I love to wander. I believe in goodness. I have an insatiable curiousity. I’m a journalist and a chatterbox. For me, life is best with stacks of laughter, insightful conversation, a hair-raising, heart-pumping adventure, some delightful cheeses and a skerrick of mischief. I hope you enjoy my tales.
This is my kinda bike. If you’re going to put yourself through a cramped up swim, saddle-busting ride and run in front of a crowd then Barbie merchandise is essential.
Rear view mirrors on triathlon bikes are as important as repellent on a camping trip.
The calf looked at me. I looked at it. We were both desperate. She wanted food. I wanted to feed her. It seems a simple equation for me as I held a bucket full of frothy, nourishing milk. But the poddy calf’s scared eyes that warily watched me from the other side of the paddock told me this would be far from simple.
My boss had floated the idea of me feeding the calf while he was away for a few days. I was keener than an over-exuberant child let loose on the high-jump mats. My resume would read journalist/farmer. I would live on a farm one fine day.
In hindsight, my vision was clouded by self-induced thoughts of unearned glory. The sun was already veering towards the horizon when I arrived at the property. It took me a while to find the angle paddock east of the dog’s chain. There was no sign of the pale blue bucket I’d been told the little orphan would recognise. Apparently it was under the brush tree to the east. I didn’t even know what a bloody brush tree was. Surely the black bucket would be ok? The milky slush almost enticed me by the time I prepared it and found the calf in the angle paddock again. And so the games began.
The calf backed away immediately as I stumbled through the scrub with the wholesome milk. Already I’d started thinking of myself as a Mother Teresa figure, feeding the hungry in my spare time. It wasn’t long before I felt like the Hulk, horribly imposing over a scared farm animal. I’d move a few steps forward, offering my useless black bucket and then step away hoping he’d step forward. “C’mon little calfie,” I’d purr at her. “Come and get some yummy milky.”
She saw through it. Raw away. “You filthy m***** f*****,” I shouted, running after her. Perhaps mooing at her will help, I thought desperately, taking in her hungry flanks. For the record, mooing and holding out fingers for sucking does not help. She cantered off again and I followed. Then I spotted the magical pale blue bucket under what I guessed was a brush tree, transferred my nectar and set off again. She looked at me, spotted the familiar blue, took a step forwards and another. And another. I stood a respectful metre away, as you would when meeting the queen, and delighted in the slurping sounds. Her nose came out whiter than the Bolivian salt fields. I took a step forwards before she knocked the bucket over. She ran. I ran after her straight into the prickly scrub.
Rubbing the blood from my ankle, I picked up my bucket and tried to loop around the scrub and catch her on the other side. How could this calf outwit me? Patience, patience, was all I needed, I thought as the sun dipped below the horizon and purple clouds whispered overhead. My belly rumbled but I managed to keep my head out of the bucket. Perhaps leading by example would have helped.
The cunning beast eyed me from the bushes and tottered backward, stumbling over a hollowed log. Sympathy pricked my conscience. I stepped away from the bucket again and waited. It was more frustrating than those aerobics classes that make you feel like you were born without foot-brain coordination.
She wasn’t moving at all now and the scrub was thicker than anything I wanted to scramble in. The bucket handle made an interesting clanging noise that I thought could be used to lure the girl in. That didn’t work either. But walking away worked. She followed like a wee lamb that’d lost her flock. But as soon as I tried to get the head into the pale blue milkiness she trotted off. I walked home in the dark, wondering how a starving poddy calf had got the better of me.
I set off again in the morning with instructions. I was supposed to chase him, get him between my legs and force his head into the bucket, my farm-handy boyfriend explained. What if I caught him a long way from the bucket? Well, that’s easy. Just twist his tail and he’ll move forward. My confidence wasn’t soaring as I set off with my milk, imagining myself trying to wrangle a calf that looked ragged but ultimately was stronger than me. It started as usual. She eyed me as one would regard a doctor with an syringe full of vaccine. I trotted forward and she startled into the scrub. But hurrah, the stupid little animal jagged herself on a tangle and couldn’t get out. The noose of vines held her neck and the pale blue bucket wedged easily under her mouth. Aha. It was a satisfying victory, the depths of my glory stretching far beyond her inflated flanks. There’s nothing quite like a victory over a small defenceless calf to make you feel validated. Needed. Perhaps that’s how farmers feel.
