearing for his life; to thinking he probably wouldn’t get home; to fighting a foe that was battle hardened, unscrupulous and unforgiving.
We learnt about the battles. We learnt about the atrocities. We heard about mates having to bury their mates in interim grave sites. We heard about mates finding their mate’s graves so they could exhume and re-inter those mates at Bomana Cemetery. We learnt so much about what those young men faced. We were lucky to have an experienced guide that could explain the stages of battle, the way things worked out and give another layer of insight. It taught me much about my Grandfather.
I got to learn a lot about myself and my family. I was able to learn that my Mum is an amazingly strong woman – determined and driven by the desire to pay tribute to her father – she pushed through excruciating pain to achieve her dream. To trek with what we thought was a sprained ankle (actually a broken leg) for eight days through mud and hills is beyond tough. I was able to learn that my Aunty Berna was also an incredibly strong woman – who rather than conquering pain (though she had some) – she overcame a genuine fear of being hurt. Berna successfully overcame her mind. Her doubts.
I learnt that my brother, Greg and I have different ways of showing support and love – neither are better or worse than the other – just different. I learnt that Greg can push himself to succeed. I learnt about him as a person, a brother and a man. I learnt about myself. I discovered new boundaries on how hard I could push myself. About the limits of my empathy and compassion. I I re-evaluated some of my life concerns and rebooted my brain. I thought a lot about my Grandfather and my Dad – and what great men and amazing influences the both were on me.
Train your guts out for Kokoda. We put in hours and hours of strength and cardio training. I prepared carrying a 18kg pack. Soft sand. Middle of the day. Rain. Get out there and train. Most importantly, all the training you will do will not replicate Kokoda conditions or really prepare you for it. It is unique and bloody tough. What you need to do is get your body ready to recover quickly. Multi-day training programs are a must – get your body used to walking up big hills with sore legs. You’ll have sore legs on your trek.
I spent our trek wet. It was rainy season and we got a lot of it. I would hang my wet shirt and pants on a stick outside my tent each night and put it on wet in the dark in the morning. It was rained on normally within a few hours anyway. That was when it wasn’t soaked with sweat or wet from a river. Don’t be precious about being wet. I gave up on taking my shoes off to cross creeks early on the first day. IF you somehow keep them dry across the creeks, if it rains, they’ll get wet anyway. Just get on with it. I also gave up drying them. After the first night of putting on my damp, smoke smelling shirt, I figured stuff it. I also wore the same shirt and pants the entire trek, just changing socks and jocks. I had dry clothes for night and sleeping. Everyone is different, but it really worked for me.
Get good gear
Don’t buy cheap shit. Buy the best gear you can afford. Borrow it. Steal it. Spend a lot of money on a really high-quality blow-up pillow and light mattress. I splurged on my pillow and thanked myself every night. Buy a great, light sleeping bag. It is bloody cold high in the mountains. One night I was only sleeping in my silk sleeping bag liner and woke up at 3am shivering and confused. Take heaps of seal-able plastic bags to keep your precious stuff dry. Buy really good socks and get used to the idea they will be wet. Bring really good quality underwear and try to keep it dry. Bring really good foot-care stuff and use it often.
Boots or shoes
There are message boards filled with people asking questions and no real answers. I think I was the only person on my trek to wear shoes rather than boots. I wore Scarpa Vortex shoes (from paddy pallin) because I already owned them and they cost lots of money. They were great. I have terrible ankles and they were perfect for what we were doing. I wore low grieves and trousers, so they were mud free (inside) for my entire trek. Others wore boots and thought they were ok. Wear what you normally wear and make sure they are light.
Buy them. Seriously, don’t be a hero. Get them, they are great, almost everyone had them, they saved me from falling twice and helped me get up hills. I had really fancy Black Diamond Carbon Distance poles from doing Oxfam Trailwalker events, others had cheaper ones. Just remember, you get what you pay for.
Picking a trek company
I learnt that not all tour companies are the same. Yeah, some talk about small groups and minimal impact. Some talk about their speed. Some are much cheaper than others. What I learnt during my trek is that if you are gong to a remote area of the world – don’t try and save money. Our trek had an enormous retinue of porters and support crew – and I really appreciated the layers of support they provided.
Adventure Kokoda and Charlie Lynn are the only people I would recommend. Are there others that do a great job? Probably, but I saw enough to know who I would go again with, or would trust my family and friends with.
