THE FLOWER MAN

THE FLOWER MAN

 by Dave Wheeler

   This yarn is a rewrite of a yarn that was first published within "TALES AND PHILOSOPHY OF A CANBERRA BOY, which is out of print. It is not in "TALES OF A CANBERRA BOY," which can be downloaded from this site free of charge. 

  I worked as the Inspector for the ACT RSPCA for around 3 years in the mid eighties, (84-87 from memory), and I could write another book about that experience.
   The job was good and bad. It was good to the extent that I felt I was doing something useful, and I received much satisfaction knowing I had stopped some suffering of (non-human) animals. It was bad to the extent that I was ill-equipped because of hopelessly inadequate legislation. Fortunately the ACT now has reasonably good legislation to prevent cruelty to animals and I like to think my efforts played a role in the legislation going from a useless ordinance to an act with some teeth. I made sure I used the media to assist in lobbying for the change whenever I had the chance to do so and it all helped.

    The inadequate legislation was not the only reason the job was unpleasant at times. Other than my being unable to avoid seeing animals suffer I did not enjoy having to interact with many of the people I came across, the type I call human garbage. I am referring to the sorts of people who neglect animals or who are deliberately cruel to them. 
   When I worked in an admin position within the child protection section of the ACT Government several years after I resigned from the RSPCA I was to discover that several of the subhumans I had dealt with when I was with the RSPCA, who were abusing and/or neglecting their animals, also neglected and/or abused their kids. Once people begin neglecting or abusing kids or animals they should be sterilised and prevented from owning animals or going anywhere near kids.

 

     Back to the subject of this yarn, who was a Canberra character known as "The Flower Man," an older bloke who was obviously not the full quid. He was a common sight in the Berra throughout the sixties, seventies and early eighties. He was a refugee from the Ukraine. 

   I was also led to believe his insanity went unnoticed when he applied to come to Australia, just after WW2, because he could not speak English. I do not know if this is true, but it seems obvious. He never did learn English despite being here for several decades.

    He always had flowers pinned all over him and he would sing very loudly and almost continually. I can remember seeing him work for what I presume was the “Parks and Gardens,” a local government department, while I was looking out the window while at school.I was also told that because he had worked for many years it enabled him to pay off his house in Watson. (Houses were very cheap in those days.)

  It was while I was working for the RSPCA I received a call, in my own time, regarding  The Flower Man’s animals. 
   It was because the phone call about the Flower Man's animals was received in my own time and I did not get paid for the work I did with his animals I am not subject to the Privacy Act and can therefore describe my experience. There are many yarns I would like to tell about my time while I was on the RSPCA payroll, as well as the payroll of the ACT government, which I cannot because of the Privacy Act.

    The caller told me that The Flower Man had died, and because he knew I had the means to collect his ownerless dog and ducks he asked me if I could go to the deceased’s house in Watson to rescue them as they were not being fed and needed immediate attention. I did this independently of the RSPCA with my mate, John, who was also associated with the RSPCA, but also working in his own time. 
  The Berra has always had colourful characters. I can think of one who was known as "Spooky," an old wino who hung around Civic. I last remember seeing him in the early seventies.
  The story I was given was that Spooky wanted to end his life and tried to do so by pouring petrol on himself and lighting it. As a result his face was horribly disfigured. Apparently much of the rest of his body was also burnt including his scalp and most of his torso, although because he wore a beanie and long-sleeved clothes we could only see his disfigured face.
   Once when I was in the Scottish Bar at the Canberra Rex in or around 1970 I was discussing Spooky with a half pissed apprentice plumber named Ronnie, who came from somewhere in far western NSW. We were wondering why Spooky had not topped himself after he had set fire to himself considering that if he was suicidal before he became a human torch one would presume he would become more suicidal after his disfigurement.
    Ronnie, a font of wisdom, said to me in his broad nasal accent, something like, “Once a bloke reaches Spooky’s age he's got no hope of getting onto any good looking young sheilas even if his face hasn't been burned, so he probably doesn't care about the state of his face and just wants to drink piss."
   When we arrived at the deceased’s house to pick up his dog and ducks I had never seen anything to compare with the place. The outside of the house looked like a rubbish dump and the inside was indescribable. I will however, try to describe it as best as I can, although I do not believe I have the ability as a writer to do so in a manner that would put an accurate picture of the place in the reader’s mind. 
    To start, all his clothes were thrown onto the floor of his fairly large dining room which was next to his kitchen. The clothes took up half of the dining room and the pile tapered to ceiling height!
   The amount of clutter was so great we could hardly move, but it was extremely filthy clutter. His sink had filthy dishes and cutlery that were also almost at ceiling height, with plates of very old, solidified food all over the place.

