Returning from his mandatory prayer session, Jumma, our Moslem tour guide, quizzed us about the quality of the scrumptious lunch we had just enjoyed, overlooking the turquoise waters of Wadi Bani Kalid, with a mosque and our restaurant as a backdrop.

“This could be the Garden of Eden,” remarked Helen.

“It’s all about to change,” advised Jumma, as he turned our 4WD Pajero Sports wagon around, to retrace our journey, up the flood ravaged wadi.

“Time to see the barren side of Oman, deep into the Wahiba Sands Desert … 37 Kilometres deep, to be exact. Hang onto your hats!”

As we exited west, from a tidy Omani village, the terrain changed from solid ground, to a gibber plain, to sand … thousands of square kilometres of yellow, brown, red sand.

Jumma, our quiet, polite and considerate driver, changed, too … into a crazy, 4WD hoon!

A convoy of 4WDs was caught and passed, as he churned our vehicle over dunes and along unchartered tracks. Arriving at a Bedouin hut, we stopped for sweets, dates, cardamom coffee and souvenir hunting. Jumma educated us on the customs of this activity, while our masked hostess politely served us.

Meanwhile, the convoy had retaken the lead, so the chase began, again. Our next destination was a pass between two mountainous dunes, but our progress was slowed when we became temporarily sand-bogged. Tyre pressures were reduced, and the grand prix became serious. We scored the chequered flag, at the entrance to the pass.

“Yay”. We enjoyed every bit of it.

When the 1000 Nights Bedouin Camp came into view, we wondered what new experiences might be in store.

“Genuine hide-covered Bedouin tents, with ensuites. Luxury,” we agreed.

The admissions area and marquee restaurant, led to a swimming pool.

“Want to climb that dune and see the sunset? “I asked.

“Not really. Let’s have a swim and a wine, instead.”

A tasty barbecue was backgrounded by a local Omani musician. It took a while, but we did get comfortable on the abundance of ground covers and cushions, that were spread around. No chairs, nor tables.

The equivalent of a Bedouin “Jam session”, with an interesting ensemble of local musicians and musical instruments and dancers entertained us until we retired, into a very comfortable bed.

Unusual noises outside our tent, woke us early and, on investigation, we were welcomed to the new day, by three grazing camels. No lawn mowers out here, so I nick-named them Victa, Honda and Rover.

The breakfast menu of omelettes, sausages and customary breads was appreciated, and was followed by a small camel rodeo, where Helen volunteered to ride a young beast. Fortunately, for her, she had horse riding experience as, when the camel lurched forwards, she was nearly speared into the ground, in front.

A more sedate Jumma drove us back to civilisation, with plenty of photo stops (one for a new-born camel), amongst the dunes.

He floored as with his closing comment,” I am not very fond of sand driving!”

FAMILY CARAVANING
by Meryl

It was the season for birthdays and anniversaries with Gramps turning 85, Melody and Jim’s 42nd wedding anniversary and Peter’s 13th birthday. The other three couples were all about 40. Four generations in all. What was the family going to do to

celebrate all these occasions?

A party was ruled out as people would need to find accommodation nearby. Maybe a cruise? Four of the family had caravans, so it was decided to go camping at Cania Gorge, which was about an equal distance for all to travel. As luck would happen all these occasions fell around the Kings Birthday weekend. Even better it was where Ben had proposed to Angie 15 years ago, but in May. Cousin Bruce from Bundaberg contacted and asked if he could join the group

bringing his tinny for fishing for Red Claw in the dam. It was shaping up as an event to remember!

Sites for four caravans and a cabin for Gramps and Bruce were booked near the swimming pool. They also booked a 44-gallon drum camp fire. Now the logistics. As the caravan group were well experienced they took on the job of making the menu and working out how much of anything would be needed for five days with three

meals a day for 10 adults and six young people, with big appetites. More consultations and it was decided to have a couple of bonfire meals. Yum! Angie was delegated to place the order. The day before leaving Angie picked up the groceries filling the boot of her 4-wheel drive. What a lot of paper bags to distribute into everyone’s caravans. Perishables were stored in camp fridges. All set off the next morning and with a comfort break on the way arriving at campsite early afternoon. Bruce was a little late as he blew a tyre on the trailer

towing the tinny. Lucky he had a spare and would go into Monto for a new tyre before leaving for home.

