With the passing of time

We used to catch up every Christmas. Once a year, every year, my Mother's aunts, cousins and their children would descend upon my Granddad's place and for seven hours would interact as though we'd never been apart. This was only a small part of the older generations, the part still talking to each-other and willing to endure again the tradition of Christmas Eve together. Of the children, there were 11 of us then, all just kids, with about eight years between us and together we instinctively resumed the teasing and petty alliances that had formed the memories of last year's Christmas Eve. We knew each-other at that age: we were young enough to truly focus our attentions on the small swing-set placed on one corner of the backyard and squabble fiercely over the placement of baby Jesus in the manger when midnight arrived. We were also clever enough to know which traditional desserts required our undivided attention as like each-other they only appear at festive times of the years when the grandparents had taken the time and effort to create them especially for us.

As the years progressed, misunderstandings arose and the petty alliances of the children transferred to the grownups. Christmas Eves dwindled until the cousins stopped coming and it became just my extended family. Children grew up, finished school and then finished uni and are now heard to be travelling the world and starting their own families with their own traditions. Cousins maintained their feuds, divorced and came to terms with the idea of dating anew and becoming grandparents. And the grandparents themselves just got older and frailer and smaller.

Now, we catch up almost every year, once a year. We congregate outside and exclaim at how the children have grown, how much they look like Uncle R or Cousin E. Cousins swell in pride at their childrens' accomplishments, how well they did in uni, what graduate program they've successfully gained admittance to and how successfully their love lives are blossoming into fruition. About once a year, my Mother's aunts, cousins and their children descend upon a local church and a service is held in memory of one of the grandparents.

Avenues of Blue

Its strange, being home you take delight in the little things you used to take for granted. Little things like the expanse of the unconfined river weaving its way through the landscape, its banks occasionally dotted with houses, the sight of native scrub lining each side of the freeway... The jacarandas here are out and have been for a couple of weeks now. They are stunning as they stand out from the surrounding suburban landscape and provide this intense flash of colour that can catch you unaware until you are under the tree and travelling through the carpet of soft velvety purple flowers. They've become a strange source of reminiscences as they flower in the last six weeks of school and every morning on the way to school my sister and I would count all the jacaranda trees that we could see from the back seat of the car. I vaguely remember the 10 minute drive produced at least two thousand trees as we were always competitive and made the most of our excellent eyesight and memories to out-count the other. Now, driving through this purple flecked landscape I remember those days and the disappointment in my final years of school and then uni when exams and even earlier finishing dates meant that we were already on holidays before the jacarandas had begun to light up the surrounding roof-scape.

As though to compensate for this, I spent the day at my old uni where two jacaranda's stood contrasting their pale purple blossoms against the vivid green of the botanical landscape. Coming back to it after so long, I wished i'd had my camera on me as I no longer take for granted our extreme good fortune that we have the ability to receive a superb education from the midst of what could pass for a botanical garden. From a seat in the library one overlooks an expansive foliage of iridescent greens peppered lightly by the blooming azaleas and limber stalks of two jacaranda trees. Even our neoclassical administration buildings, proud in age and tradition rest in the shadows of a Moreton-Bay Fig and submit to the clawing grasp of an entangling creeper. And all of this is without taking into consideration the array of bird life with which we have been blessed. Nothing creates memories of university life like the experiences of having one's lunch swiped by a kookaburra, your bottom pinched by the resident ducks or your exam interrupted by the mating call of the alpha peacock.  

Not that I'm biased or anything, but it really is the best campus in WA.

Pasar Malam

Every year, Curtin University and UWA host international food festivals centred around the culinary delights the students have brought with them from their own countries and cultures. The universities here have a large and diverse Asian population and they bring with them their cuisine, meaning that we have an equally diverse and authentic range of Asian cuisines here. 
Held on balmy spring nights they are a culmination of small local oriental businesses and kitchen-savy students selling some of the hawkers/snack food that they have grown up with and can now make themselves. As a partaker on the eating side of activities, these evenings make for a fun night where hoards of hungry students, past students and general food lovers converge on the narrow strip between the stalls making sure they don't miss out on the very best of the takoyaki balls, bubur hitam, ice chendol, grilled squid tentacles, deep-friend anything and everything, and all other delicious dishes that are going down. 
Watching the crowd, its easy to tell which stalls have the best food or the most fashionable products as  each one has a queue a mile long and you know you'll have to fight your way through to the front if you want to try it before it sells out. 
As a family, we usually make a point of going together, taking as many fellow food lovers as possible with us and gorge ourselves silly on as many different things as possible. It's like Yum Cha. the more people there are the more you can taste and ultimately the cheaper it becomes. 
This particular year there were fewer of us and unfortunately no grilled squid tentacles but after two years of London's idea of Asian cuisine, who am I to complain. 