   When I felt the need to siphon my python I made the mistake of walking into his toilet, but upon seeing what I had walked into I could not bring myself to piss in it. There was shit everywhere, and I mean everywhere! It was on the floor, the bowl, the walls and the ceiling. There was also evidence that he had engaged in some recreational finger-painting. I believe inmates of gaols refer to the practice as "bronzing." I removed myself from his toilet as quickly as I could.
    Because of the general state of his house and the smell we breathed as shallowly as we could while we took custody of his pets, and we did not linger unnecessarily. We then dropped his dog and ducks off to a safe place, and good homes were eventually found for them.
   People condemn the "Department of Immigration" for allowing people like the Flower Man into the country, but they brought in far worse than him, and once people are here they have as much right to stay as anyone else if they don't commit criminal acts. 
   Of course he partook in some of the environmental destruction we all partake in just by living, yet he would have been far less destructive than most of us because he never drove a car. Nor did he marry or produce dysfunctional kids. He also worked and paid taxes for many years and he never went to gaol or a mental institution. 
  In today's dog-eat-dog world where the market is worshipped and most unskilled private work has been sent overseas and most unskilled government work has been contracted-out, the Flower Man would be deemed unemployable and probably put on an invalid pension. This would worsen his mental health and cost the taxpayer a fortune. Having the government employ otherwise unemployable people was a form of welfare, but it probably saved money in the long run and it was also welfare for the private sector, as it allowed the disadvantaged to consume more than they otherwise would, as they were employed and had job security.Many of their counterparts today find themselves drug addicts, drug dealers and/or inmates of gaols. Our bean-counters have no idea about the concept of holistic reasoning.

   When I compare the Flower Man to some of the garbage that sailed through our migration screening procedures after WW2, such as the ex-Nazis who were often in charge of me on the building sites I laboured on in the Berra during my youth, and those immigrants who have established ethnic crime gangs, the Flower Man looks pretty good. 
    While I’m at it, if I am to compare him to the appalling examples of humanity that hold office in our House of Representatives and Senate (I am referring to politicians from all the major and minor parties; not just those who currently hold power) he was an absolute saint.
    Other than what I have said about the Flower Man, his flowers and singing brightened the streets of the Berra and I know he made my brain produce feel-good chemistry whenever I heard him in full voice. I miss the man.
   More can be read about him by clicking on the comments below.

   The above photo shows me with my workmate, Faye. It was taken at the RSPCA in Weston in 1985 or thereabouts while I worked as the ACT RSPCA inspector. It was around the time John and I picked up the Flower Man's dog and ducks.
  If any readers know more about the Flower Man than me or have any photos of him please contact me by clicking on the contact button above and I will make the appropriate additions or subtractions. I don't even know the man's real name.

UPDATE-8/8/18

  Thanks to Richard Holgate for posting the above photo of the Flower Man on Facebook within the “Old Canberra’s Northside Group". Thanks also to Richard’s mum who saved it from the Chronicle article dated 10/4/1985. We now know his name was Fedor (Freddie) Charchenko and that he was Ukrainian. Richard also posted the Canberra Times article above the photo of Freddie the Flower Man which tells us he died on the 3/4/85 aged 78 and confirms that he arrived after the war and worked in the Parks and Gardens. He may have been a Cossack. Thanks again Richard. Some older people within the Ukrainian community may know more about him.

FOR MANY MORE MAINLY CANBERRA-BASED YARNS  AND ESSAYS HIT THE “HOME” BUTTON UP THE TOP.

ANOTHER "CANBERRA BOY IN THAILAND" YARN - a confrontation with a large monkey on Koh Chang Island.

ANOTHER CANBERRA BOY IN THAILAND YARN
by Tony Quinn    

   It was late September 2012 when we flew from Bangkok to the city of Trat in far eastern Thailand close to the Cambodian border. From there we boarded a ferry for the one hour trip to Koh Chang Island. Koh Chang is the second largest island in Thailand. Over 70% of the island is covered in tropical rainforest with topography ranging from high mountain peaks to white sandy beaches.

   After arriving on Koh Chang Island, we took a taxi to a resort located at the southern end of White Sand Beach. The main road from the pier runs along a contour line quite a way up the side of a mountain range. The track leading to the resort is made of bitumen but is very steep, winding and covered in overhanging rainforest. On the way down to the resort I thought to myself what great fun it would be to run back up the hill to the main road.

    The resort was virtually deserted as it was the low season due to the daily monsoonal rains. After checking in, I put on my running gear including my 5 toed Vibram runners and away I went up the hill.

    The legs were really working, the heart and lungs were pumping and the sweat poured off me due to the heat and humidity. I was really enjoying myself until about half way up the hill when I rounded a bend and noticed some monkeys on the track ahead. Could be trouble I thought and with good reason.
  I have had problems with animals in Canberra and elsewhere, particularly when I am out running. Goshawks and magpies have attacked me on several occasions in the berra, as has a spur winged plover. I was also threatened by a large kangaroo when I was doing survey work west of Bourke. Had the roo sat on its tail and disemboweled me with the sharp claws that are attached to its powerful rear legs it would have ruined my day and made it very difficult for me to focus on the calculations I was required to do for the job.
   Being bitten on the leg by a large dog outside a public toilet in Iran was also not a very pleasant experience.
   As I reached the monkeys, I called out politely to them, asking them to get out of my way. Next thing I heard was a loud screech behind me. I looked around to see a large male monkey rushing out of the jungle straight at me.