The caravans were set up in a square leaving a large space in the middle fortwo 3x7metre marques. Collapsible tables and chairs were arranged under these for meals and card games. Time for a beer or cuppa.

The young people were already in the pool and the water slide. What a noise but they were enjoying themselves. Now it was 4.30, time to feed the birds, white cockatoos, galahs, lorikeets, king parrots and many more sitting of arms and shoulders taking seed from the hand.

Dinner was cooked using a caravan kitchen and bar BBQs. All the adults including Karin, a 15 year old, did the cooking. Dinner was eaten with birds perched all around trying to cadge a bite. The other young people were on clearing up duty.

The campfire was lit as night approached and marshmallows were roasted. This proved to be the pattern for the next 5 days. All packed up on the last day congratulating each other on such a family event to be remembered.

A FIRST TIME FOR EVERYTHING
by Malcolm

My hometown of Bournemouth, on the south coast of England, was a popular seaside resort. By the age of twenty-one my only ventures across the sea were a couple of trips to the Isle of Wight, a sixty-minute ride on the car ferry. That year I met my future wife Marilyn, who was on a working holiday from Australia. We married a year later; and made plans to move to her hometown of Sydney, where I would meet my new in-laws. Our flight plans included stopovers in Bangkok and Singapore, and I was filled with a mix of excitement and trepidation. I was about to visit two exotic locations, and meet the man who had declared on the phone “You’re marrying a bloody pommie?”

Our first stopover was in Bangkok. On the first night we prepared to go out to sample some of the street food. Marilyn looked at me donning my suit and tie, “Are you really going out like that?”

“Why not? I like to look my best.”

She shrugged, “Your call”.

The doorman gave me an odd look as we left the building; and when I felt the blast of hot air I knew why. I took off my tie and stuffed it in my pocket. A hundred metres down the road I stopped. “Wait here while I go and change.”

We visited a few magnificent temples, including one with a huge golden buddha. Then we went on a pleasant river trip. As the boat returned to the drop off point I remarked. “Very nice, but it’s so hot I’ll be glad to get back and have a nice cold shower.” At that moment a river taxi raced past and drenched me.

We decided to try eating out that night, and as we walked along the street a doorman invited us to experience his establishment. As we stepped inside he closed the door, and we were left in a dimly lit room where we were ushered to a table and given a drinks list. We scanned the pricelist as best we could, looked at each other and bolted for the door. We would eat in the hotel that night.

Our first night in Singapore was just as warm, and equally exotic; and we decided to try eating out again. Marilyn suggested we walk down to a place called Bugis St, where we encountered a number of stunning looking ladies who were apparently inviting men to spend the night with them. When I remarked how glamourous they were Marilyn smiled.

“They’re all men” she replied.

We walked on quickly; and came to a place where street vendors were cooking up a storm.

“Do you want to get some dinner here?” I asked.

She was about to answer in the affirmative when her eyes were drawn to movement below on of the stands. “Good lord, look at the size of those rats.”

We had dinner at the hotel that night.

The next day we were on a flight to our final destination.

“Well, it was an interesting trip, but the excitement will all be over soon and we can relax” said Marilyn”.

Easy for her to say, I still had to meet her dad.

EVENTS
by Robyn

Triangles of bread, for some reason recognized as more aesthetic than squares. The usual toppings are overlooked in favour of the faded colour droppings that stick into the margarine. Their edges curl upwards, reaching away, while the wax from the reused candles drip into the thin transparent icing that decorates the specially purchased unfilled sponge. Slices of strawberry, becoming jam-like in the heat, hide in the whipped cream that sandwich it together. Glasses, from the top shelf of the veneer display cupboard, wait on the table with the promise of soft drink.

The earthy smell of polish emanating from the laundry. Sheets of newspaper spread over the floor are tarred with the brush strokes of previous industry while the neatly paired shoes wait under the bed, gleaming, but never really managing to fulfil the journey’s promise.