Birds of Paradise

Mum's garden is spectacular. It is a floral wilderness at the moment and an intriguing mix of classic English flowers, local flowers that verge on being called weeds and natives plants that upon hitting water threaten to overwhelm the entire garden. Wandering though the undergrowth, you're never quite aware of what you will stumble upon; be it a forgotten fruit tree ready to be harvested, an unusual and expensive native that surely died last summer, or the lemon scented gum that decided to remind you of its fragility by sending a branch crashing down upon the rest of the garden. 

Where-ever you wander, there is sure to be something to marvel at. And because it is such a treasure trove it is filled with a superb mixture of the local bird life, all of whom torment the cats and ensure that these four legged predators are aware that they are not the masters of this small patch of paradise. We have always had the wattle birds testing the cats' agility and patience, and the baby magpies who cry pitifully for their parents to feed them... again, interspersed with the lorikeets and kookaburras who flock overhead and warble down at the dramas enacted below.
However recently we have acquired two newcomers: Curled up at the breakfast table enjoying the morning's cup of coffee it is not uncommon to see a sacred ibis tiptoe through the herb garden just outside the side door, foraging through the leaf litter for a tasty treat. They are graceful creatures who have habitually combed the neighbours’ lawn for years now, but obviously decided that this garden looked far more enticing. As morning tea time rolls around this ibis stalks the surrounding gardens aerating the soil before hydrating themselves from the lilypond at the edge of the path.

Our other guest is a beautiful little black and white kingfisher who has a taste for fish (probably frogs) and the largest worms that the garden can produce. This later guest is a delightful visitor as he hovers near to the kitchen window and is more than happy to be subjected to the gaze of anyone and everyone - provided he gets the worms he so desires. Unfortunately it makes for a bit of a standoff in the garden for Mum is fond of her worms, as she is of the coconut matting the magpies pinch for their nests, and does not take to seeing the kingfisher extract plump worms from anywhere in her garden.And when you venture out into the garden, he hops up on a hanging basket and watches you through a glistening black eye, wondering what you are up to, and ensuring that you are thinking the same of him. That is until the time it decides that you have ventured onto it's turf and are thereby classified as an intruder. It is delightful to hear as on this occasion the kingfisher was in complete uproar for the simple fact that Mum was in the garden fossicking through her pile of potting mix.
But the birds have the run of the garden, for the poor cats have been quelled into submission, though they'd hate to be told that.

Museo Massimo - Rome

Actually known as Museo Nazionale Romano and located within the Palazzo Massimo, this museum is one of my top recommendations from Rome, and sprang to mind again when my sister requested suggestions for her own imminent visit to this city of old Julius.

As mentioned in a previous post, this museum was a god-send after the disappointment of several others, but raiding my photos I felt the need to showcase a few more of its utter delights.



Though at first glance this appears very much to be a garden room, for the most part, the plants reproduced have an association with funerals and the hope for immortality. Included are Oleander (its toxicity making it a symbol of death), Arbutus (used in funeral rites to protect the dead), Date palm (possessive of powers of regeneration), Box (associated with the god Hades), Coronary Chrysanthemum (a component of funerary garlands) and among others the Opium Poppy (a close relation of death).

I wish I possessed the skills to paint something as detailed as this. It is a familiar scene though, similar to the one I am fortunate to see every time I look out of the family room window onto the back lawn.





The Greek Prometheus who angered the gods by stealing their fire to give to the mortals. As punishment he was chained to a rock and daily, Zeus' eagle would descend upon him and pick out his liver. What impresses me most about this myth though is the medical accuracy of it; even then, the Greeks knew that the liver was the one organ that could regenerate itself, to be eaten again the next day.

My darling friend N is not the most accepting of any ducks due to the indecent behaviour of the ones patrolling UWA, so this is for her, with my love.

While these ducks are beautiful in their detail and realism, they are but a small part of the border of a far more impressive mosaic, portraying most possibly a scene on the river Nile.

Would I be a sadist if I contemplated including a few of these in the tiling of a guest shower? 

The Orange of Ireland

When I was in Bodrum I bought a very bright orange cotton shawl. While I didn't need it in Greece or Rome, the moment I reached Ireland it became a godsend: after the sun of the Mediterranean the weather in Ireland felt colder than ever and I needed the shawl to keep the icey draughts away from the neck of my coat. Back in Dublin after a tour of the island, I continued to wear it: I liked the colour and against the dull grey sky and cold summer air, it provided a bright spot in each day.

