I’m often quizzed on the extravagances of France, with the same set of questions.
‘Have you been to Paris or seen the famous artworks at the Louvre?’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but have you heard of the southwest?’
The Ariege region nudges the border of Spain, divided only by the Pyrenees. During winter, the powdery snow litters every object and every rock, blanketing the mountains in a thick white. In summer, the snow is stripped bare revealing a plethora of rocky outcrops and sun scorched grass. The ancient and weather worn country-side is mimicked by the people who inhabit it. Unshaven shepherds in their flat caps and faded vests call out to herds whose goat-bells ring throughout the valley.
In the shade of an old elm, I sit, watching closely as my Pepe picks apples from a nearby tree. His rigid straw hat and large round glasses rest still as he struggles to free the yellow fruit. He tosses me one and tells me to take a bite.
‘Goute.’
I scrunch my face up.
He has caught me off guard.
‘Cest pas bon.’
It isn’t very nice, I tell him. But he assures me that they ripen once they have been picked.
I sit for a while more, soaking up the familiar surroundings. I have memories here as a young boy. This area never changes. The scent of wildflowers and freshly mowed grass. I can see cows on a nearby farm where I once met a young boy. And the sun, arrogant and persistent, reveals an array of blues, purples and yellows across the hillside.
My grandfather signals me, time to go back up to the house. I follow closely behind and watch as his Labrador comes over. Together we make our way across the grass and up to the porch where my Meme, mother and sister are playing cards. I feel at home here, things make sense. Vines grow and mate passionately, in this way and out, across the walls of my grandparents two story stone house. Large shutters wrap around the windows locking in the warmth of winter and blocking out the sun during summer’s unforgiving days. Australians prefer fans and heaters, but I find shutters to be much more practical.
Lunchtime is ready. I watch as my Meme produces dish after dish accompanying each fitting course. I pick at my food inquisitively as a conversation unfolds. At first I listen and absorb. Eventually I lose track and struggle to follow the words tumbling from the adult’s mouths. I brace myself. My Pepe slams his fist hard on the table, sending cups flying into the air.
“Non, je dis non,” he yells.
He’s angry about something.
But my mother doesn’t care.
She picks up an empty plate and slams it onto the table causing the cutlery to shake.
“You’re my father, but you don’t understand me,” she screams, flushing red.
My sister and I look at each other, cheeks full of food.
We are trying hard to not be included.
My Meme stands to stop the violence that has erupted on her back porch.
“Desert,” she says airily and sweeps off to the kitchen.
The table is silent once again. She returns moments later with a large ceramic bowl of ‘amity’ apple puré. It is her homemade recipe, using freshly picked ingredients of the tiny yellow kind.
‘C’est normal.’
To be at each other’s throats is a usual past time.
I remember once, when the mail was delivered, my Pepe strolled down the gravel driveway with his dog to play fetch. The dog returned with a roll of newspaper in his mouth while my Pepe clutched a fistful of letters. Excited by the arrival of some news, I stood patiently waiting beside my grandfather as he sat and opened the first of the letters and began reading to himself. I glanced over; big mistake. I was clipped across the head by the full force of my grandfather’s strong hands. Apparently, it is rude to read one’s letters, especially over one’s shoulder.
But how was I to know? I can’t even read French.
My Pepe showed me the tough kind of love.
*
Sebastian Sinclar is a Journalism student at QUT.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
From this bookshelf to the world outside
I take the title of this post from Italo Calvino's essay "Hermit in Paris", an exploration of the relationship between place and how one writes. Calvino goes from the younger man for whom "the world was there just outside the door, packed with signs, accompanying me everywhere" to a writer who only works well in a space which is entirely his, his own room "with books to hand":
Maybe it is not so much for the books themselves, but for a kind of interior space they form, as though I identified myself with my ideal library.
The world is no longer something he carries around with him, but a place he consults, and "the leap from this bookshelf to the world outside is not as great as it seems": Paris is in fact "a giant reference work, a city which you can consult like an encyclopaedia", the best illustration of which is the shops, "the most open, communicative discourse a city uses to express itself". Consquently, "in Paris you can always hope to find what you had thought lost".
"Hermit in Paris" is derived from an interview, a source that may help to explain the high energy and economical manner of some of the thoughts that are collated here around ideas of place and imagination:
Maybe to write about Paris I ought to leave, to distance myself from it, if it is true that all writing starts from a lack or an absence. Or else be more inside it, but for that I would need to have lived there from when I was young, if it is true that it is the first years of our existence, not the places of our maturity, that shape the world of our imagination. Or rather: a place has to become an inner landscape for the imagination to start to inhabit that place, to turn it into theatre.
...
...Paris could become again an inner city, and I could write about it. It would no longer be the city about which everything has already been said, but just the city in which I happen to live, a city without a name.
...
But perhaps I do not have the talent to establish personal relations with places, I always stay half in the clouds, with just one foot in the city.
...
The dream of being invisible ... When I find myself in an environment where I can enjoy the illusion of being invisible, I am really happy.