Instead of wondering whether there were sharks in the river and whether great whites are actually attracted to wee I should have listened to my uncle telling me to keep my legs together..
Second time around I listened but wondered quietly to myself whether my poor coordination was hereditary or learned. If you’ve seen my dad on the dancefloor late at night you would say genetics. Then as my patient uncle explained about keeping arms straight my mind kept asking why, why, why would sharks be attracted to pee?
So… Legs together and arms straight. Done. Now try to look more coordinated than a one-legged goat in a mud-wrestling competition. I have no advice on how to do that.
I found it was important when crossing the wake to scream as if a shark was coming up behind me. That also strengthens your grip, which is handy when its feels as if your toboggan has gone off the track.
But the most important lesson… Resign yourself early on to the fact that a natural colon cleansing is inevitable when wearing children’s cossies.
Oh yeah… And take a cute cousin to share the sunshine with.
I know, I know. It was selfish of me. And it probably ruined your holiday. Deepest apologies for the lack of blogs. If you haven’t abandoned my ship while I’ve been parading my voluptuous figure around the campground in children’s cossies, then here is a cheeky little adventure to, hopefully, bring a sneaky smile to your face. And a sneaky challenge to brighten someone’s day.
While strolling down King street, Sydney a few days ago an impeccably dressed businessman flew at me. Literally, he was belting down the pavement on his skateboard which I deduced, in Holmes-like fashion, was an ambitious Christmas present given by a younger, evil sibling. The poor sucker had no idea what to do on a skatie. I admit I am not a kick-flip expert, but I know my rather limited limits.
For starters this dude’s pants were inches from his navel and held up by a belt. So uncool. Then, he had picked a downhill track to try out his new death trap. His tie flapped behind an ironed salmon shirt, collared of course, as he desperately tried to stop the errant deck. The right foot briefly touched the pavement as he tried to stop his progress, speed gathering as quickly as a bloke rushes to a single blonde at the bar. It was futile, the foot movement only added to his perilous death wobbles. Then the left hand shot out and tried to grab a power pole, but the wheels were spinning in a fashion that’d make a Mercedes engineer proud. He let go. For the briefest moment I imagined him knocking down the suit-clad brunette next to me. Perhaps they’d fall in love, I pondered. But no, the salmon-shirted lad had too much self-preservation because he jettisoned himself from the evil present seconds before a love-creating collision. Barely noticing the frightened suit he streaked after the board, but the adrenalin enthusiast had no more luck off the board. The deck went straight under a cab, that jolted to a stop as the humbled man ran in front of it, engrossed with the progress of his wheels. The poor cyclist behind the cabbie was also halted. The anonymous lycra-wearer had a tough time starting to climb again, I noted with sympathetic amusement. Four lanes of traffic slowed and the skater boy ducked between the lanes, scouring the road for his new toy as if he actually wanted to use it again. Fleetingly I wondered if the grey surface would be split in two, but no, that board lived to kick his owner off on another day.
Oh how I chuckled. I laughed as I waited for the green man to flash and then my grin broke again when I missed the bus. It was a rousing performance.
This random guy earned a cocktail of respect from me for his foolhardy, clumsy style. Sure, downhill footpaths in peak hour are hardly forgiving learning grounds for grinds, but at least he was giving it a shot.
My eldest brother Nick, another zealous lad, also mustered some respect when I relayed the tale. Of course when his board shot under a bus when Nick was a 20-something barman it was knocked in half. But I suspect that was for the best because in an earlier unrelated incident, he happily told me, he’d been kicked off the deck after a fatal case of the death wobbles threw him onto the bonnet of a car. When he arrived at work that day the boss kindly donated a taxi fare to the emergency department. Once again, at least he was giving it a go.