I intended on my last morning in Dublin to visit the Castle and spend the morning meandering through its rooms. So after buying my requisite Ireland charm, I headed in that direction. Unfortunately, as seemed to be my luck with the Dublin Castle, it was closed for the day for a private function. As I approached and bounded into the foyer for more information, a cameraman at the door switched on his camera and very obviously started recording. Thinking about it, I wondered if the function was political: there hadn't been people arriving in cocktail dresses. Was his reaction simply because I was wearing orange? Because I was wearing orange and walking with a purposeful stride, and there had been recent troubles in Belfast? I don't know...

I like to think I looked unique enough to warrant notice.

Wishes and Kisses

Ireland appears to be the necessary place to go to have wishes granted. I only managed a week on this emerald isle, but  was offered the most ingenious ways of getting a husband, regaining my virginity and  gaining an even greater gift of the gab.

The first occurred at Glendalough, a small religious community buried in the depth of a lush valley and surrounded by rolling hills, fresh streams cutting their way through the rocky terrain, spontaneous forests of evergreens and a string of lakes that reflected back the pale grey sky.

If anything it was a setting in which to have wishes granted. In the midst of this idyll there was a large stone cross, unadorned with any ornate carving  but standing next to a delicate pink fushia. Now legend as it was told to us is that if you can put your arms around the base of this cross and interlock your fingers you were destined to be married within the year. However as I attempted this feat another person was informed that such a feat simply granted a wish of your choice. I did, and I could, but I wonder if it means I'll get married in a year, have a wish granted or just have long arms. I suppose we shall have to wait...

Further around the coast we encountered Dunuaire Castle situated on a tiny peninsula in the Galway bay. Dating back to the 16th century it is a simple tower castle and courtyard surrounded by high stone wall and thin path circling this outer wall. Here legend has it that a wander anti-clockwise along this beaten path would restore the virginity of anyone who completed the loop. However as wikipedia makes no reference of this but instead tells tale that if a person stands at the front gate and asks a question they will have their answer by the end of the day, I do wonder if our legend find its root in a tour-guide manual. 

And if this isn't enough, our tour then joined the pilgrim to Blarney Castle in the hopes of being blessed with great eloquence or skills of flattery . If only I needed that. However I was as happy as anyone to hang backwards over the battlements of the castle in order to kiss what has become a smooth and polished building block. Such eloquence! The question then becomes: how does it work if you already have a gift of the gab?

do they cancel each other out?

does one negate the other?

are they piled on top of each other so the more you kiss it the more eloquent you become...?

Always Look Up.

I appear to have this untoward fascination with Gargoyles. Ask any of my London friends. I utter a cry of delight whenever I see one and, as one my friends roll their eyes and wait patiently for the photo to be taken, as I did 10 - 12 years ago.

My first memory of noticing gargoyles was on a trip to London with my family. I remember standing by the railing peering heavenward as my Father's camera was carefully trained on one of the gargoyles on the roof of the Natural History Museum. I cannot remember what it was, just an animated creature that grinned down at passers-by, always watching, but rarely watched in turn. But I plead that there were and still are so many. Sculptures, figures as gutter pipes, beetles moulded into the walls, silhouettes along the ridge-line standing out along the grey sky.

Since then I've adopted a mantra: 'Always look up', particularly when wandering through and urban jungle. In cities that dwarf us and have done for centuries now, there there are so many amazing details that are usually just above one's eyeline, or miles away hanging precariously off the end of a roof. They date from the middle ages, weathered and worn beyond recognition, to the modern age, art deco carvings presiding over a street off the main thoroughfare of Piccadilly. I've seen comical faces said to belong to the uninviting members of the local council (Aalborg, Denmark), a delicate little owl purported to bring good fortune to whomsoever rubs it (France), mythical creatures, extinct animals, gremlins, and faces frozen in a gamut of emotions.

At London's Natural History Museum, the outside is a myriad of various sculpted animals, arranged into extinct specimens on the left of the main entrance and living species on the right. But what's even more impressive is that the gargoyles continue inside. Monkeys clamber up a vertebrae as you walk beneath them into the main hall, completely ignored by the birds ensconced in the bowery arches. Lemurs gnaw at each other in the corners of the room, while on another pillar a lonesome mouse quietly nibbles away on a purloined berry. Upstairs real skeletons swing along the corridors leading you towards the mineral room where you appear to have sunk to the ocean floor beneath the fish and Crustacea that decorate that stone pillars.

They're all different and they're all beautiful, left to the whim of the sculptor as to what he might chose to draw attention off to the side, away from the general line of vision of passers-by. But when you do catch sight they make you smile, perhaps even laugh at the world around you, or at the absurdity of the sculptor.