Maybe it is not so much for the books themselves, but for a kind of interior space they form, as though I identified myself with my ideal library.
The world is no longer something he carries around with him, but a place he consults, and "the leap from this bookshelf to the world outside is not as great as it seems": Paris is in fact "a giant reference work, a city which you can consult like an encyclopaedia", the best illustration of which is the shops, "the most open, communicative discourse a city uses to express itself". Consquently, "in Paris you can always hope to find what you had thought lost".
"Hermit in Paris" is derived from an interview, a source that may help to explain the high energy and economical manner of some of the thoughts that are collated here around ideas of place and imagination:
Maybe to write about Paris I ought to leave, to distance myself from it, if it is true that all writing starts from a lack or an absence. Or else be more inside it, but for that I would need to have lived there from when I was young, if it is true that it is the first years of our existence, not the places of our maturity, that shape the world of our imagination. Or rather: a place has to become an inner landscape for the imagination to start to inhabit that place, to turn it into theatre.
...
...Paris could become again an inner city, and I could write about it. It would no longer be the city about which everything has already been said, but just the city in which I happen to live, a city without a name.
...
But perhaps I do not have the talent to establish personal relations with places, I always stay half in the clouds, with just one foot in the city.
...
The dream of being invisible ... When I find myself in an environment where I can enjoy the illusion of being invisible, I am really happy.
In fact, Calvino thinks the ideal condition for a writer is "close to anonymity", adding that "the more the author's figure invades the field, the more the world he portrays empties". As Calvino himself acknowledges, for most authors that is no longer an option: publishing deals are premised on visible authorship; and, after all, the essay containing these views is the outcome of a TV interview. But perhaps Paris remains a city where the author consults more and presents himself less. It's still a writer's city, promising anonymity, shops, and layer upon layer of references.
The essay is available in: Italo Calvino, Hermit in Paris (Vintage International, 2003).
Saturday, March 19, 2011
An Evening with Annie Proulx
On 14 March 2011, I was in conversation with Annie Proulx, best-known for her novel The Shipping News (1993) and the short story "Brokeback Mountain" (1997). Her first novel, Postcards (1992), won the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction, and she has since won the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award, both times for Fiction. She was in Brisbane to promote her book Bird Cloud (2011), a complex, episodic memoir about her 640-acre property in Wyoming.
On place:
On memoir:
On writing:
Coming down from the clouds
Yet, and perhaps because I am influenced by having met and discussed these things with Proulx, I find myself not minding the distant and rather broken perspective. The histories that frame the centre of this book do indeed make a frame: they are joined, even if readers are asked to do some of the joining work for themselves. Bird Cloud the memoir is, like Bird Cloud the house, an idiocyncratic structure with an unusual choice for a main room. But it stands up. (I would love a library as my main room.)
A question I have recently been trying to answer in relation to both my own memoir (The Promise of Iceland) and the work of others is, how does place function as a mode of characterization, including that of the narrator? Ultimately, and in this sense in keeping with Proulx's fiction, Bird Cloud is an attempt to demonstrate an answer to that question: we see characters through their relation to place, and in Proulx's case this means a passion for the stories that emerge from it.
 |
| In Conversation with Annie Proulx, Garden's Theatre, QUT |
At the centre of Bird Cloud is the story of the design and building of a large house, which from the onset Proulx conceives as a library that you can live in. She needs 56 bookshelves and a volunteer librarian before she can really unpack, a reflection of her collector's personality and the eclecticism that textures her fiction: as a reader, Proulx is an historian, but the type who finds and pauses over the oddities in the records. In our discussion, she commented defiantly there were things in her library that you'd never find on Google.
I had no trouble believing that, nor in seeing her revisiting the texts that have wandered with her in numerous homes too small to house them. Bird Cloud the building offers her plenty of space to read and write, even if a well-planned writing desk (with its window placed high enough to not offer visual distractions) is, in the end, forsaken for the kitchen table, and what one presumes are all the distractions of a cook's kitchen.
The house is ultimately distraction enough in itself, a bit of a folly as it can't be occupied in the worst of the winter months, when the access road becomes too bad to use. The promised isolation of a remote Wyoming property is actually too much isolation, and for a year Bird Cloud was on the market for $3.7 million. Perhaps fortunately, it didn't sell. In our discussion, she observed that for women in particular it takes a long time to get to a point when you can be alone, and that she was ready for some of it now.
She didn't mean now now, but all the same Proulx is not really at ease on stage, and I for one quite liked that unease: it suggested to me that, despite the difficulties of building at Bird Cloud, she would always rather be back there at her own table, writing.
She didn't mean now now, but all the same Proulx is not really at ease on stage, and I for one quite liked that unease: it suggested to me that, despite the difficulties of building at Bird Cloud, she would always rather be back there at her own table, writing.
 |
| Questions? |
Place, memoir, and writing
I collect some of her most interesting remarks here, paraphrased as accurately as I can.
On place:
- Proulx commented that she always works on setting first, with a view that characters and stories ought to emerge out of the setting and out of one's research about a place.
