There was a village in a time before the moon entered the skies where trial fighting, magic and the daily life coexisted.
I want to end this year with a look back on my writings and musings throughout the year, marking the first year that I spent understanding how best to ‘tell ones story’, as it is often the hardest thing to do.
Though I have tries exploring different forms of writing, I have enjoyed the voice of poetry as a medium for story telling so here are some of the poems from this year.
Performing Sex Poetry
Continue reading “#40 My Poetry in 2017: Caffeinated Sex, PNG and Cairns”
In a recent piece, I spelled out that I had grown accustomed to owning a vehicle in Cairns. Not a lot has changed. I still need a car, maybe more so now since I sold my car and live a fair way out of the CBD.
It was with a tad bit of bitterness then when I chanced upon a piece in the The Conversation written by Professor Barbara T. H. Yen reporting on her research with a team of scholars from Griffith University.
I sold my car several weeks before I headed to PNG for a gig, substituting my own apathy toward public transport for the kindness of friends, only to realise how much I needed my own legs.
I’m breaking a sweat from J-walking across Grafton Street.
For the first time in a few mild months, I am reminded that this is the tropics.
The feel of humidity rising in the morning leaves a lot to be desired as I get caught in the mid-Friday-morning sun darting into Rusty’s for the ritual coffee and samosa.
Friendly nods between the frenzied buzz give way to warm murmurs interjected by the whizz-shhhhh of the coffee machine at Billy’s.
Flippy-floppy thongs slap hard against concrete followed closely by the clip and clop of a heal and a shoe.
Someone mentions in passing that it looks like ‘it’s going to be a hot one’.
But I can’t tell if they were talking about the coffee or sun.
I notice the first signs of redness beginning to show on our melanin-deficient brothers and sisters who have ventured a bit too long without sunscreen.
The morning streets will soon be a buzz with tropical professionals zipping into air-conditioned hideaways of the next cafe to avoid unsightly sweat patches.
But the weather this time of the year is temperamental.
The rains do poke through humid blue skies on the odd occasion, cooling streets and shrinking sidewalks.
It lingers long enough to make us yearn for more sheltered walkways. But it stays away long enough for us to forget we need them.
The indecisive weather is part of the lifestyle. A short walk from the Esplanade to Cairns Central would attract an unwarranted public baptism by either precipitation or perspiration.
I call on a thought to distract myself from the rising hunger as I wait in the samosa line.
How is it that our city stops short of catering to our tropical lifestyle?
Why does my daily commute to work have to involve navigating patches of sweat from rising humidity?
We praise the outdoor tropical lifestyle, yet accept, and think it normal to spend the better part of the week inside air-conditioned cubicles glaring through double-glazed tinted panes.
This is the disjuncture of our existence that evades the public forum, but one that concerns us all.
This may be about to change.
I bite into my tamarind sauce topped samosa to settle the hangry morning monster in my belly.
Taking advantage of JCU’s agenda on pursuing research with a tropical focus, the JCU TUD Lab will pursue important questions concerning the livability of tropical urban environments. A feat warranted by a State of the Tropics report that claims close to 50% of the worlds people will live in the tropics by the middle of this century.
After having the Cairns Regional Council’s Tropical Urbanism vision applauded at the state level, this TUD Lab would mark an important milestone for thinking about tropical planning and urban design in Cairns, if not the world.
The Lab is set for launch at JCU on the 20th October with registrations essential for catering.
Maybe there will be some respite from the heat soon.
- RamblingsOfAGlobalCitizen (blog)
Cafe whispers muted, rustling and audible. Ice in my coffee, K4 wara, na K2 coke, surrounded by non-Indigenous Papua New Guinean residents. This is what the weekly pilgrimage looks like. Same-same but different.
I put on my best grin as if to greet a long time friend. It’s only the girl behind the counter. I expect something, but not even a momentary silence could solicit a response. No courteous pleasantries.
I sigh. It’s different. Different is just another normal – I tell myself for the hundredth time this week.
I hope she makes good coffee though. She’s cute, I could stay in her eyes for endless moments but I check out instead. Her innocent smile gives her away, I see a whole world between us that would be pointless crossing.
No small talk today pretty lady.
I find my place in the middle of the cafe. In the corner, there’s a group of expatriate wives and girlfriends sharing a laugh over their regular Friday coffee-mornings. Behind me, a group of ladies, both non-Papua New Guinean and Papua New Guinean sit huddled practicing their Tok Pisin, mastering the art of ‘Maus Wara’, all dressed in Morobean meri blouses. A missionary pilots wife and the mother’s leaderdship group – she is pregnant. There is something oddly calming about it all.
Cafe whispers muted and rustling.
But there’s the noticeable absence of men here. Why?-
A child scurries across the floor to catch her mother’s laughter. Between the ladies, the table is set for play. Toys lay littered between mugs and plates of half eaten cakes. The child is passed around, resting in the arms of the oldest in the group. The child’s mother prepares a bottle of milk. A well rehearsed drill between the six of them.
The strength of women. I am reminded of my aunties and mothers sat atop woven-mats spread across a creaky wooden bed in a ‘haus win’, sharing a child’s cries.
Same-same but different.
Cafe whispers take on a whole new meaning now. I see this third space more for what it is then what it was. Here, the humble cafe serves more then just coffee. It is an elevated space – almost sacred to these non-Papua New Guinean residents – offering a taste of what is normal for them in a land foreign to them. A space to reproduce some semblance of their culture while they wait out their time in this timeless land. Sharing stories, rearing children, creating their version of a Papua New Guinea they will not soon forget – that their children will call home forever.
Sitting between both worlds, I too have come to associate the humble cafe with a space for respite. I gravitate to it to escape the strangeness – to make sense of the strangeness – but mostly to find familiarity, to sit and meet with my thoughts, to make memories I would not soon forget.
I notice these things more, the more I come back to this place.
I catch a young Papua New Guinean child pierce the hum-drum chatter of the cafe with his curious stare. Hiding behind a plastic pot plant, he peers through his fear of being seen, wondering how far apart our worlds really are. An outside observer making mental notes, who will no doubt tell his friends of this strange gathering of white people and this black guy at the monestary of the black juice.
How primitive they must be to work so hard, to earn that money, to spend on expensive dirty black water. Samting bilong ol waitman.
Our eyes meet and hang a second too long, reminding me of my own foreigness – both in this cafe and in my own land.
I avert my eyes. I sip my coffee. I continue to write.
He’ll never know how much I need my dirty black water.
It’s different. There is nothing wrong with different.
One-hundred and four.
A letter to Mr & Mr Too-Wrist