   It was screeching and hissing, mouth wide open with large yellow fangs hanging out. I thought it was going to jump on me and rip me to pieces. I came very close at that point to losing control of my bowels. 
   The second thought that came to my mind was the story I read about the poor woman in the USA who had her face ripped off by a monkey and recently had a  face transplant. “That's going to happen to me,” I thought as I started running backwards up the hill at 100mph whilst at the same time yelling expletives at it as it chased me. I may not be Asian but I don’t like the idea of losing face. 
   The monkey was very solidly built much like a dwarf on steroids. It had dark brown hair sticking straight out on either side of its head. All the years of martial arts training came to nought as my mind went blank as far as a self defence strategy went. Running away was the only instinctive thing I was capable of. After I had run backwards for some distance away from the group of monkeys the male monkey stopped chasing me. I was still wary so continued running backwards up the hill for several more minutes.

    Eventually I reached the top of the hill. I hadn't had enough exercise so I walked about 100 metres down the hill and did some sprints back to the top of the hill. On the fifth one I pulled a calf muscle. I couldn't help myself so I did another sprint which made the calf even worse. 
   I then wondered how I was going to get back down the hill to the resort. I could walk along the main road for miles and make my way to the main beach then come back to the resort along the beach front but that would take hours particularly with my torn calf muscle. I looked around and found a large branch to use as a weapon against the monkey then started limping down the hill. 

   A few minutes later a young Thai bloke on a motorbike stopped and asked if I wanted a lift. He was very friendly and smiling. Looked like he was wearing lipstick and makeup. What a choice – I could accept the lift and maybe end up with a sore arse and a dose of AIDS because for all I knew there may have been a gang of lady boys waiting for me. Or I could walk down and possibly get my face ripped off. It was a difficult decision but I went with the faceless option and declined the lift. I am proud of the fact that my arse is still a virgin.

   I continued walking down the hill and started waving the branch around as I approached the monkeys. I couldn't see the one that attacked me - thought he may be up a tree waiting to drop on me so I waved the branch above my head. I managed to get through and past the monkeys without incident. Decided to stick to running on the beach from then onwards.
Tony Quinn

FOR MANY MORE MAINLY CANBERRA-BASED YARNS HIT THE "HOME" BUTTON UP THE TOP.

A CANBERRA BOY ON AN AUCKLAND BUILDING SITE

A CANBERRA BOY ON AN AUCKLAND BUILDING SITE

by Dave Wheeler

     

   I’ve known several blokes who have been called “Gibbo.” One  who I grew up with in Canberra and also played rugby with for many years was named Brian Gibson. Unfortunately he died in or around 1982 in a car accident, which was tragic. He was a very nice bloke and I am not saying that because he's no longer with us. I know nobody who disliked him.
   Another Gibbo I knew was a large and powerful Maori bloke who I worked with when I lived in New Zealand. He had the surname of Gibbons. I can't recall his first name as nobody used it. Australians and New Zealanders have a tendency to abbreviate given and surnames and sometimes put vowels on the end because it seems to make them easier to say. I suppose it comes down to laziness.

    The Gibbo I knew in New Zealand was also a very nice bloke. I will refer to him as Maori Gibbo for the rest of this yarn as opposed to the Canberra Gibbo. Maori Gibbo and I worked on a building site near Karangahape Road in New Zealand in early 1972, which was when I first lived in New Zealand. I was in my 20^th year at the time, aged 19.

   Sometimes stray thoughts of Maori Gibbo come to me, and when we remember people we knew many years ago we tend to imagine them looking like they did at the time. I still picture him as aged around 40, which to me is now relatively young. It dawned on me however that if he still has a pulse he would be in his 82nd or more year, (this was written in 2014) which means there's a good chance I missed his tangi.

   I regret not having kept contact with Maori Gibbo after I stopped working with him as we got on really well and I never thanked him for what he did. I am indebted to him because he kept me amused during the 8 hour day, which made an otherwise extremely boring job far less boring than it would have otherwise been. He at times made it very enjoyable.

   In elaborating; I never enjoyed most of the labouring tasks I was given on building sites. I did get some relief on the Auckland site when the cement trucks arrived and we had to carry concrete in wheelbarrows up planks, as the physical effort got my endorphins pumping. Relief however, also came when Maori Gibbo entertained me. He had a very sophisticated sense of shit-stirring deadpan humour and was a great raconteur. I would go out of my way to encourage his misbehaviour and we both pushed the boundaries because of our shared need for stimulation.

   

    Come lunchtimes Maori Gibbo would come out with yarns, and many of them were about his mad Aussie mate. I believe every word he said. I was always able to pick a bullshit artist a mile away, and his stories flowed and were consistently believable. He also did not alter them in the slightest when they were retold. I often think of the old Queanbeyan adage, “One can become a better dart player the more one practises dart-throwing, but one’s skill in telling lies decreases in proportion to the number of lies one tells.”

   In regard to the subject of mad Aussies, there were a lot in New Zealand at the time, and I met several. At that time Aussies and Kiwis could fly to each other’s countries without a passport, which resulted in there being a constant exchange of criminals. Australians who had the police on their backs would go to New Zealand to lose the Aussie cops and New Zealand crim’s would fly to Australia to get New Zealand coppers off their backs. Maori Gibbo’s Aussie mate fell right into the "Aussie criminal on the run" category.

    I can recall one lunch time when Maori Gibbo had me in tears of laughter after describing to us how he went to the beach with his mad Aussie mate who swam right out into the sea. Maori Gibbo saw from the shore his Aussie mate’s hand go up, giving a signal that he was in trouble and needing help. Maori Gibbo immediately told a lifeguard, who swam out the great distance and dragged the Aussie all the way into the shore. 