On memoir:
- Writing non-fiction is a less personal task than writing fiction. Writing the memoir was more like a 9-to-5 job that you could put down, whereas writing fiction is something that keeps you up at night, and is more "absorbing".
On writing:
- She doesn't write for publication or for herself, she writes for the story. The story is an end in itself that must work on its own terms.
- There is an architecture involved in writing stories, and it begins at the sentence level. You don't aim for the perfect sentence, you aim for the correct sentence for the story. And then you add one correct sentence to another one, and a correct paragraph to another correct paragraph.
- She has no trouble farewelling characters. If anyone had trouble killing off their characters, they could send them round to her place.
Coming down from the clouds
Bird Cloud hasn't enjoyed the best reception, and I must admit that I share some of the concerns about the memoir that have been raised by critics (see, for example, the New York Times' review here). Over a glass of wine before we went on stage, Proulx hinted at some frustration over the reviews, and agreed with my suggestion that one is best off reading Bird Cloud as a compilation of histories which coalesce around a particular piece of land: her family history, the area's natural history, the human uses of the area and the geological past, and now her own building project. That is, unity lies in the land (the setting) and the stories that come out of it.
Probably the main reason that critics have responded negatively is that the building project (and the rather middle-class problems it throws up) dominates, and perhaps also because we're never shown how to connect the histories, the "rattling trunk of miscellanies" as The Washington Post calls it. The memoir assumes that we'll relate all its information to Bird Cloud the landscape, whereas many readers will be too irritated by Bird Cloud the building project to be able to do so sympathetically.
Probably the main reason that critics have responded negatively is that the building project (and the rather middle-class problems it throws up) dominates, and perhaps also because we're never shown how to connect the histories, the "rattling trunk of miscellanies" as The Washington Post calls it. The memoir assumes that we'll relate all its information to Bird Cloud the landscape, whereas many readers will be too irritated by Bird Cloud the building project to be able to do so sympathetically.
I suppose that, rather like books, building projects are often not so much finished as abandoned, or at least left to later or to someone else to tidy up. I like to imagine that the story of Bird Cloud will eventually find another home in Proulx's fiction, where her chief fidelity is to story rather than to reality. The memoir that we have is, in the way of buildings, something of an act of joint authorship, insomuch as Proulx doesn't fully inhabit and own the narrative for herself: this costs her the effect of unity that she achieves in her fiction. As she says, in her non-fiction she stands slightly outside of the building, looking in.
A question I have recently been trying to answer in relation to both my own memoir (The Promise of Iceland) and the work of others is, how does place function as a mode of characterization, including that of the narrator? Ultimately, and in this sense in keeping with Proulx's fiction, Bird Cloud is an attempt to demonstrate an answer to that question: we see characters through their relation to place, and in Proulx's case this means a passion for the stories that emerge from it.
 |
| With Annie Proulx |
Pictures by Romney Francis are courtesy of Brisbane Better Bookshops. (The Courier Mail's photograph from the evening is here.)
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Follow @karigislason
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Letter from Togo, by Jen Anderson
Tracey, a fellow nurse and lovely new friend, and I leave the ship and walk in the early morning heat to the intersection outside the port gates of Lomé to wait for a Togolese co-worker Johnathon, and his friend, a taxi-driver Komla, to see some amazing waterfalls a few hours drive north of the city. Being white, we get many looks although the guards are used to the ship and its crew coming and going so they barely nod or say ‘Bonjour’. People are up and working at their stalls lining the roads, with many men wearing their pajama-looking outfits although plenty are in jeans and T-shirts. Most women wear the traditional sarong and head scarf. Johnathon finally arrives after ten minutes and we follow him to the battered but workable taxi driven by Komla and are introduced. Komla is a big barrel of a man, probably in his mid 40’s, with a ready smile. His belly extends all the way to the steering wheel and I can tell he is tall as his head almost touches the ceiling of the taxi. Komla is driving as Johnathon has no license. Both men wear T-shirts and jeans, with Komla’s shirt declaring, ‘Available for one night only.’
We drive through a chaotic roundabout along the bumpy and potholed beachfront road and I‘m already sweating buckets. The beach is at least 200 metres wide, and I see men hauling in nets filled with fish, people resting under the palm trees, roadside stalls and pipes which run sewage into the sand not the sea. We pass unfinished bridges and cramped markets where I would not want to get lost, and turn into a road toward the depths of the city. We pass dirty crumbling walls on which have been painted in large letters ‘Interdit d’uriner 500F’ – Prohibited to urinate 500 Franc fine. Everything is covered in a layer of dust or sand so it is all dry and filthy as if thirsting for some monsoonal rains to wash it clean.
We pass a lake fringed by the city and some very prominent signs about the wearing of condoms. HIV is very prevalent here and the signs are quite explicit; one showing a drawing of an erect penis wearing a banana flavoured condom, and another encouraging young people to abstain from sex. Twenty minutes later we hit the outer suburbs which means the potholed bitumen changes to potholed dirt and sand roads. After picking up supplies of bottled water we follow the border with Ghana, defined by an enormous barbed wire fence, and out into the country; I feel quite confident with Komla driving and find he has a good sense of humour as we converse in a mix of English, French and the local language, Ewe, which Johnathon translates.