On the trail, there is no coordinated booking system for camp-sites – it is first in first served. No room? Keep walking. Adventure Kokoda sends your tent crew steaming ahead to secure a camp spot. Adventure Kokoda cook decent food for you (we watched another group cooking their own meals – there is no way I could’ve done that after getting in after dark and sorting out Mum). Adventure Kokoda has a one-person-per-tent policy – if I’d shared a tent with Gregory, I would’ve killed him in Efogi. You NEED space from each other.This applies to sleeping in huts. No thanks.
Not every company makes sure you get home safe – Adventure Kokoda gave a stranded tour group one of our planes to make sure they got back to Port Moresby safely, while Charlie waited at Kokoda for a replacement plane to take him back. He put his time and convenience behind another tour company (whose guide had left them at Kokoda “Airport” with no way home, waiting for a plane that wasn’t coming). Don’t try and save money trekking Kokoda. If you can’t afford to go with an established company, re-think doing it this year.
Do I need a porter
I learnt that you should hire a porter. Seriously. Just do it.
Yes, you can walk without one, you big strong man you – but get over yourself and support the local economy and give a guy one of the only forms of employment available to him. You’re not proving anything trekking without one. Literally nothing. If you do walk the whole way without one, no-one cares. There’s no extra certificate. And you miss the opportunity to learn about the language and culture from your porter. The insights (and laughs) my porter shared with me really made my trek. Greg’s porter and mine did spend a lot of time helping Mum and Berna – so if you DON’T need one – consider who you are trekking with and if a spare pair of hands would be useful.
How your porters are treated
As for the conditions for porters – please make sure your trek company looks after their guys really well. Use this as the guide on how to pick your company: if you give half a shit about the legacy of Kokoda and the amazing job the Fuzzy-Wuzzy angels did during that campaign, don’t use a company that rips off their descendants to save you a dollar.
Pick a company with strict and reasonable weight limits – some say 22.5kg is the max they’ll let a porter carry – that is huge. Our porters were limited at 18kg (keep in mind, things get heavy after a tropical deluge). My guy carried 16kg, I carried 14kg.
Make sure your company hires spare carriers for the extra gear that needs to be carried and hires spare hands if a carrier goes down with malaria. Make sure they supply sleeping mats and sleep bags (some expect porters to buy their own – from a meagre wage). Make sure they are paid. Make sure they are ethical. Think about why you are trekking and think about if those reasons align with your company.
If you want to trek Kokoda as a bucket-list trek and have no interest in military history – pick anyone. Or better yet, pick a far more picturesque trek elsewhere in the world. I saw a lot of jungle on my trek. And a heap of mud. Cinque Terre sounded lovely in comparison. Otherwise, pick a company that doesn’t just know the wartime history, but understands it. I’ve read a lot since I’ve come back – but never served in the army. The ability to have the stages of battle explained in particular sites really helped my understand what I was looking at and what my grandfather would have been expected to do upon arriving at a site. Shell-scrapes, trenches, defensive outposts and ambushes.
Be present when you trek Kokoda.
I couldn’t get my head in to reading the history books before my trek and didn’t know my Alola’s from Efogi’s – so when you are there, take it in. Once I was home, I was able to connect with the books and understand what they were detailing.
Be interested in your support crew. Ask them about their village, their family, their culture (when appropriate), their language.
Buy things form the villages along the trail – fruit, hot cans of coke, snacks, trinkets.
Talk to your fellow trekkers.
Talk to your guide – ask relevant questions about the battles you are discussing.
I’ll never forget the feeling of wandering in to Isurava. The moment the huts and memorial came into view. It was such a relief. Our trek from Alola to Isurava had only taken two hours, but this was our eighth day of trekking. Mum collapsed on the ground, buggered. We were able to lay up for four hours waiting for the rest of the trekking group to roll in. We did our washing. Had lunch. Lay in the sun. We had prime camping real estate too for our tents.
Moments after the rest of our group arrived, torrential rain started. Our clothes were clean(ish) and dry. We just nipped undercover and watched the tired walkers scramble about trying to get into their tents. It was nice to be on the right side of things for a change.
Isurava is the most impressive and imposing memorial along the Kokoda Trail. It is one of the few examples of things that the Australian government has done right. After seeing significant battlefields marked with memorials individual RSL’s or battalion groups had fund-raised for and installed; after seeing the lack of infrastructure along the trail; after seeing disused clinics built in completely forgotten villages far from where they were needed, it was nice to see a memorial that in some way was appropriate.