  The Aussie ratbag remained passive during the whole procedure, but when he got to shore he said to the exhausted lifeguard, “Thanks for that mate. I could have swum back by myself but I was a bit tired, so I thought I’d get you to take me in.” The lifeguard went off his brain.  It was a terrible thing to do but I've always laughed at off humour.

   Our lunch times were sometimes interrupted by an old Pakeha (A Pakeha in NZ is a Caucasian/indigenous European) pensioner named Brian, a WW1 veteran. I should have had more conversations with the WW1 veterans I knew during my youth as they no longer exist. I was told that Brian had had a very eventful life, although I never asked him about it, but having experienced the hell of WW1 there was no way anyone could say his life had been uneventful. He told me he had fought at Gallipoli and I presume his “all expenses paid overseas holiday” also covered the battlefields of France.

   Brian was hired for only a couple of hours a day to clean the sheds and make the tea. He must have had a good brain and had used it a lot during his working life because retirement obviously bored him shitless and he craved stimulation that was more intense than cleaning out the sheds and making the tea. For this reason he would sometimes pick arguments. I’m not sure if his wife was alive at the time but if she was I would not have envied her.

   One lunchtime Brian stood outside the shed which was used by Maori Gibbo, a couple of other carpenters and several of us labourers. He pounded on the door with his fists for no reason other than to get a reaction and to deliver us a menacing stare. In a light-hearted manner one of the carpenters said to him, “Piss off you old cunt.” He replied with a scream; “You’ll be an old cunt yourself one day!” 

    After rituals of that sort were complete he had our attention and would engage us in some sort of conversation about work or life in general. He was a lesson to me to the extent that I became aware of how important it is to keep the cogs turning, and it is part of the reason I like to write.

   Maori Gibbo, being a carpenter, was once asked to do some sort of work on the corner of a temporary fence surrounding our job and I was sent with a Samoan labourer to assist him. As we were on the outside of the fence and away from the eyes of bosses I began mucking around doing stupid things with my Samoan workmate, such as throwing things and catching them, without taking enough notice of the flow of traffic that was coming very close to us from around the corner. 

    All of a sudden Maori Gibbo grabbed my stupid 19 year old body from behind and pulled it violently off the road. I am glad he was such a powerful bloke as well as a judoka, because his combination of power and technique ensured I moved rapidly enough to miss a car I had not seen coming. If it had not been for Maori Gibbo’s quick reactions I may not be writing about this episode of my life.

     Sometimes Maori Gibbo would make models out of clay of people doing things of an obscene nature and leave them at really obvious places around the site. He would also shape with clay very large penises and leave them in the same sorts of places. It may sound childish, but because he was very good at it and because he left his work in places where “important” visitors to the site were confronted by them we had many belly laughs.

   Some of the visitors took offence and it angered our bosses, but of course Maori Gibbo with his deadpan expression said he knew nothing about his artwork. I think they suspected that I was the culprit because I was less skilful at hiding the fact that I was a shit-stirrer.

   Maori Gibbo would also throw mud at people walking past when they were not looking in his direction. He would then return to his work with a deadpan expression on his face and point in the direction of other people so he could blame them for what had happened. 

    One day he threw some mud at a bloke a few years older than me, a very large and well-built full-blooded Pakeha named Graham (who worked for a contractor) who always wore a Jackie Howe singlet despite him not being Australian. When Graham turned around Maori Gibbo pointed to me. Graham had a dirty look on his face but said nothing. He knew it was Maori Gibbo who threw the mud but he would not have dared say anything to him even though he saw no humour in the situation.

   I had spoken to Graham on a few occasions before this and had seen him interact with others. I could tell he was a classic bully and coward who would only pick on people he thought he could beat up. He thought he knew his place in the pecking order and tried to exercise his position when interacting with a smaller Pakeha labourer named Gerrard who had begun work with us. He took an immediate dislike to Gerrard and began putting shit on him regularly for no reason. I witnessed it happen a couple of times and I did not interfere because Gerrard gave it back and Graham could not match his wit.  
   I could see by the way Graham walked and moved that he could not fight, and having sparred briefly with Gerrard, who had done a fair bit of amateur boxing as well as some judo, I was 99% sure that if things ever became physical between Graham and Gerrard, Graham would come second despite being significantly larger than Gerrard.

   Yet despite having a quicker mind than Graham, Gerrard, who was a nice bloke, expressed his frustration to me about the way Graham had been having a go at him and he told me he wanted to bash him but was hesitant to do so because he did not want to throw the first punch and be found guilty of assault. He had applied to be a copper and having no criminal record was essential. 

  After Gerrard had told me about his frustration I unfortunately put my voice into gear without checking with the brain and suggested to Gerrard that the best way to set Graham up for a bashing and to not get into trouble would be for him (Gerrard) to pretend he was scared of Graham so he could slowly build up Graham’s confidence to the point where Graham would either begin swinging at him or challenge him in front of others. 

   When that occurred, I told Gerrard he could either bash him on the spot in self defence or accept the challenge and meet him somewhere where they were by themselves, and bash him there. It was a tactic I had used on several occasions which I'd found to be a lot of fun, although it would not be a tactic I would use today as I am more conscious of the fact that there are alternatives and I have greater empathy than I had at that stage of my life.