Civilization becomes more sparse as we drive further and the dry red dust of the dirt gives way to farms lush with dense tropical vegetation. The unfinished concrete buildings change to mud-brick huts in sporadic villages, many with single room schools or churches. The roads out of town are mostly bitumen with occasional potholes; often single lane. Each side of the road has large monsoon drains, to catch the run-off from tropical downpours. Villages built on the dirt face the road, some with goats and lambs running freely. In one area the roads suddenly improve and proceed to lead us past what could be called a mansion in the middle of the bush with manicured gardens and a bitumen driveway – the President’s home.
As we travel north we stop at a roadside stall, and all the people crowd around the car to sell us what looks like rats, dried and spread-eagled on a stick frame and roasted over an open fire. I find out that they are actually squirrels. We constantly pass people – walking with loads balanced on their heads, riding bicycles with a live goat strapped to the back, standing by stalls filled with soccer uniforms or pots and pans, some with petrol sold in 2 litre bottles, cooking over open fires by the road – many holding up their wares as the car passes. There is a constant smell of smoke and petrol, dust and humid tropical forest.
We finally pass a street sign proclaiming we are entering Kpalimé (the K is silent), a small town and close to our destination. Once on the other side of town, we stop at a village to get directions and are told to follow bumpy bush tracks into the jungle. Tracey and I glance at each other when the track virtually disappears and becomes a boggy single lane path with extremely tall grass on either side that seems like it could hide a wildebeest or family of wild boar. Eventually the jungle clears and we see a small group of men casually standing around dressed in jeans and T shirts.
The taxi stops and we get out – mainly to stretch my cramped legs – and Komla greets them courteously. He is speaking to the chief of local royalty; one of many tribes of the area (all of Togo or Africa for that matter is made up of tribes whose lands are not delineated by European-imposed borders). This particular king, as soon as he sees that we are foreigners, decides he wants payment from us to visit the local waterfall. Komla proceeds to, courteously, lecture them on the fact that we are volunteering our time and expertise to be here to help the Togolese people and are not regular tourists. I can tell this by the tone of his voice, even though he is speaking Ewe. I can see them hesitate. Finally a decision is made and we all pile back into the taxi. Tracey and I look at each other questioningly, but trust Komla and Johnathon.
The taxi returns along the track and turns up another, this time to arrive at a dirt path fronted by a large gate. We are let through and climb the path for ten minutes before rounding the corner to a stunning scene. Multiple levels of rock break up the falling shafts of water into myriad smaller waterfalls; all landing on an enormous flat rock base surrounded by trees and ferns. It is at least 100 metres high and a hawk circles the updrafts.
We are told we can ‘swim’ here; not swim exactly but stand under the fat shower of water from the falls and get wet. Once Tracey and I help each other change, we carefully make our way to the waterfall over the slippery rocks. The guys are already there in their underwear. You can feel the spray on your skin from metres away and the sound is thunderous; you have to shout to be heard. We are helped over the last few rocks by strong hands and finally stand under the clear cooling water. The force is so heavy it takes my breath away and I can only stay ‘under’ for a few seconds. The water makes a loud cracking sound as it hits the rocks with force. We are told it is safe to drink and we gulp mouthfuls and revel in the freshness and chill after the cramped heat of the drive.
We stay for at least an hour, taking many photos with my camera. Komla acts as if he owns my camera, taking it upon himself to snap photos of us all in various poses; looking at the result and laughing uproariously, his big barrel belly jiggling and sticking out over the top of his black soaking wet underwear. Eventually Johnathon and Komla tell us it’s time to go. As we prepare to leave a group of four local teenage girls arrive. As they stand under the shower of water in their bikini tops and shorts they make up a song and dance and move their bodies with amazing rhythm and grace. I am rapt with admiration but Komla decides he wants a photo with them. I am puzzled because there is no way I can eventually get this photo to him. He stands with the girls under the raining water and puts his arms around one in particular, across her breasts, brazenly feeling her up while they pose. I take the photo but no, he wants another one. I take it then stop as it dawns on me that this is why he wanted the photo; the lecher. We wave goodbye and they shyly smile their dazzling white smiles.
We walk back down the track to find the king and his entourage have set up some little stalls to sell bananas and mangoes to the visiting tourists. Komla drinks some palm wine which he explains is made from fermented coconut palm. He holds some out for me to try. It is an opaque liquid in a half coconut shell. I take a sip and grimace. It tastes foul but it is very strong as I can feel the alcohol warming my insides as if I’d taken a large sip of brandy. Komla downs about four more before we leave, but the only change to his driving after that is that he drives faster, rarely going below 140 km/h. Despite Tracey glancing at me worriedly, she soon feels safe enough because she is asleep within minutes.