A diary, each year making an optimistic pledge to itself with the potential that is held in its clean blank spaces, but gradually forgotten as it gathers coffee stains, dog ears and strokes of organized disorganization. Times, places and names are crossed out and rearranged to facilitate, or simulate life well spent.

Sitting resplendent in a sea of faces, each person isolated yet akin in the banked rows of seats. All wait expectantly to be swept away to an alternative reality. Planning, queues, online purchasing, these challenges are long forgotten. Traffic, carparks and crowds have been negotiated. The bell announces the final call. The successful journey to this moment is lost in the anticipation, absorbed in the spreading hush, released in the applause. The lights shine on a different time and place. A better one. And then after, the tickets are treasured, stowed inside a program that validates that this event took place. You were there. Then put away inside a drawer, and perhaps forgotten with time and moments that keep moving on. Two-dimensional fragments that try to hold on to, to reclaim that which is magical.

First teeth, fairy visits taking them away, early lessons in life’s illusions.

First boyfriends, first fights, first falls from grace,

The first kiss…and all that lingers the embarrassment of falling desperately short, teeth on teeth.

Meetings, holidays, jobs, houses, dogs, cats, family, friends and foes.

Weddings, singular then plural, reflected in the lessening of ceremonial pomp.

Babies conceived, born, growing. Older and away. Children then adults, accumulating their own collections, versions of memories, of events, which too will gather dust, and be forgotten, reimagined or calcified. Photographs and stories reinforcing, validating their history.

Last goodbyes.

Stories, dancing with and around choices. Events with blurred edges and moments that neither finish nor start. Stockpiles of moments. Like towers, or dominoes. Events significant, superfluous and indifferent are both the master and slave to destiny.

The sun rises.

THE INACCURATE BAT COUNT
by Valda

Black bullets of scat along the verandah, sent them into the Wildlife Centre to procure a white tail rat cage.

It was there they received the invitation to join a small group to count the number of flying foxes (fruit bats) located in the trees on the banks of the Daintree River.

Setting off late afternoon a small group of locals boarded, plus an American couple, who happened to be staying locally. So, sitting in a small boat on the majestic Daintree River, they were ready to play their part for Australia.

Cruising down the river there were flocks of Imperial Pigeons flying overhead returning to Low Isles, Forest and Azure Kingfishers, Herons, Egrets, while a Brahminy Kite soared high looking for prey. A tree snake hung coiled over the branches of the Daintree Satinash - one of the overhanging rainforest trees, with the usual inhabitants sunning themselves on the banks in the last rays of the setting sun. Once at the designated spot, clickers were issued with instructions ‘click with every five observations, making sure to have a boat strut to line up with.’ Too easy.

The sun set over the Great Dividing Range as the emergence began along with frantic clicking. These small creatures rose in swarms of thousands as they headed west to the fruit orchards and rainforest fruiting trees. After 30 minutes the air had cleared and numbers were recorded. Oh dear, they ranged from 1500 to 35000. The highest from the American dressed in his khaki safari suit, complete with souvenir badges covering his hat. ‘We will take the average and should come again tomorrow night’ the Wildlife Officer announced. Two nights on dusk cruising this beautiful river, what more could one ask for? ‘Might bring some champers tomorrow night, and ‘bring a torch’ advised our Skipper.

The following night complete with eskys, the happy group trooped down the ramp to the small Daintree River tourist boat. Once again, the Americans with freshly pressed safari clothes and large cameras dangling around their necks, were first to board. Same spot, same thousands of emerging bats with clicks filling the air. Unfortunately, a similar variation of numbers, but an average would be sent off to the data input person in Canberra, who after many weeks of processing from various groups, would present this very important information to cross party politicians at a Parliamentary Sub-Committee meeting.

On the trip back with glasses overflowing, while shining torches over the still waters checking for red eyes, someone yelled ‘Jesus’. The American woman crossed herself, and everyone rushed to the side of the boat, not to see the apparition of the man himself walking on water, but the two red eyes of a very large crocodile lying alongside the very small boat.

‘That’s Big Bill, he knows the sound of my motor. He’s King around here; his sexual desires are fulfilled by the number of ladies he has in his harem. No food for you tonight Billy boy’ said the skipper.

And off upstream they went, after doing their bit for their country and keeping a highly paid Canberra Public Servant employed.