    The main reason I should have thought before offering such advice was because had I have just shut up eventually Gerrard would have put Graham in his place without having to use physical violence. Why this would have occurred is because  under certain circumstances when there is friction between two young male humans who are without an audience they usually establish by way of the confidence they show or do not show who is the top dog without it coming to blows. Male dogs behave in a similar way, hence the expression. 
     Of course it is all unnecessary because all people have to do is be civil and empathetic towards each other in the first place, and if there is a problem they should be able to talk things out. But that is not in the nature of many people and some people like Graham get a sadistic thrill by humiliating or physically damaging others. Sometimes they force us to play their games. Most humans have not gone beyond the level of dogs and other animals.    

    So, instead of staying out of it and letting nature take its course, I had encouraged Gerrard by telling him how he could go about getting away with giving Graham an unnecessary hiding. It took a while for me to learn to think before opening my mouth, and I made a concerted effort to do so after I left that building site.

   Sure enough the setup began to look like it was going to  work. Gerrard pretended he feared Graham and the more he pretended to fear him the more abusive towards Gerrard stupid Graham became. Gerrard should have been given an academy award for his acting ability. 
   Where the plan went wrong was that eventually Gerrard tired of acting, and as he had warrior genes he could only hold back for a certain amount of time. He had hoped that Graham would have thrown a punch at him or challenged him sooner, but it did not happen. Graham just continued to insult Gerrard and Gerrard's anger continued to increase.

   Obviously it was going to come to a head, but when it did I was not present, although I did see the aftermath of the event and what occurred was relayed to me in detail by several observers. At the time it occurred I was trying to start my Indian Scout motorbike, as it was after knockoff time and it had been giving me problems due to it having an intermittent sticking carburettor float and an intermittent electrical fault.

  The 1972 photo above shows me with my mate Blackie Blackburn from Wellsford who is on the back of my 1942 Indian Scout, which was the motorbike I was trying to start at the time Graham's interaction with Gerrard came to a head.

    The incident occurred in the lunch sheds when Graham and Gerard were getting their gear before going home.  While one was coming in and the other going out Graham called Gerard a nasty name, and Gerard, who could contain himself no longer, walked up to Graham and delivered to him a very hard slap across the face. Apparently Graham, who could see Gerrard's confidence and feel the weight of his slap, just stood there like a stunned mullet and did not say a word.

   I saw Graham walking off the site after the event. Half his face was red and inflamed but the whole of his face carried a sheepish and disturbed look.  

Graham held his face for a while after receiving the slap and seemed to go into a state of shock.

     It all turned out okay. Neither Graham nor Gerrard suffered any permanent physical damage as a result of my advice, the bosses did not know about what happened and Graham was put in his place. We never heard a peep out of Graham after that, although I doubt the incident was enough to turn him into a good bloke. He probably only tried to bully very old men, very young boys, quadriplegics and people with very advanced cancer after that, just to ensure the odds were heavily in his favour should a physical conflict arise.    
    There is no shortage of Grahams in this world. It’s such a pity they are not sterilised once they become old enough to reproduce.
   Not long after the slap the owner of the company had a heart attack on the job and died before our eyes. I described the incident in “Tales of a Canberra Boy.”

FOR MANY MORE MAINLY CANBERRA-BASED YARNS HIT THE "HOME" BUTTON UP THE TOP.

A CANBERRA BOY IN THAILAND (CONTINUED)

INTRODUCTION TO THE FOLLOWING POST

  The last post on this site was in the form of a recent email from a mate by the name of Tony Quinn, who is visiting Thailand. In it he described what happened to him after he ate off seafood at a Thai restaurant. He is still in Thailand at the time of this post and I received the following true story from him in the form of another email on the 10/2/14. 

Dave Wheeler 10/2/14.

A CANBERRA BOY IN THAILAND-A CONTINUATION FROM THE LAST POST

By Tony Quinn

    

Gooday you mongrel,

   A mate of the Mrs rang yesterday morning to ask if we would like to go with her and her husband to visit a temple a couple of hours drive north of Bangkok on the road to Lopburi. I jumped at the chance as it had been several days since I had been to a temple (sarcasm). 

   They picked us up a few hours later and off we went. The temple is a large establishment and is a rehabilitation centre for drug addicts. Western drug addicts also reside at the temple. Evidently the hardest addicts to cure are the glue and petrol sniffers.

   We spent quite a lot of time at the main temple as it contained some Buddha images and relics. There were a lot of coloured lights around a structure in front of the images. On closer inspection the structure was a large glass tank filled with water containing the body of a head monk who died 3 years ago.The head of the head monk, with its hair supposedly still growing, was pressed against the side of the tank. A live monk in the hall came over to tell us the details of the preservation of the body. Next to the tank was a bottle containing water with a yellow substance floating on top. The substance was fat from the dead monk's body! I was surprised that the body could be preserved only by using water.

  The live monk told us how every so often he would drain the tank of water,remove the body and clean it up. He switched on his computer and showed us the various images of the body. He would remove the dead skin and dead finger and toe nails which he said would grow back. He obviously enjoyed his work as he had a big smile on his face. He also said there were another 5 bodies out the back in a similar state. It was like a house of horrors! 