We bypass the same peaceful villages and I am feeling calm and refreshed when suddenly I see a baby goat run onto the road and into the path of our taxi. I shout out but Komla does not swerve or blink when I hear the gut-wrenching sound of bang followed by thump-thump as we run over the goat. I feel sick to my stomach and want to turn around to see if it’s alright knowing full well it is dead. But Komla doesn’t even slow down. I’m almost in tears from the shock and callousness. He turns to me as he drives, shrugs his shoulders and smiles a sort of ‘that’s life’ kind of smile.
It is almost dark by the time we return to the port gate. We exit the taxi and say goodbye to them both, thanking them for the day, although I am still somewhat stunned. Tracey and I climb the gangway of the ship and check in, and I get looks and smiles. I discover that my hair is plastered back from my head in an interesting wind-blown coiffure and my face is completely filthy with red dust except for a distinct sunglass outline. I thank Tracey for coming with me. I’m not sure I would have gone by myself so being with her I‘d felt very safe, in spite of the lecherous, possibly drunk, goat-killer.
We drive through a chaotic roundabout along the bumpy and potholed beachfront road and I‘m already sweating buckets. The beach is at least 200 metres wide, and I see men hauling in nets filled with fish, people resting under the palm trees, roadside stalls and pipes which run sewage into the sand not the sea. We pass unfinished bridges and cramped markets where I would not want to get lost, and turn into a road toward the depths of the city. We pass dirty crumbling walls on which have been painted in large letters ‘Interdit d’uriner 500F’ – Prohibited to urinate 500 Franc fine. Everything is covered in a layer of dust or sand so it is all dry and filthy as if thirsting for some monsoonal rains to wash it clean.
We pass a lake fringed by the city and some very prominent signs about the wearing of condoms. HIV is very prevalent here and the signs are quite explicit; one showing a drawing of an erect penis wearing a banana flavoured condom, and another encouraging young people to abstain from sex. Twenty minutes later we hit the outer suburbs which means the potholed bitumen changes to potholed dirt and sand roads. After picking up supplies of bottled water we follow the border with Ghana, defined by an enormous barbed wire fence, and out into the country; I feel quite confident with Komla driving and find he has a good sense of humour as we converse in a mix of English, French and the local language, Ewe, which Johnathon translates.
Civilization becomes more sparse as we drive further and the dry red dust of the dirt gives way to farms lush with dense tropical vegetation. The unfinished concrete buildings change to mud-brick huts in sporadic villages, many with single room schools or churches. The roads out of town are mostly bitumen with occasional potholes; often single lane. Each side of the road has large monsoon drains, to catch the run-off from tropical downpours. Villages built on the dirt face the road, some with goats and lambs running freely. In one area the roads suddenly improve and proceed to lead us past what could be called a mansion in the middle of the bush with manicured gardens and a bitumen driveway – the President’s home.
As we travel north we stop at a roadside stall, and all the people crowd around the car to sell us what looks like rats, dried and spread-eagled on a stick frame and roasted over an open fire. I find out that they are actually squirrels. We constantly pass people – walking with loads balanced on their heads, riding bicycles with a live goat strapped to the back, standing by stalls filled with soccer uniforms or pots and pans, some with petrol sold in 2 litre bottles, cooking over open fires by the road – many holding up their wares as the car passes. There is a constant smell of smoke and petrol, dust and humid tropical forest.
We finally pass a street sign proclaiming we are entering Kpalimé (the K is silent), a small town and close to our destination. Once on the other side of town, we stop at a village to get directions and are told to follow bumpy bush tracks into the jungle. Tracey and I glance at each other when the track virtually disappears and becomes a boggy single lane path with extremely tall grass on either side that seems like it could hide a wildebeest or family of wild boar. Eventually the jungle clears and we see a small group of men casually standing around dressed in jeans and T shirts.
The taxi stops and we get out – mainly to stretch my cramped legs – and Komla greets them courteously. He is speaking to the chief of local royalty; one of many tribes of the area (all of Togo or Africa for that matter is made up of tribes whose lands are not delineated by European-imposed borders). This particular king, as soon as he sees that we are foreigners, decides he wants payment from us to visit the local waterfall. Komla proceeds to, courteously, lecture them on the fact that we are volunteering our time and expertise to be here to help the Togolese people and are not regular tourists. I can tell this by the tone of his voice, even though he is speaking Ewe. I can see them hesitate. Finally a decision is made and we all pile back into the taxi. Tracey and I look at each other questioningly, but trust Komla and Johnathon.
The taxi returns along the track and turns up another, this time to arrive at a dirt path fronted by a large gate. We are let through and climb the path for ten minutes before rounding the corner to a stunning scene. Multiple levels of rock break up the falling shafts of water into myriad smaller waterfalls; all landing on an enormous flat rock base surrounded by trees and ferns. It is at least 100 metres high and a hawk circles the updrafts.
We are told we can ‘swim’ here; not swim exactly but stand under the fat shower of water from the falls and get wet. Once Tracey and I help each other change, we carefully make our way to the waterfall over the slippery rocks. The guys are already there in their underwear. You can feel the spray on your skin from metres away and the sound is thunderous; you have to shout to be heard. We are helped over the last few rocks by strong hands and finally stand under the clear cooling water. The force is so heavy it takes my breath away and I can only stay ‘under’ for a few seconds. The water makes a loud cracking sound as it hits the rocks with force. We are told it is safe to drink and we gulp mouthfuls and revel in the freshness and chill after the cramped heat of the drive.