So, the point of this tale is not solely to have a giggle at those who attempt skateboarding without low-riding, it’s to consider what foolish pursuits we could take up to spread uninhibited laughter to our faceless companions on the street. Rollerblading is already out for me. Those contraptions bring about a dearth of coordination that would make a toddler laugh in my face. In fact, tennis does that too. Maybe I’ll try squash, or give wakeboarding another shot. Or a unicycle.
And I dare you to give something a go that you wouldn’t usually. I dare you to risk looking like a fool, preferably in public, and have something to laugh about at your next barbeque.
There was the allusion that I was doing something brave, something risky, by moving to the outback, alone.
At times I have scrambled for my comfort zone, desperately searched for a shred of normality in a place that was so far from home. But the idea that any of it was out of my control – that’s a farce. I was coming out for a year then dusting off my blue book for a few more overseas stamps, flitting in and out like a butterfly on a summer’s day.
Of course, things rarely go to plan and from the first roo I gravely slaughtered on the road the plan became more complex than simply taking your clothes off on the Great Wall. The barren country out here is enchanting. I’ve fallen for crisp sunsets and people who tell you your boss is a cockhead when he tells you to walk through a heatwave to take a photo of them.
But the biggest change has crept up on me. It’s the dogs. Everyone has one. They’re more popular than belt buckles at rodeos and infinitely less useful. My relationship with canines in the past has bordered between difficult and distressing. You can read more about how much I loathe puppies here. It began when a simple poop-scoop in a plush Sydney park ended up all over my hand. It’s still too soon to laugh about that one.
It’s a different kennel out here.
I realised suddenly the other day that all of my friends here have these furry mates that they take to the river for a barking session. One bloke I spoke to recently owned about 40 canines. It all seems so incredibly grown up. I put dog and house ownership on the same level, mostly because they have a knack of happening simultaneously but also they require some form of commitment, although I definitely don’t profess to any genius knowledge in this area.
During my dog-hating city days I noticed that my lowly opinion on man’s best friend was rarely shared, respected or appreciated. People love their running, barking beasts more than their gardens. And it’s not as if dogs produce anything of worth. Except unconditional love, apparently.
Back then claiming to loathe puppies was the worst thing I could ever say on a date. Mens’ eyes would glaze over as if I’d started telling them about my split ends. For a while I wondered if I would become a spinster because I couldn’t handle dogs. So you can imagine my distress when I meet a nice guy and he drops into conversation ever so casually that he already has a dog. Yep, he owns it and feeds it, although the feeding is a rather liberal arrangement. Aware of my shortcomings in the dog love department I tried my hardest to win over Boots. He’s a lovely dog, certainly better than Michelle’s pal Romy, who I love very, very deep down. Boots can even ride a jet ski. But he does have a slight issue with moulting. I’m often left with a hand that could pass for an orang-utan’s left thigh. It hasn’t been too hard to wipe that on a pile of dirty towels or sumsuch.
As you can tell I wasn’t overanalysing the dog thing too much (please note sarcasm). Then I started looking for a share house. The Charleville telegraph was in fine form as I searched and found a new home within an hour. The new pad, of course, comes with Hugo. He’s a rather energetic puppy. On inspection I was licked more than an ice cream on a hot day. Apparently he’ll be sleeping outside.
So now my life does appear to be spiralling brilliantly out of control. My boyfriend owns a dog and soon I will be living with a puppy. How did that happen? I would never have allowed that when I was a city girl.
It’s fantastic. The spontaneity is going to my head. My carefully planned year out here has been hit by a dust storm and I have no idea where it will take me. Sharing the journey with new people, opening up is the next level of adventure, and one I had been avoiding, not least because I feared one day I’d be expected to love a hound.
Doomsday is upon us. The end of the world is coming. But it appears the southwest is safe. Numerous scholars, physicists, remote viewers doomsday enthusiasts and Amazon Shamanic trippers are predicting a devastating galactic event will strike earth 21 December, wiping out the current world order.