   We left the hall and went to a different part of the complex where the abbot was. We sat with him discussing various topics (I could not understand a word as it was in Thai). The husband went and sat at a table and started eating a bowl of soup. He waved me over to join him. I hadn't eaten since I had a breakfast of oats and bananas so I was quite hungry. He was hoeing into the soup so I thought it would be okay. It was a grey, slimy gruel and floating in it was what appeared to be fish balls and raw chunks of liver. The fish balls ended up being bird's eggs. I ate about a third of the bowl. The stomach would not take any more.

  We went back over and sat near the abbot and he gave me a ring with a precious stone attached plus a stone by itself. These he said would bring me good luck and good fortune. He then offered me a glass of water to drink. It was very cloudy-looking so I declined, saying I had a weak stomach. He said the water had healing powers and would cleanse my body of illness and injury. I still declined as the thought of my recent food poisoning was still in my mind. He assured me the water was okay and proceeded to dip his finger into it and dab the water droplets onto his tongue. Against my better judgement I lifted the glass and gulped the contents down. Maybe the water would cure my training injuries. The water tasted foul and I grimaced. 

   The abbot then told me where the water came from. You wouldn't believe this, but the water came from the tank containing the dead body! I was shocked! No wonder the water looked cloudy and tasted so foul! I didn't know what to say. I wondered how long it would take for the symptoms of cholera to appear. 

   The abbot then produced a bottle containing a dark brown liquid. The drug addicts drink it and it makes them vomit uncontrollably. It's part of the cure. I was tempted to take a swig.

  Shortly afterwards we headed home. We stopped off for dinner at a restaurant but I wasn't in the mood for eating.

  I have attached a photo of the abbot. The brown drink is to his right.  

FOR MANY MORE MAINLY CANBERRA-BASED YARNS HIT THE "HOME" BUTTON UP THE TOP.

A CANBERRA BOY IN THAILAND

  A CANBERRA BOY IN THAILAND

   Last week I received the email which follows this introductory rave from a mate, Tony Quinn, who is visiting Thailand. In it he describes to me what happened to him after he ate off seafood at a Thai restaurant. Tony is the same age as me, having been born in 1952, and like me was also raised in the Berra from an early age. He has been married to a Thai lady for over 30 years and usually visits Thailand with her annually. For the sake of his wife, who is a private person, I will not identify her. I have therefore removed his wife's name where he refers to her in his email and replaced it with "the Mrs." 

     Last time Tony was in Thailand, which was about a year ago, he went for a run in the jungle and came very close to being attacked by a large male monkey who stood in his path defending its territory. He hasn't had a lot of luck with animals. He's been the victim of attacks by goshawks while running in the Berra on two occasions. As a result he likes to run with me because it decreases his chances of being attacked by 50%. 

Dave Wheeler 26/1/14

A CANBERRA BOY IN THAILAND

by Tony Quinn

   The following is an email I recently received from Tony Quinn, a mate who is visiting Thailand. 

Dave Wheeler 26/1/14

Gooday you mongrel,

   We left Bangkok on Sunday and went south to a place on the coast called Cha Am. We stayed in a hotel which was very quiet and had a big pool. I could also run along the beach. I hired a Honda CRV and on Tuesday we drove further south to a place I can't recall the name of to visit a mate of the Mrs named Nataya. 

   I met Nataya a couple of times before and she thinks I'm really nice (good judge of character). She gave me a shirt last time we met. When she saw me this time she ran over and hugged me. She's very wealthy and owns a lot of properties. Her husband's been active politically.

   She was a beauty queen in the 70's and the last time I saw her she looked okay for her age but this time she looked hideous. She obviously had plastic surgery on her face but something went horribly wrong. Her nostrils were pointing straight out like a pig's snout. It's a pity, because she's a nice woman but now advertises herself as being mutton doing a bad job of trying to dress itself as lamb. Why can't people just grow old gracefully? It's good to keep fit as you age but we can't do much about keeping our looks. 

   She took us to a restaurant for lunch and was so happy to see us she ordered beer after beer. As I'm a very polite person and didn't want to offend her I drank several glasses. The food was fried fish, crab, prawns, oysters, pork, noodles, etc. I was turned off when I was eating because every time I looked at her I could see a pair of nostrils staring back at me. 

   She told me I looked like a movie star but could not think of his name. I suggested it may be Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, George Clooney or James Bond. She said I was very handsome. I said "If you had a few more beers I would look even more handsome." 

   After lunch she wanted to show us some of her land holdings and insisted on driving the hire car. I was shitting myself as she was driving all over the road. I took over at an appropriate spot.

   I wasn't feeling too good at that stage so we commenced the drive back to her place. I started to feel really sick. I had severe stomach pains and my bowels were moving. I pulled over to the side of the road, staggered around to the other side of the car, dropped my pants, and in a half squat position while leaning against the vehicle let fly. The shit flew out of me like a geyser and must have looked  a great sight. The Mrs said she was lucky not to be standing behind me as it went about 2 metres. I wonder if Nataya still thought I looked like a movie star. 

   I remained in that position for about 15 minutes with multiple shits coming out. Unlike Australia the main roads in Thailand have houses and shops along them. It must have impressed the locals. To make matters worse the wife started yelling at me that I was getting shit all over my white RM Williams jeans (I wore them especially to impress Nataya). I was in no mood to listen to her claptrap so I summoned the last remaining bit of energy I had, to respond with "Get *******! 