However it was in Dublin that I found the most delightful of my collection. Unlike many, these were at eye-level, set back about a metre from the footpath. They decorated the base of a series of columns at the National Library, though I'll admit I'm not sure what a mongoose playing a lute or greyhounds have to do with a library. But then again, they don't need a purpose. I just wonder how many people have walked past them not even noticing the monkeys playing billiards.

The Bodies in the Museum

29 August 2012

Growing up, I remember my school library having this small but informative book on bog bodies. It was hidden amongst a collection of other books of weird historical facts, well away from the history section, in an aisle of the library few people frequented, and I liked it that way.
I got it out repeatedly, for the bog bodies intrigued me. Not so much because they had benefited from a natural form of mummification, but because of what their preserved state could tell us about the lives of them and their communities, and because of the mystery around the ritual behind their deaths.
Preserved bodies can tell us enough about who they were, from the age and gender, determined the bones, to the social status and occupation through the bones and the grave goods. They also answer the 'how' and the 'when' but they fail to address the 'why', and sometimes this is the most intriguing question.

In the shadow of Mt Vesuvius

Being so close, we could not leave Italy without viewing for ourselves the preservation caused by Mt Vesuvius almost two thousand years ago. Allowing two days, we based ourselves in the modern town of Pompeii (anything to avoid Naples) within easy access of the archaeological ruins of Pompeii and Herculaneum.

First stop though, Pompeii

This rambling city was spectacular. The guide books say allow 3 hours, so my fellow enthusiast jokingly said 'for us that means 6 hours' but sensibly we allowed the whole day It was indeed thankful that we had the foresight to consult a medley of guidebooks to determine the buildings least inclined to miss: the ones with the most impressive frescos and mosaics, the ones that played the greatest role in reviving the story of this unfortunate city long after its untimely death. But even with the nine hours we spend we still didn’t manage to see it all.

It was a beautiful place and simply astonishing to think that though nowhere near completely excavated we have been fortunate to learn so much about Roman society due to the catastrophic tragedy of one event, one day 1933 years ago.

Though build along classic Roman lines (a simple grid pattern), Pompeii has experienced millions of feet pacing its cobbled streets, pounding its antique footpaths. Jumping across roads on the raised zebra crossings you could see below you the ragged grooves of the frequent passage of Roman chariots and carts 2000 years ago. Where a history of Roman carts and chariots racing down the streets it can no longer be assumed that either will have retained a smooth flatness we are so used to expecting of our thoroughfares. As one is constantly watching one’s feet, trying to limit the stumbling on these solid if incredibly pitted stone walkways after 9 hours of continual walking one does end up with very sore feet and an aching desire to collapse into the nearest armchair.

Though all features of value rest within a Neapolitan museum the restoration teams have ensured that the uninformed tourist sees such an exact replica that they are never the wiser of this deception played upon them. Gargoyles and appropriately phallic Herm decorate the streets and communal water fountains while on exterior walls Latin graffiti informs you of who to vote for, who is buggering who and rating of the food at various hostelries along the way.

Indoors, mosaics warning ‘Beware the dog’ pave the entrance hall of several houses, goddesses, animals and theatrical masks look down from the walls amongst a myriad of intense colours and beautiful detailing, and taking centre stage gardens and water features fill the square between the ornate columns that continue to hold up the tiled roof.

In one of the back alleys just around the corner from the local pub, sits the brothel, its walls decorated with a ‘how to’ guide appropriate for the trade on which it thrives. Evidence in Pompeii seems to show that in places the exterior walls of the city was plastered over and painted in bright colours, adding a further element of colour and life to an already vibrant image of this deceased city. Just picture the image of the whole city glowing red in the Italian sunlight before in the dying light of the summer sun the crowds dwindle and the ghosts come out to play.

In comparison to Pompeii where you couldn't see from one end of the town to the other and there was a jumble of streets and houses in which to get lost, Herculaneum was tiny. It basically comprised of 6 blocks of buildings and a waterfront now situated 500m from the ocean. But Herculaneum contains artefacts that simply blow the mind. Because this town was engulfed in ash and hot gases that emitted an intense heat, much of the organic material was instantly carbonised before being subsumed in approximately 25 metres of tuff producing an airtight seal that lasted for 1,700 years. It was here that the famous charred loaf of bread was recovered and it is here that one can still see the carbonised roof beams and staircase in situ.

Admittedly the frescos don’t compare with Pompeii, but Herculaneum has a pile of rope and elements of doors, architraves, roof beams that though charred through, have survived well enough to still see the details carved onto these beams. And in one place, there are the first few steps of a wooden staircase leading to an upstairs apartment from the street door; Recognisable stairs that had survived almost 2000 years.

If you've been to Pompeii, don't go for the frescos as you will be disappointed (only one is truly superior), but go for the wood: so much of it still exists, and in an assortment of places that it can’t fail to astonish.