Of course not all of the folk in the west are believers. But many are happy to jump on the bandwagon. Toompine, Adavale and Quilpie pubs are hosting end of the world parties, perhaps enjoying the thought of a session with no hangover.
In an interesting twist one psychic, Pane Andov, has been given the corrdinates to a safe zone that will be immune from the fallout. Quilpie sits in the middle of the triangle at the top while Cunnamulla is on the bottom eastern side. Thargo, Toompine and Eulo are all safe but Charleville is too far east and Eromanga misses out in the west.
The impending apocalypse dominates conversation at the bar in Quilpie. Quilpie Motor Inn manager Julie Milesi said she has fielded two rather strange enquiries from people wanting to escape the carnage. “One was convinced this was the only safe place to be, that Quilpie was the only place that would survive.” Julie hasn’t taken any bookings – perhaps rooms are too pricey for the believers – but she said everyone is talking about it around town.
Yugoslavian Mo Pajic is a believer. He relocated into the zone – Quarrion street, Quilpie to be exact, about six months ago. “I decided to take my chances here,” he said.
He has prepared himself mentally and boosted food supplies, including purchasing a large bag of corn meal and a mill, plus about 30 boxes of Weet-bix, flour, tinned goods and about 30kg of honey. He’s not concerned about embarrassment if the apocalypse is a false alarm, he’ll just eat the food later. His cat Chichak, a chicken and two mini horses are keeping him company for now, but he also plans to add a border collie to the clan.
The 44-year-old admitted some people thought he was crazy, but he said many sceptics don’t have enough freedom with their thoughts.
“People don’t have the guts to jump out of the box of mental thoughts that society puts upon you.” He hoped more people would take a liberated approach to believing in the impending disaster. Preparedness is the key.
“I feel sorry some people are still sceptical. There is a chance it could happen and most people are not ready.”
Mo’s interest in 2012 began in 2003 when he picked up Patrick Geryl’s The Orion Prophecy: will the world be destroyed in 2012, which takes an archaeological look at how the Mayan and Egyptian civilisations predict the earth’s demise in 2012. But his English wasn’t good enough to grasp the concepts at the time and there seemed plenty of time left. In 2009 he started taking the world-end concept seriously. Mo credits the Farsight Institute who have seen large amounts of static energy in 2013 by remote viewing, Peter Sterling who saw visions on a Shamanic trip, remote viewer and former US army major Ed Dames, psychic Pane Andov, Paul Laviolle and others with explaining the ideas. A crop circle phenomenon in Avebury Manor in the UK in July 2008 where the sun increased in size to take in Mercury and Venus also ties in with the theory.
Macedonian astral projection psychic Pane Andov influenced Mo’s decision to move west. Andov’s said on his website that he had his first psychic experience when he was seven, but it wasn’t until many years later that he began communicating with extra terrestrial races. “He began to understand that humanity was under some kind of experiment by a few E.T races and that the truth was hidden from us,” the website said. Pane told his followers that he was shown changes that would occur to the planet while in an altered state of consciousness in 2008. His first vision showed an extreme crack in the African continent which unleashed volcanic magma. He has not detailed other more disturbing visions but said another crack would appear in Australia. He believed a galactic wave would arrive and unleash huge amounts of energy which would make the solar system highly unstable. There would be more tectonic activity, including volcano eruptions, tsunamis and earthquakes and the huge amounts of static electricity would fry the grid. Food supply, banking, fuel, hospitals and mobile phones will be redundant without the power supply. Mo doubts civilisation, especially in the cities could carry on. “Will they know where to go if the toilet is not working,” he asked.
West Australia would be no good but a triangle, which sits on the southwest would still be habitable. “When I checked the satellite images of the area it was not the most welcoming place in the world,” Pane said of the triangle area that reaches about 400km on each side. The extra terrestrial stopped in 2009/10 and he has not received any more information.
For Mo, believing is about stretching out and daring to think against the mainstream. He said the people touting these hypothesis have too much at stake to destroy their reputation. But he conceded some, including Andov, do make money out of their doomsday prophecies.