   After shitting I was too weak to wipe my arse so the Mrs washed it with a bottle of drinking water. While still in the half squat position leaning forward and with much difficulty I started to pull up my now not so white RM Williams jeans trying hard not to expose my genitals in the process. This would have provided even more amusement for the locals. I crawled back into the driver's seat and continued on my way despite feeling sick, as I had no faith in the driving ability of either Nataya or the Mrs. The nagging started once again. This time the Mrs was complaining that I had spray-painted shit over the front passenger car door.

   I only got about 10kms when I started to feel even sicker, so I pulled over to the side of the road again and had 3 vomits out of the car door.I felt a bit better and drove on, but by the time we had dropped off Nataya I began to feel sick again and we only just made it back to our hotel, where I had several more shits and many more vomits. I thought I was going to die. I could not even drink a mouthful of water but I later on managed a bit of green tea.

   I felt a bit better in the morning so I did some exercises and went for a swim. I forced myself to eat some food and I didn't shit all day, although I had a severe headache and a hot forehead. I also felt my blood pressure was through the roof. 

   That night I forced myself to go for a 20 minute run along the beach and didn't feel any worse. I’m still not 100% and I'm looking forward to eating some decent food when I return to the Berra.

Regards,

Tony 26/1/14

FOR MANY MORE MAINLY CANBERRA-BASED YARNS HIT THE "HOME" BUTTON UP THE TOP.

A BAD MISTAKE ON MOUNT MAJURA

A BAD MISTAKE ON MOUNT MAJURA

by Dave Wheeler   

   It was sometime in 1999 my elderly parents had a dispute with a bloke who lived over the road from them I will call Robert; a tall skinny, balding bloke in his early thirties.   

   I won't go into details of their dispute other than to say I was of the firm opinion my parents were not at fault.

   The above photo is of Mount Majura, which is where I made the bad mistake I have described in this yarn. It is also the scene for the song "Goanna Oil," sung by Raymond Crooke, which can be listened to free of charge on youtube by clicking

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4W6FJEZd3RM . It is also where we spread the ashes of my mate, the late Geoff Fitzgerald, as described in the story entitled "Fitz and Mount Majura," which is on page 190 of  "Takes of a Canberra Boy." The latter book can be downloaded free of charge by clicking on the appropriate button above. 

   It came to a head when my dad knocked on Robert's door after a certain event had occurred, which resulted in Robert screaming at my elderly cancer-stricken dad and physically assisting him off the property by pushing him. Had he not screamed or pushed him I would not have got involved, but because my dad's personal safety had been threatened, and was therefore still under threat, I felt morally obliged to become involved.      
   Getting assistance from the law would not have helped as it would have been difficult to prove my dad was pushed/assaulted because no injuries were made and there were no witnesses. The process would have also given my dad a lot of stress, which was something he did not need considering his age and condition. 
   How I would ensure it did not happen again was a challenge for me in several ways. I thought the problem could only be solved with physical violence or a threat of physical violence, be it from the law or elsewhere. 
   The universe operates as a result of physical violence, with superior forces always overpowering inferior forces, and it seemed to me human garbage like Robert would only change his cowardly ways if he thought his actions would result in his body being damaged or him being deprived of his liberty.       
   I find the idea of bullying abhorrent under most circumstances having been bullied myself as a kid. If however, I was to bully a bully like Robert, who I could tell was as weak as piss for a bloke his age, could it be morally justified?      
   When contemplating the morality behind using violence or threatening to use violence in certain situations I thought of the lobby groups who are strongly opposed to those who use violence as a form of control or to vent their wrath. These lobbyists recommend that violent people be dealt with severely with the full force of the law, particularly violent bullies, which is a blatant contradiction in their philosophy.    
    Don't get me wrong; I agree that violent people should be dealt with by the law. Where I differ from most of the lobbyists I refer to however, is that I am fully conscious of the fact that when the law is used to punish or control the violent a form of bullying violence is used to accomplish the task. I refer to when states, by way of police forces, use their superior force to overpower people, or threaten to overpower people, and/or lock them up; sometimes for very lengthy periods. Violence is violence is violence, whether it is committed by the state within the law by way of a police force or an army, or whether it is committed by an individual illegally.    
   It is up to us to decide when committing acts of violence can be morally justified, and in saying that I am referring to the morality of situations and am not encouraging anyone to do anything of an illegal nature.
  I worked on building sites in the Berra during my youth with many middle aged Germans, and almost all of them fought for Germany during WW2. These blokes were invariably very law-abiding and conservative and not at all violent in their day-to-day lives. Yet I wondered if they had learnt anything by the huge mistake they had made when they blindly followed the orders of the Fuhrer, their supreme authority figure during the war. 

   I don't know how many of the Canberra Germans were ex SS and actually performed atrocities on Jews, Poles, Gypsies, homosexuals, communists, etc, but supposing they didn't, and supposing they just fought for Germany during the war under the rules of war, that alone in my mind meant they committed acts of violence which could not be morally justified.
   I am not having a go at the Germans per se; as I believe most Australians would have done the same thing under the same circumstances, because most humans are sheep-like in nature irrespective of their race, nationality or creed. Hitler knew people were subservient to authority and took advantage of it. He was quoted as saying "The masses are blind and stupid." 
   In or around 1971 a couple of mates of mine were thrown out of the German Club, here in the Berra. Of course there would have been many Germans there at the time who had fought under Hitler. My mates stood in the entrance and yelled out "We won the war! We won the war!" They then made machine gun sounds and pretended to fire upon the Germans inside.
    Okay, let's get back to where I was with Robert. I knew something had to be done about him and I knew the last thing I needed at the time was to get in trouble with the law while trying to solve the Robert problem. I was working for the ACT government in 1999 and I did not want to risk the sack. 