That didn’t stop the land-owner of the memorial “closing” it for access to trekkers unless we coughed up extra money to walk in there. Greg and I were perplexed. We’d trekked hard to get here and now couldn’t get in. Once Charlie and his head security man, Big Joe rolled in – there were some stern words, some stern postures and the ropes came down.
There had been an issue with payment for the owner of the land in the past, and ‘surprise, surprise’ at some point in the past, the wrong family got paid by the Australian government for access to the site and had moved on – with the cash. Now this guy was left mowing the lawns in preparation for Australian dignitaries who would be choppered in for ANZAC day, but not getting paid right. More prime Australian bureaucracy at work.
On our way from Alola that morning, Mum needed a rest on a log. “In behind the log was a sign saying “Cons Rock” and asking for five Kina per trekker to enter. Roger’s porter, Sebs told us it was the surgeon’s rock during the campaign and was the setting for the field medic during the Battle of Isurava. I stood at the top, keen to make it to camp – but compelled to look at what the medics dealt with during the war.”
“I made my way down a short but steep track and saw a large flat rock covered in beautiful red flowers in a clearing. My eyes welled with tears and it took my breath away as I thought of the brave work the medics would have done – faced with hopeless cases and broken young men.”
“As I walked closer I noticed a plaque on another rock – this was the place Butch Bisset was carried to after he was wounded. This was the place Stan Bisset held his brother as he died in his arms. This was the place Grandad and his mates were trying to get Butch back to camp when the Japanese attacked them, where Grandad was wounded, and lead to him being left for dead. This was part of our story.”
I grabbed the others and we spent some time by the rock. There were more tears. This was close to Grandad. We knew – somewhere between this rock and somewhere at Isurava – he was wounded. Kombi, the trek medic came down the hill with a bunch of red flowers to place on the rock with us. It was a special moment on our way to a special place.
Dawn at Isurava
“We held an incredibly moving dawn service today at Isurava memorial. Charlie explained the Battle of Isurava to us, and pointed out the important aspects of the battle ground. One such aspect was the hill that Butch Bisset was wounded upon.”
With all this information, when we returned to Australia – the books that had meant next to nothing – meant so much. Records of the Battle of Isurava meant working out Grandad’s time there, was now possible. As part of the 2/14th’s B Company, his platoon (commanded by Butch Bisset) had relieved 11 platoon on the ridge. They withstood heavy attack and “close-quarter fighting” (Peter Brune, A Bastard of a Place, pg. 147). The 10th inflicted heavy casualties on the Japanese soldiers.
“When you fly by helicopter over this Isurava high ground you are struck by its isolation” (Peter Brune, A Bastard of a Place, pg. 148). Standing at Isurava, looking at this ridge (and later that morning walking part of it), it really was isolated. Grandad and his mates had serious “work” to do up there. It was no wonder he never spoke of it. Again, written by Brune about this ridge and the 10th: “this type of close fighting the individual soldier, as the enemy gains ground under attack, fights an exceedingly personal war…….. the high ground and its cane field had to be held – lose it and lose Isurava”.
Eventually the battle required the 10th to withdraw. In an effort to carry out their platoon leader Bisset, Grandad and his mates had come under fire again, while attempting to descend uneven ground and as darkness was encroaching. A grenade caught Grandad. He was severely wounded and lost an eye to the shrapnel. He lay unconscious and amidst the fighting – presumed dead. The others pushed on, getting Bisset back to safe ground where he would die with his brother.
Grandad eventually came to as the Japanese soldiers took the ground, bayoneting and kicking the dead as they went. The Japanese went on to take Isurava, and it took Grandad five days to make his way around their lines and back in to Myola. Missing an eye. Scared. Alone. Presumed dead.
His mother was notified that he was missing, presumed killed in action. He was listed in a memorial book as KIA. Some of his mates from the 2/14th, being a Victorian battalion, didn’t hear from him after the war. When he walked into a reunion in Victoria some fifty years later, his mates who believed he was dead in a world before Facebook were shocked he’d survived.
Amazingly he made it. He survived. He avoided horrific tropical infection. He trekked out from Myola to Ower’s Corner, bandaged, but mobile – there were too many wounded for him to be stretchered. He was offered, but refused, knowing others couldn’t walk. He made it home to Australia. He got married. He had fifteen children. He only applied for his war medals in 1991. He rarely spoke of the army, the war or Kokoda. My only memory of him mentioning the trail (he did call it a “track” out of respect for the PNG and the battle honour, I’ve called it the trail) was on seeing the Sydney Swans trek it in a television documentary, he had quipped: “It looks like a highway compared to when I was there.”