We stay for at least an hour, taking many photos with my camera. Komla acts as if he owns my camera, taking it upon himself to snap photos of us all in various poses; looking at the result and laughing uproariously, his big barrel belly jiggling and sticking out over the top of his black soaking wet underwear. Eventually Johnathon and Komla tell us it’s time to go. As we prepare to leave a group of four local teenage girls arrive. As they stand under the shower of water in their bikini tops and shorts they make up a song and dance and move their bodies with amazing rhythm and grace. I am rapt with admiration but Komla decides he wants a photo with them. I am puzzled because there is no way I can eventually get this photo to him. He stands with the girls under the raining water and puts his arms around one in particular, across her breasts, brazenly feeling her up while they pose. I take the photo but no, he wants another one. I take it then stop as it dawns on me that this is why he wanted the photo; the lecher. We wave goodbye and they shyly smile their dazzling white smiles.
We walk back down the track to find the king and his entourage have set up some little stalls to sell bananas and mangoes to the visiting tourists. Komla drinks some palm wine which he explains is made from fermented coconut palm. He holds some out for me to try. It is an opaque liquid in a half coconut shell. I take a sip and grimace. It tastes foul but it is very strong as I can feel the alcohol warming my insides as if I’d taken a large sip of brandy. Komla downs about four more before we leave, but the only change to his driving after that is that he drives faster, rarely going below 140 km/h. Despite Tracey glancing at me worriedly, she soon feels safe enough because she is asleep within minutes.
We bypass the same peaceful villages and I am feeling calm and refreshed when suddenly I see a baby goat run onto the road and into the path of our taxi. I shout out but Komla does not swerve or blink when I hear the gut-wrenching sound of bang followed by thump-thump as we run over the goat. I feel sick to my stomach and want to turn around to see if it’s alright knowing full well it is dead. But Komla doesn’t even slow down. I’m almost in tears from the shock and callousness. He turns to me as he drives, shrugs his shoulders and smiles a sort of ‘that’s life’ kind of smile.
It is almost dark by the time we return to the port gate. We exit the taxi and say goodbye to them both, thanking them for the day, although I am still somewhat stunned. Tracey and I climb the gangway of the ship and check in, and I get looks and smiles. I discover that my hair is plastered back from my head in an interesting wind-blown coiffure and my face is completely filthy with red dust except for a distinct sunglass outline. I thank Tracey for coming with me. I’m not sure I would have gone by myself so being with her I‘d felt very safe, in spite of the lecherous, possibly drunk, goat-killer.
Jen Anderson is a PhD student in Creative Writing at QUT.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Final Call (Letter from Chiang Mai) by Kate Cantrell
On my last day in Chiang Mai, my mother calls to say that my grandma—the one with a lump of cancer in her breast—has passed away. Except she doesn’t use the euphemism, which is strange since my mother is Catholic. (When I was a girl, the boy next door had a heart attack in the park and my mother, when quizzed on his where abouts by the paramedics, said he had gone to be with God. Later she told my father he had ‘graduated’. ‘From where?’ my father asked).
‘Gran died,’ she says.
I sit down.
The station itself is close to the ground. A single track, buried under tuffs of grass and tatty flowers, runs parallel to the platform. Tucked to the side, between the bonsais, is a block of toilets and a shop that serves rice and fish balls. The King, who rode the rails as a boy, is raised on a flag pole; his cheeks just as pink, his sword still drawn for dragons. In the garden below, someone has made an offering: a bowl of baby mandarins and some turtle shells flipped and filled with oil. In the distance, the sun has fallen behind the mountains and the sky is the colour of grape juice.
‘When?’ I ask.
‘After lunch.’
‘It’s dark,’ I say. ‘Why didn’t you call?’
‘I tried,’ my mother says.
As she moves the phone from her mouth, I can see her standing in the kitchen. She has her back against the fridge; one hand on the flat of her chest and some fruit magnets in her hair. On the stove, there is a pot with eggs inside. The water is boiling over.
‘Kate,’ she says, finally, as if she is naming me again.
But this time, she has changed the weight of the word.
‘Kate?’
One by one, she takes back the letters; sending out a notice for my name, recalling the first thing she gave me. She stresses the syllables and knots the lines and twists the new sounds around her tongue.
I undo my backpack, which is also heavy, and rest it on the steady ground. It looks lighter there. As my mother sends questions over the sea, an announcement comes over the speaker. I recognise some words I have learnt of the language: sa-bai-dee, cop-koon-ka. When the words fall away, the woman in the window stands and spits her gum. From somewhere above, she pulls down a door, then pops up a sign behind the glass. The sign is printed in strange symbols I have never seen before; crop circles, forks.
‘She left you her hats,’ my mother says. ‘And an envelope. I haven’t opened it.’
‘What about Dad?’
‘Coins,’ she says. ‘He has made little piles all over the floor. He won’t stop counting them.’
I smile.