Mo said the December date is flexible. If things are still ok in June next year then he’ll celebrate. And he’ll probably stay in Quilpie, too. He has been working with the for about four months. “I walk ten minutes to work and people are talking and waving to each other. In the coastal part no one has time for anyone.”
This is what the party is likely to look like.
NB: This was written for the Warrego Watchman. Copyright Penny Langfield 2012.
When I was a little girl my Dad took me fishing in his boat. He’d put the worms on the hook for me and he taught me how to jerk the rod back swiftly to hook the bass. He always caught more fish than me so occasionally he’d hook them, then let me reel them in and say it was mine. No wonder I have such delusions about my fishing talents.
Apparently he’d walk the streets with me when I was a horrid baby that wouldn’t stop crying, rocking me gently over his shoulder. I can’t remember that and doubt I was ever a troublesome child, but it sounds like a nice deed.
When I was a teenager I’d come home from swimming club on a Friday afternoon to find him drinking red wine with the lights out and Pink Floyd as loud as the stereo would manage. Dark Side of the Moon is still one of my favourite albums.
Breakfast in bed was a staple when I was a teenager. I think he thought that was the only way I’d ever get out of bed.
He’s still a gem. Look at this garden he made me after driving for miles and miles to visit me in the middle of the outback. It’s flourishing, by the way and I don’t have to buy zucchinis, tomatoes or spinach at the moment. What a legend!
So here’s to you Papa. Not because it’s your birthday or some day that Hallmark told us to buy a card for, but just because you are an amazing man and I appreciate everything you have done for me. And for looking after Mama so well, even when she makes you move the tent after it’s already up.
See you soon!
Roma is a far cry from the usual dusty western Qld race meet. The bar had paid staff and a slick ticket system. The music had a bass line and was hardly country. But that didn’t deter hordes of city folk looking for a dinky-di outback experience last Saturday. At just five hours from Brisbane, the races attracted about 8000 people from east and west Qld.
Toowoomba trainer Michael Nolan’s Blow A Kiss took home the cup but the lightning, rain and fashion stakes competed with the horses for attention. A sign at the edge of the track described the situation. “This is a race meet (believe it or not). Please be considerate of jockeys and horses – keep track clear of rubbish and party animals,” it read.
The horses were the main attraction for Charleville racing stalwart Eric Fraser who lined the track for every race. He said he had always loved the racing at Bassett park. It’s a chance for the western horses to try their luck against steeds from the east.
For Toowoomba local Jake Ward it was a different location to celebrate his 19th birthday. He was camping with mates at the tent city adjoining the track and thought the races were an outback experience. “It’s something different. Why not? We’ll give anything a go,” he said.
The fashion tent pulled a sizeable crowd as transvestites Lidia Box and Voille La Vont lent a caustic note to the compering. Not all were pleased with the crude commentary. An older lady was moved to tears by the lewd sexual jokes. Big-breasted women copped some flak.
The rest thought the Brisbane-based broads were a hoot. Charleville judge Carmel Hunter said it was a tough field as usual. Quilpie girl Kate Houghton took out the contemporary category with a Michael Lo Sorodo feather fascinator. “There’s plenty of good-looking girls here, I was just stoked to get in the final,” Kate said. Her prize included return flights from Roma to Brisbane, a holiday on the Gold Coast, a $100 gift voucher and a pearl necklace.
Bundaberg lad Robert McRae stayed at a mate’s place for the weekend. Shenanigans began on Friday night. “It was Donkey Kong last night,” he said on Saturday. He thought the meet was an authentic bush experience and a good chance to meet women and … “It’s very country. Do you know how long it took us to get here? It was a long time,” he said and seemed to think he had earned a beverage for the effort.
Tegan Byrnes had been nursing at Mitchell. The races were a good chance for her to break out the swag. Mate Grace Clulow commented that there were more hot guys than she’d anticipated. Nathan Cusack from Dalby dubbed Roma the best race day in western Qld and he’s been to a fair few west of the gas country. “I’d rather go to Roma races than Eagle Farm any day,” he said, adding that at four-and-a-half hours from anywhere the location is ideal for catching up with mates.