All of this made much more sense as the Battle of Isurava was explained. I had no idea where he had been actually wounded before the trek. Berna and Mum knew more – I just knew it was “Kokoda”. Everything made sense. We hadn’t just learned more about Grandad’s time here – we had been able to see it. We stood after the last post and a moments silence, before our porters and support crew sung for us. “Their voices were absolutely beautiful. They sung a number of songs and finished with the wonderful PNG national anthem. We gave ours a decent crack, but lacked the ability the PNG boys displayed.”
“We then took some time to soak up the monument. It’s a travesty this is the only real monument on the trail.” We then took several hundred photos before heading for Hoi. We passed ADF security hiking in for ANZAC day, who were keen to hear about our trek; and other Adventure Kokoda trekkers, fresh on their second day looking shiny and new compared to us. We had reception for the first time in eight days – I didn’t message Jas and she hadn’t messaged me – I was glad because my head was firmly here on the trek and I didn’t want the emotion of home just yet.
Greg had a proper stack that morning hurting his elbow and his knee. It slowed us down a bit and reminded both of us, that while Mum and Berna seemed like they could fall at any moment – they weren’t alone – and it hurt.
At Hoi we were welcomed by a traditional dance performance in torrential rain. “I’ve never not cared about the rain so much in my life.” In fact my idea of rain, mud, sleeping comfort and hills have been changed forever.
“We are to be woken at 3.30 tomorrow – will walk to the airfield, then breakfast, presentations and goodbyes to our porters. This will be sad.”
My porter, the 28 year old Vene from Sogeri is a real character. His sense of humour has really helped me get through some very tough long days. He was a legend that bloke. He lived with his sister and her kids. He would trek back to Ower’s Corner from Kokoda in two days, pocketing his airfare allowance. It took us ten. He does it in double-plugger thongs.
“This trip has been really emotional, and at times draining. I really missed Jas, Jack and Henrik and can’t wait to tell them about what I’ve seen and done. It will be a long journey home – starting from a 3.30am wake up call – but I’m ready to go home. I’m tired of mud – thick, gooey, sticky mud. I’m tired of insects and spiders. I’m tired of helping others. I’m tired of walking. I’m tired of wet clothes and wet shoes and socks. I’m tired of sleeping in a tent. I’m tired of being away from my family.”
As much as I wanted home, I was grateful and thankful of what I’d been able to see and learn – about Kokoda, my family and myself. “The word adventure is used too often. So is brave and courageous. I’ll use all three and they should be used – my courageous mother took on an amazing, brave adventure in Kokoda and I was lucky enough to go on the ride.”
The end of the line
We made it to Kokoda and the incredibly underwhelming “museum” there. An Australian government sign told us the newly upgraded one would be opened in early 2016. It was April. There was no new building.
The trek was a downhill roll through the fog and mist. Mum did her best to power along but came in second last, just ahead of the incredible Bev and Roger. The group made a guard of honour for the last two groups, and clapped and cheered them in. The resilience and perseverance from Mum and Bev, in particular, had struck everyone. Yes they were slow but God – they had kept going.
It was emotional getting to Kokoda – and in many ways, I was completely raw and exhausted. There were only so many more tears I could shed, but I managed quite a few. Our fellow trekkers were awesome. Their support and love to us all helped get us through.
We had a “hearty breakfast”, farewelled our porters and headed for the airport for what would be a long wait. A thick fog ruled out landings for a few hours. I was keen to get back to Port Moresby and call Jas. I could call from Kokoda but I wanted the trek “done” before I checked in.
We eventually made it out in small caravan planes. One of our groups got stuck for several hours in Kokoda – another tour group from another company had been stranded by their leader without a plane. Charlie sorted them out with one of ours, which meant a long wait for some of our group. I was already three bourbons and a shower deep at Sogeri lodge when they rocked up, tired and over it all. Expect the unexpected.
When we landed – I called Jas. As she answered I couldn’t speak. After a few minutes I got enough sentences through to let her know that somehow Mum had done it on a “sprained ankle”, and we were safe. I had a lot to tell but couldn’t do it at the time.