My grandma hated change.
On Lotto days, she always played the same numbers.
7, 11, 17, 23 and 37.
‘These are lonely numbers,’ she would say, crossing the boxes. ‘That’s why they’re lucky.’
She nearly won once.
‘When’s the funeral?’ I ask.
‘Friday. At St Catherine’s.’
St Catherine’s is the Church where my grandparents were married; her in a dress more yellow than white, him in a suit too big. In the year that followed, they built a house and bought a car and planted a mango tree. My grandma heard a beat in her belly and my grandfather, who was a bad listener, went to war. She kept his ashes in a vase.
‘Mum?’
‘Mmm.’
‘I’ll be in Bangkok tomorrow. There’s a midnight flight.’
My mother is quiet.
I hold the line.
While I wait, a man with no shoes crosses the track. He is carrying an open suitcase. Inside, there are gold chains in velvet pouches. In another compartment, there are packs of cards, and leather watches, and boxes of Viagra. In the centre of the case, there is a lighter with a naked woman on the front. Her thighs, white and plump, are curved against the stars and stripes of an American flag.
‘Special price,’ the man says, holding up some pearls.
I shake my head.
He swaps the necklace for the lighter.
‘For your father,’ he says.
‘No thank you,’ I mouth.
‘Where are you from?’ he asks. ‘You are very sexy.’
I smile and turn away. The man stays. Every now and then, he flicks his lighter and says, ‘I’ll give you my banana.’
I press the phone closer, listening for my mother. There is a tap running in the background. Eventually, there is a clicking sound followed by muffled conversation, and then my father is on the line.
‘Don’t change your ticket,’ he says.
‘I want to come home.’
My father, unsure what to say, doesn’t say anything at all, so I add, ‘There is a man here trying to sell me his banana.’
My father laughs.
He is the still the same.
‘I’m worried about your mother,’ he says, lowering his voice. ‘She’s talking about the ducks again.’
When my mother is unwell, she undertakes obscure tasks, usually around the house. She vacuums the pot plants, and dresses the furniture, and lets the fish swim in the bathtub. She unplugs the telephone, and colours the tablecloth, and chops up bits of bread. She bags the crusts, ties them off, and packs them in the freezer. ‘We need to get some ducks,’ she says. ‘Ducks love bread.’
‘Who was there?’ I ask. ‘When it happened. Who was with her?’
My father makes a clicking sound, like he is annoyed by the question.
‘Well, the nurse was there,’ he says. ‘You know, the one with the funny nose. But all the roads were blocked because of the floods. The hospital was closed for a week.’
There is a pause.
‘I couldn’t get there,’ he says.
I close my eyes and imagine my grandmother, flat on her back, waiting for her children to come to her. The cricket plays on a tiny screen above her bed. The sound is off. Her cross-word is half finished.
‘What’s another word for consolation?’ I asked her once.
‘Whiskey,’ she said.
‘She waited as long as she could,’ my father says. ‘You know your grandmother.’
‘Did she say anything?’
‘Yes. She asked for a radio. She said, ‘I would like something to listen to, if it’s not too much trouble.’
That was the last thing she said.
Through a break in the buses, I can see the rice fields on the horizon. They have been flattened and flooded for harvest. Near the sludge, in a square of patted grass, there is a father and son. The man uses a buffalo to plough the soil. The boy follows behind. Sometimes they stop to rest. When the rain falls and the weeds have sprouted, they will plant the grains by hand.
‘I need to write the eulogy,’ my father says now.
I understand what he means.
‘Okay,’ I say.
‘Okay,’ my father says, then he hangs up.
As the train returns from wherever it disappeared to, I notice it has changed: it is stained on the side and one of the doors is missing. Some of the ropes that connect the carriages have started to fray at the ends. A chubby woman, already on board, squeezes out the window. She has a baby in one arm and a pineapple in the other. She nurses both to her breasts.
As I near the platform, a man in a conductor’s hat, asks to see my ticket.
‘Sawadee-kup’ he says.
‘Sawadee-kaa.’
When he nods permission, I lift my bag onto the train and take a seat by the window. From there, I see the man step back to the empty station. He raises a whistle to his mouth and blows three times.
‘Krung Thep,’ he says. ‘Final call.’
I take off my shoes, one at a time, and slide them under my seat.
The woman with the pineapple has fallen asleep.
A little while later, we are gone.
‘Gran died,’ she says.
I sit down.
The station itself is close to the ground. A single track, buried under tuffs of grass and tatty flowers, runs parallel to the platform. Tucked to the side, between the bonsais, is a block of toilets and a shop that serves rice and fish balls. The King, who rode the rails as a boy, is raised on a flag pole; his cheeks just as pink, his sword still drawn for dragons. In the garden below, someone has made an offering: a bowl of baby mandarins and some turtle shells flipped and filled with oil. In the distance, the sun has fallen behind the mountains and the sky is the colour of grape juice.
‘When?’ I ask.
‘After lunch.’
‘It’s dark,’ I say. ‘Why didn’t you call?’
‘I tried,’ my mother says.