   So rather than confront Robert and launch straight into an act of violence or a threat of violence I decided to sit on the problem for a while, although I did not want to sit on it for too long. 
   I'd been running up Mount Majura regularly (I still do today intermittently as it gives me great pleasure, even though due to my more advanced years I now run at glacial speed) and I thought I'd seen Robert up there on several occasions. I therefore also thought that maybe the opportunity to confront him may arise when there was nobody on the mountain but the two of us. 
   I had also learnt through experience that sometimes one's brain can solve problems if it is allowed to work on them over time non-consciously, and I was hoping an answer to how I would deal with the Robert problem would "come to me." 

   Not long after making my decision to not make an immediate decision on the matter I was running up Mount Majura by myself and I saw in the distance a bloke I took to be Robert walking towards me by himself. I was about three quarters of the way up the mountain whereas he had been to the top and was walking back.
    I was placed in the sort of situation people are often placed in when they try to give up smoking or drinking or eating garbage food. They see the positives and negatives of each course of action or non-action and can feel a sort of cognitive dissonance if they cannot decide immediately in a single-minded manner the choice they should make.

    I could have suffered in that way had I have not known how to handle such situations, as I had to balance the welfare of my dad and the welfare of myself. I had no wish to see my dad bullied again and I had no wish to be locked up and/or sacked from my job for committing an act of violence. 
   

    I was also aware however, that because we do not have contra causal free will Robert was not responsible for his actions in the absolute sense, which meant I did not feel as much animosity towards him as I would have had I have not been aware of him being no more than a collection of cells that had been involuntarily manipulated by the forces of the universe. This however, did not diminish a partial urge I had to slap him around and threaten him, as my paramount concern was my dad's welfare. Fortunately I am able to ensure I never suffer that sort of cognitive dissonance and am always able to make the sorts of decisions I was referring to in a single-minded manner. 
   My philosophy as described in the book I wrote entitled "A Rationalist's Guide to Life" which describes how one can overcome the sort of cognitive dissonance described in the previous paragraphs is beyond the capacity of most people to understand. I shake my head when I see people paying good money to attend "boot camps" to make themselves exercise or when I see "give up" groups dedicated to assisting people give up smoking or overeating. They need an understanding of how the decision-making process works and how one is able to ensure one can make decisions in a single-minded manner and as such devoid of cognitive dissonance. 
   This resulted in my approaching my quarry with no set plan. How I reacted would depend on how he reacted. I had the option of slapping him around a bit and applying a partial sleeper to his neck, making him think I was going to murder him at the time. I could then release him, then let him know what he was in for if he ever dealt with my dad the way he had again. But, as I have indicated, how I would react would depend on how he reacted, and I would make sure that whatever I did I could not be in trouble with the law. 

   So, while allowing the reptilian part of my brain to operate for a while I approached him. As I did my hands began tingling and I began to silently laugh to myself. I said to him in an appropriate tone of voice, “How’s it going mate?” Aren’t you the bloke who lives over the road from my dad?”

   In a shaking voice he said, “I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.”

   I asked him if he lived in Watson and when he told me he did not it struck me he seemed too well-spoken for the inbred I had presumed he was. It also struck me that the sort of person who exercises regularly does not usually fall into the inbred/bogan category, which was the category Robert fell right into. 

    On top of all that I became conscious of the fact that I have become a bit short-sighted as I aged, and for that reason I realised I may have made a dreadful mistake by thinking someone who looked like Robert was Robert.
    A sinking feeling hit me after a couple more seconds as I became fully aware of the fact that the bloke I had approached on Mount Majura was not the same bloke who had bullied my dad.

  I felt like crawling under a rock, and that feeling could have continued had I let it. After I sincerely apologised to the bloke for mistaking him for someone else he did not say much and instead of continuing his walk he ran off. I have not seen him on Mount Majura since. 
    I immediately continued my run up Mount Majura and did my best to savour the here-and-now rather than focus on the terrible mistake I had made. I focused on my breath, the wind in my face, the sun on my skin and the sound of the birds. Why people use drugs to sooth their troubled minds when such superior options are available is beyond me.
   Within a week of finishing my run I had a good close look at the real Robert and I could see the physical differences between him and the bloke I had confronted on the mountain, but the differences were not great. Through sheer bad luck on my part they had very similar ages, physiques and degrees of baldness. 

   The mistake I made occurred because I was not sufficiently conscious of the fact that some people do have near doubles and my eyesight could no longer be relied upon for viewing things at a distance.

   After the Mount Majura episode I made sure another event occurred which resulted in the real Robert being motivated to stay away from my dad for the rest of my dad's life. My dad had another 7 Robert-free years before his death at the age of 84.

FOR MANY MORE MAINLY CANBERRA-BASED YARNS HIT THE "HOME" BUTTON UP THE TOP.