The next day we attended another Dawn Service at Bomana Cemetery before having a “hearty breakfast” and getting out of the lodge. Being back in Australia after such an epic adventure was bizarre. “You want to scream that you’ve just done this amazing thing – this huge achievement – but given the lack of recognition and understanding of the Kokoda campaign, you wonder what is the point.” Our Australian taxi driver from Brisbane airport didn’t know where Kokoda was, or what it was a part of. I was determined to pass on the “Spirit of Kokoda” once I got back to the real world – and that has manifested in speaking regularly to the Year 10’s at my local high school about Kokoda and the Battle of Isurava. We talk about my Grandad, who grew up in their town; about Stan and Butch Bisset; the 2/14th and the 39th and the rest; about Bruce Kingsbury, VC; about war; about sacrifice; about losing your mates; and about remembering. It’s an honour. One I am grateful for.
“I hope one day I can go back to the trail. Back to Myola. Back to Isurava. Not soon, but one day. Perhaps with Jack and Henrik so they can learn about their heritage – learn about the amazing war-time efforts of their Great-Grandad Jack. Allow them to learn about the great peace-time efforts of their amazing Gran. Allow them to continue the story of Kokoda – to build on our family’s story. Build on our history.”
Note 1: There will be one more post about the things I have learnt and some tips for surviving a trek. Thank you for reading.
Note 2: As explained in the introduction, it turned out my mum, Anne, had not sprained her ankle on the second day of our trek – she had actually broken her leg. The x-rays performed two weeks (!) after she returned home showed a fracture to her tibia and fibula. Nine weeks in a moon boot had it fixed. The shoulder took a little longer.
This next instalment explores our trek to Myola – why it was significant and the good grace of the shovel man.
Morning broke and we were milling about starting to get ready. The word from our tour leader Charlie, was to get Mum and Aunty Berna out ahead of the group and on their way before the rest of the group left.
This would put them ahead of the shovel man, but this would be ok. This was also the morning we were meant to meet the school children in Efogi, pass on our books and gifts, and hear them sing. I realised I was going to miss it leaving early. I felt sick.
Before leaving Denmark, my son Jack knew I was going to pass on some gifts to some children in a village. As a parting gift he had drawn a picture of me holding a little girl’s hand and passing her a present. This image – a simple kids drawing – had got me through the last couple of days when I wasn’t sure if we would even make it to Efogi. Jack wanted me to tell him all about the children when I got back. And I was going to miss it.
Greg and I were getting ready to leave with Mum when I attempted to tell him how I was feeling about missing this. It was really not that significant I told myself, as I tried to explain my disappointment in missing this little ceremony. We’d both really pissed each other off the night before and things weren’t 100% yet. I tried to talk, my voice cracked – and then the tears ran. The sheer exhaustion and emotion of the past few days, plus missing my kids – hit me like a train.
We finally hugged and made up, and he told me we had to stay. For Jack and Henrik. Mum would be fine without us – and this was important. Part of me felt silly for being so upset. Part of me felt so relieved he knew how important it was to me at that point.
Mum and Berna set off towards Kagi with Greg’s porter, Henson and my mate, Vene. The two other back-markers of our trek, Bev and Roger, took off just after them.
The children of the village sung for us – wonderful little songs about frogs and friends, and of course a spirited rendition of O Arise, All You Sons. We were given fresh flowers and had the chance of taking a heap of photos. I was partnered with a delightful little boy called MK. Our trekking group responded to their singing with a lame attempt at our national anthem – lacking a lot in melody and cuteness. We were given a prayer send-off and pointed in the direction of the track.
Greg and I made sure we were at the front of the group initially. We didn’t want the pack to catch Mum and Berna, and the trail was narrow. Perhaps we might slow them down. We didn’t need to worry about that. On the Adventure Kokoda treks, you have a shovel man – ours was Bradley.
Bradley was from Efogi and had a teenage son. He had a great sense of humour and an even greater sense of what was going on with our trek – consistently stopping the group to “feel the breeze” or “take a look at that view”. At one point, Bradley was trying to get us to look at a mist-covered mountain from a mist-covered mountain.
No-one is allowed to pass the shovel man, even at a rest point (the shovel may find its way in to the back of your head). Bradley was stalling our group and holding us back to give Mum and Berna more of a chance.
“We eventually got to mum at Kagi village. Her and Berna were the first in to lunch – a mighty, mighty effort”. They were exuberant. Mum looked like the cat that got the cream. Maybe this sprained ankle was coming good. They took off soon after we got in, full steam ahead to Bomber’s Camp. Our highest altitude camp.
I spent the day talking to the other trekkers – particularly Richard, from Newcastle. He got it. Everything. Mum, Grandad, us. He had his own things to explore and work through on our walk – but his conversations were golden.