VERA'S PICKLES
by Sallie

Vera carefully selected the ingredients for her special pickle. She entered this recipe in the show every year. Of course Vera won every time because it really was a delicious pickle and the ribbons on her dining room wall were a testament to her successes.

The recipe was handed down by her great, great grandmother. I’m not going to tell you what the ingredients are because they are Veras’ special secret and if revealed who knows who might try to copy it and sabotage Veras’ chances.

She carefully blanched, chopped and used her selected spices to produce yet another winning jar. Using pinking shears she carefully cut a circle of blue checked fabric to cover the lid and tied it up with jute. After all presentation was important too. She went to her computer and printed a large sticky label with what her contribution was. No name, she would be given a number when she handed the jar in. She re-read the rules, but she did know them off by heart as they hadn’t changed in donkeys years. The judges decision is final and no correspondence will be entered into.

All she had to do now was take the jar, hand it in and let the judges decide that once again she was the best pickle maker in town.

The tent where the entries were to be handed in was busy when she arrived. A harassed looking lady sitting at the desk was collecting the entries, handing out a number and writing in a ledger the name and number. The jars were lined up in a neat row waiting for someone to stick dots with numbers on them.

Eventually she called out to her assistant that she needed help. “Please put your phone down and come and help me,” she said.

Ann sauntered over and a roll of numbered sticky dots was thrust into her hand. “Put these on the jars please,” she was told.

Now Ann wasn’t the brightest. She did as she was told but started numbering from the closest to the furthest instead of the other way around.

Judging day over and the show was on. Vera stood looking at the array of pickles, relishes and chutneys. Yes her pickle once again had the winning certificate. She looked again, horrified to see that the certificate upon which her jar was standing was attributed to her arch rival Elsie Stockton whilst her name was against a rather

runny looking relish.

The judges decision is final and no correspondence will be entered into …

EVENT HORIZON
by Melinda

When it came, it was sudden. No-one saw the machines rolling over the horizon towards the town.

Sunday March 5th. 6am. They sky was a beautiful cerulean blue with wispy cirrus clouds stretched across. Cirrus form at 5 or 6 kilometres altitude. They are the first to catch the sunlight as it rises and again as it sets. This morning the sunrise caught the clouds in a rich palette of pinks, purples and oranges. A melody of birds filled the air; the laugh of the Kookaburras, the machine gun chattering of Honeyeaters and the flute of the Butcherbirds. Photographers were snapping and the town was waking.

Sunday March 5th. 10am. The gentle Autumn sun caressed the ocean and caught the foliage and houses on the coastal hills. People were going about their lives. Coffee shops were humming. Cappuccino machines gurgled - punctuated with a rhythmic tapping, dishes clanked and people laughed and chatted. Staff were arriving at restaurants in anticipation of the lunchtime trade. Somewhere music played low. Paul Williams. A love song … ‘I Never Had it So Good.’ Not too far away cows stood mooing and grazing in fields.

Sunday March 5th. 10:45am. The warning signs appeared only briefly, cloud cover thickened - a portent of things to come. Distant cows began bellowing and snorting. Pigs squealed and shrieked. Chickens squawked. Dogs howled. Cats hissed. Birds exited suddenly, en masse. Eyes turned towards the sky. The sun was gone. Darkness had fallen. Whirring sounds joined the animal throng. And then, just for a moment, there was silence.

Sunday March 5th. 11am. Hooks were slung over electricity wires. Bodies dangled by the shoulder, swaying violently in the now marine force winds.

That was how it started here in Yeppoon and in many towns along the east coast of Australia.

Cows, pigs, chickens, pets, soon came to understand that it was the humans who were now being sought for their superior meat. A powerful predator had arrived. Life had changed. Suddenly.

AN EVENT
by Julie

Take great care with your clothing: for men long trousers, a long-sleeved shirt buttoned at the collar, and if you are wearing sandals wear socks. For women, long slacks, a modest top that covers all, a headscarf (like the queen of England) and like the men socks if wearing sandals. Also note there are usually 30 – 40 executions per week for those breaking the law which could include drug trafficking, murder, homosexuality and the drinking of alcohol.