Amber Shadlow came out with a few friends from Brisbane for a camp and a party. She said western race meets had a certain reputation. “My mum told me to keep myself tidy,” she said.
FROM THE WARREGO WATCHMAN.
I liken getting out of bed in the morning to allowing a rabid dog to lick my face. Loathe it.
Luckily my job occasionally requires early starts and in these cases my steel-like work ethic will propel me from a luscious doona cocoon.
In the ute, to the local observatory and, bam, there’s the eclipse. Funky glasses to block harmful rays were included and a few telescopes showed the moon covering the sun and its black spots – which a helpful guide carefully explained to me are the coolest spots on the sun.
And like all good things in Charleville the cool peeps were there to share a chuckle with.
So this early morning was worth the alarm clock agony. But I think I’ll keep the pre-7am starts for special occasions.
If boyfriend were a four-letter word, like say cork, fork or germ, I’m sure my southwest potty mouth would have no trouble wrapping peachy lips around it. It’d boyfriend this and boyfriend that and where’s your boyfriending beer or what’s that boyfriend’s issue? But it’s a nine-lettered soft word that carries a soft meaning that is much harder to say than your average curse. It can be tricky.
If you missed the memo I met someone recently. I like him a lot. We hold hands in cars and stuff. I reckon he counts as being my boyfriend after the ultimate event, which happened a few weeks ago – we shared a toothbrush.
We’ve done a few things together since then. Just the usual courtship rituals, he staked my tomatoes and charmed my cousin’s daughter who has now lost all affection for me in favour of him and I, well I’m not sure I have contributed much but I did make a cake that leaked icing through my car and was thrown out the window of the vehicle.
It’s still early days, I admit, but the two of us make a nice team. I even told Ben our teamwork was solid and he agreed although wondered what contribution I made to the squad. Never mind, it’s an easy-to-comprehend scenario – we like each other and want to spend a lot of time together.
Still, that word chokes out like a regurgitated fish bone. We went to a friend’s wedding on the weekend, together – and that’s quite a boyfriend/girlfriend thing to do – but it still felt weird saying the word. Other guests were confused about our status until they saw the photobooth shots. It was a mighty fine wedding too, I must say.
The reassuring thing is that I’m not the only one.
I’ve seen couples battle with this word in the early days more time than I’ve heard David Attenborough say the word mating. It’s harder to get out than Shelly sells sea shells by the serpents door seven times quickly with a shared toothbrush in your mouth. People who have started to look at each other with intimate expressions quickly revert to business-like, frank looks when confronted with the B-word. Ironically it can be the ultimate mood killer.
So, why is it so hard?
Is it the vulnerability? If you say you are and the other thinks you’re still just friends that makes for a conversation more awkward than meeting the parents for the first time. Or maybe it’s the feminist in me trying to keep the solo adventure pumping. However, I try to keep that feminist side tucked away most of the time so the boys can carry my bags, so I doubt that’s it. Commitment phobia is a possibility, but fear is useless here.
Perhaps there is a feeling of losing independence, of future compromises that will be brokered on whether to have crumbed steak or normal steak for dinner. The vegies or salad decision may be taken away. Nar, at this ripe honeymooning stage I would even eat a well-done steak without complaint.
I don’t have the answer here. For me, right now, I think it’s a matter of taking time to change my mindset. It’s been almost five years since I had a boyfriend, officially. Don’t worry Nanna it hasn’t been too dull. Having someone to call, just to hear their voice, that’s a nice change.
So I’m going to reach out on a limb here, and I’m only doing this because of this blog that I’m determined to maintain even though I feel less like sharing the intimate details of my life now there’s someone in it, but I will say it.
He’s not just my travelling companion or the auctioneer. Please meet my boyfriend, Ben. (That’s ok to call you that, right, Ben?)
Penny's Cheeky Adventures 