“Mum, Gregory and I made it before dark (first time in four days!) and were able to have a wash in the freezing cold river, which will be great for recovery.” Up until that day, I had been washing in the dark in the river, often after carrying buckets of water up to the tent for Mum and Berna to wash in. I would wade into the water in my hiking clothes and boots, get undressed while washing my clothes, throw them back on, and walk back to my tent. I would then hang my dripping clothes on my tent spikes – to be put on cold and wet in the dark the next morning. Doing this in the light was a nice change.”
I went to bed tired, but surely less tired than Mum. I have had everyone in the group tell me “she is so inspirational.” I tended to agree.
“Tomorrow we finally reach Myola and the site of the field hospital. It will be emotional.”
We had been sent straight to Big Myola, while the rest of the group headed for the US bomber site and Little Myola. This was what we’d come to see – the site of the field hospital Grandad had wandered in to, severely wounded from the battle of Isurava. After being left – presumed dead – he’d spent five days wandering the jungle to get here. Our wander had been dramatically easier – but we were still anxious to see this site. Grandad ended up naming his property in Albany, Myola. This was our pilgrimage site.
“The walk wasn’t too tough compared to previous days and we arrived in time for morning tea – and in good shape. It was incredible to make it to this almost sacred place. There was plenty of tears – from all of us. I can’t really describe the feelings I felt, starting across this flat grass “lake” to the point Grandad would’ve come in to. A mixture of happiness, sadness and pride.”
“The porter’s crew were incredibly respectful of our family during our time there – very quiet – and gave us a lot of space (and time). This was a welcome and beautiful thing for them all to recognise. I personally thanked Warina (Mum’s porter), for helping Mum to get to this point – it had looked doubtful a number of times.”
The space the porters and support crew gave us was incredible. They had all heard why we were going there – and the usual Pidgin sing-song chatter and teasing that was the soundtrack to our morning tea breaks was held for us. It was silent. There was hand shakes and hugs. Respect.
We eventually tore ourselves away from this place and made our way back to the trail. We were emotionally weary. The next few days were going to be tough – we’d reached our goal. We needed another one.
We climbed Mt Bellamy (2,400m) and started our descent towards our camp site at Templeton’s crossing 2. “As we came down the hill the main group finally caught us. Mum kept pushing on, while my porter, Vene kept telling Bradley to slow down and let Mum come in first”. I know the main group wanted to push on past us, but Bradley – rising to the occasion – held the group back and Mum was the first trekker in to camp. Great for morale.
We did “wash-wash” and thought about dinner and what lay ahead. I wasn’t sure what the motivation would be to get us to Isurava. Its significance wasn’t quite real to me yet. I chatted to Greg (one of the other trekkers, not my brother) about what lay ahead. Then he nailed it – “you’re probably keen to get to the Isurava memorial to pay your respects to your Grandfather’s mates who didn’t make it back”. It was so right. Our focus had been so much on Myola – the importance of the memorial hadn’t made it to our minds until now. That would get us there.
“Just before dinner we had a quick toast of whisky to Grandad (his favourite). There were more tears and we said a few words to honour such a great man. The whisky almost tasted like Grandad, and I could almost feel him sitting there with us – whisky in hand, a grin on his beautiful face and a twinkle in his eye.”
Eora and Alola
We left camp and hiked our way along to Eora creek. It took the Australian soldiers 13 days to fight their way from Templeton’s 2 to Eora – it took us a mere four and half hours. Charlie explained the battle for Eora creek and the various feats of bravery. This was the real benefit of having an experienced military guide – Charlie didn’t explain things like a book – he made the battle fields come to life.
We also learnt much of the atrocities here. The cannibalism, slaughter of surrendered troops, and using wounded Australian’s as bait. “By the time the Australians had got back to Eora creek – they didn’t just want to defeat their enemy – they hated them.”
“We left Eora on the wartime Kokoda Trail for Alola. We were told it may take 2-2.5 hours. It took 3.5. Heavy mud all the way and a massive downpour slowed progress. Mum’s ankle is sore and her back is very sore. Berna’s feet are hurting and an early fall stripped her confidence and really slowed her down. Greg has a very sore leg and my left knee is playing up.”
We were to spend the night in Alola separate from the main group – just us four, Bev and Roger, and our new friend Rachel – with dinner prepared by 2IC “Kuk”, Sam. We spent the night chatting in the dark before a semi-restful sleep. Our tents had been set up on a steep slope so I kept ending up in the door of my tent. We had no idea how long the walk to Isurava would be – we had been told it was 4 kms and should take 45 minutes. “I’ve told the group to allow for 6 hours – just in case”.