Thus began our two-week sojourn in Iran. The first thing we noticed and which stayed with us throughout was the courteousness and friendliness of the local residents who were the most welcoming people we have ever met. Wherever we went we were greeted “Welcome to our country. Where are you from?” The school children in particular were very curious and ever hopeful that we would talk to them of Australia. Invariably they knew of Skippy and Kwalas, and were keen to hear of our way of living. Education is extremely valued in Iran, and we were surprised to meet so many University students with high expectations for their futures, and how they could contribute to the well-being of their country. We were also surprised and thrilled to see teenage boys and young men reciting the poetry of their most famous poet Hafez at his mausoleum in the Musall Gardens complex. But I stray.

On our second day we visited the Vakil Bazaar, so beautifully built with vaulted ceilings, and windows and openings to let in light and also to keep the interior cool in summer when the temperature regularly reaches 40 degrees, and warm in winter when it could be -2.

As we were enjoying the colourful sights of the merchandise on sale, dolls, carpets, hand knitted rugs, spices so beautifully presented, ornately decorated jewellery boxes and exquisite metalwork, we were interrupted by a young man, Arash who told us he was a university student and could he be our guide at the market and thus practice his English. Welcome Arash. He was beautifully dressed and we guessed about 22. He told us he was studying Economics and hoped to go into business following his graduation. He was a most interesting young man who had come from Isfahan to study and was hoping to return there for work as he very much missed his family and friends. His English was very good and he was able to give us a lot of information about the architecture of the bazaar itself as well as answering our many questions about the products on sale.

We strolled at a leisurely pace until I realized we had almost runout of stalls and were at a dimly lit dead end. Oh boy. Before we knew it, Arash had Digger in a most passionate embrace and a very deep throated kiss. After much kicking and punching from me Digger was able to extricate himself from the firm clutches of our guide who took off at a fast but determined pace. We too hurried past the stall holders until we were sure we were not being followed by the police and or the hangman back to the safety of our hotel longing for a cool beer which we could not have.

DIFFERING VIEWS ON A SINGLE EVENT
by Cindi

Who needed the Internet to meet an interesting single man? They had achieved that easily; new in a district you always joined a club that reflected your interests, and they had joined three so far. Their setup ideas for an accidental meeting with their man had clicked into place for them with almost un-nerving precision, actually

overtaking their original plan.

He had mentioned his deep interest in orchids and talked about the coming display at the Garden Centre in his village a few miles away. As plant nerds themselves, she and Brenda had hatched a plan to attend the display, then to phone him, saying that they were on his stamping grounds and inviting him for coffee with them at the

Garden Centre Café.

Enjoying the garden-ware shop before heading towards the orchid exhibition, Alice was startled to see the man himself stride confidently in, smiling as he saw them.

Mundane small talk indicating pleasure and surprise at meeting him ensued, with the invitation extended naturally for him to join them for coffee.

All orchid displays are exotic and beautiful and this one was breath-taking. Silence pervaded, and the earthy fragrance enveloping the flowers peacefully enveloped them as well, what a bonus. A tiny frog on one specimen orchid riveted their fascinated attention for minutes. All three enjoyed the ambience and agreed they really should attend more often!

Coffee and cake with leading questions from Brenda. Polish family? Good, how different! Skills, marriage, children, age, dog or cat person? Brenda and Alice were a rapt audience for his gripping life moments. Eventually, Brenda remembered the veggie seedlings she had planned to buy and hurried off to do that, leaving Alice and Pete happily sharing Pete’s car experiences and his sons’ nefarious and humorous plans for his future.

What an enlivening talkfest Alice thought. I could almost fancy him. But four wives and all those children. No, there might not be any money there, but they could do it just for practice. He’s interested, not nosy about us at all, but who in their right mind wants to be a fifth wife! An ‘affair’ might possibly work; de-factos often do quite well.

As long as Brenda and I still have each other, maybe a ‘menage a trois’ would be fun? Although it sounds quite bland in French!

‘Silly women' Pete mused to himself. 'I didn’t need to ask a single direct question to find out just how financially secure they are. This is my old game and I’ve never needed the internet to play it. Much more of a challenge in person! Much more fun.'

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