As she moves the phone from her mouth, I can see her standing in the kitchen. She has her back against the fridge; one hand on the flat of her chest and some fruit magnets in her hair. On the stove, there is a pot with eggs inside. The water is boiling over.
‘Kate,’ she says, finally, as if she is naming me again.
But this time, she has changed the weight of the word.
‘Kate?’
One by one, she takes back the letters; sending out a notice for my name, recalling the first thing she gave me. She stresses the syllables and knots the lines and twists the new sounds around her tongue.
I undo my backpack, which is also heavy, and rest it on the steady ground. It looks lighter there. As my mother sends questions over the sea, an announcement comes over the speaker. I recognise some words I have learnt of the language: sa-bai-dee, cop-koon-ka. When the words fall away, the woman in the window stands and spits her gum. From somewhere above, she pulls down a door, then pops up a sign behind the glass. The sign is printed in strange symbols I have never seen before; crop circles, forks.
‘She left you her hats,’ my mother says. ‘And an envelope. I haven’t opened it.’
‘What about Dad?’
‘Coins,’ she says. ‘He has made little piles all over the floor. He won’t stop counting them.’
I smile.
My grandma hated change.
On Lotto days, she always played the same numbers.
7, 11, 17, 23 and 37.
‘These are lonely numbers,’ she would say, crossing the boxes. ‘That’s why they’re lucky.’
She nearly won once.
‘When’s the funeral?’ I ask.
‘Friday. At St Catherine’s.’
St Catherine’s is the Church where my grandparents were married; her in a dress more yellow than white, him in a suit too big. In the year that followed, they built a house and bought a car and planted a mango tree. My grandma heard a beat in her belly and my grandfather, who was a bad listener, went to war. She kept his ashes in a vase.
‘Mum?’
‘Mmm.’
‘I’ll be in Bangkok tomorrow. There’s a midnight flight.’
My mother is quiet.
I hold the line.
While I wait, a man with no shoes crosses the track. He is carrying an open suitcase. Inside, there are gold chains in velvet pouches. In another compartment, there are packs of cards, and leather watches, and boxes of Viagra. In the centre of the case, there is a lighter with a naked woman on the front. Her thighs, white and plump, are curved against the stars and stripes of an American flag.
‘Special price,’ the man says, holding up some pearls.
I shake my head.
He swaps the necklace for the lighter.
‘For your father,’ he says.
‘No thank you,’ I mouth.
‘Where are you from?’ he asks. ‘You are very sexy.’
I smile and turn away. The man stays. Every now and then, he flicks his lighter and says, ‘I’ll give you my banana.’
I press the phone closer, listening for my mother. There is a tap running in the background. Eventually, there is a clicking sound followed by muffled conversation, and then my father is on the line.
‘Don’t change your ticket,’ he says.
‘I want to come home.’
My father, unsure what to say, doesn’t say anything at all, so I add, ‘There is a man here trying to sell me his banana.’
My father laughs.
He is the still the same.
‘I’m worried about your mother,’ he says, lowering his voice. ‘She’s talking about the ducks again.’
When my mother is unwell, she undertakes obscure tasks, usually around the house. She vacuums the pot plants, and dresses the furniture, and lets the fish swim in the bathtub. She unplugs the telephone, and colours the tablecloth, and chops up bits of bread. She bags the crusts, ties them off, and packs them in the freezer. ‘We need to get some ducks,’ she says. ‘Ducks love bread.’
‘Who was there?’ I ask. ‘When it happened. Who was with her?’
My father makes a clicking sound, like he is annoyed by the question.
‘Well, the nurse was there,’ he says. ‘You know, the one with the funny nose. But all the roads were blocked because of the floods. The hospital was closed for a week.’
There is a pause.
‘I couldn’t get there,’ he says.
I close my eyes and imagine my grandmother, flat on her back, waiting for her children to come to her. The cricket plays on a tiny screen above her bed. The sound is off. Her cross-word is half finished.
‘What’s another word for consolation?’ I asked her once.
‘Whiskey,’ she said.
‘She waited as long as she could,’ my father says. ‘You know your grandmother.’
‘Did she say anything?’
‘Yes. She asked for a radio. She said, ‘I would like something to listen to, if it’s not too much trouble.’
That was the last thing she said.
Through a break in the buses, I can see the rice fields on the horizon. They have been flattened and flooded for harvest. Near the sludge, in a square of patted grass, there is a father and son. The man uses a buffalo to plough the soil. The boy follows behind. Sometimes they stop to rest. When the rain falls and the weeds have sprouted, they will plant the grains by hand.
‘I need to write the eulogy,’ my father says now.
I understand what he means.
‘Okay,’ I say.
‘Okay,’ my father says, then he hangs up.
As the train returns from wherever it disappeared to, I notice it has changed: it is stained on the side and one of the doors is missing. Some of the ropes that connect the carriages have started to fray at the ends. A chubby woman, already on board, squeezes out the window. She has a baby in one arm and a pineapple in the other. She nurses both to her breasts.
As I near the platform, a man in a conductor’s hat, asks to see my ticket.
‘Sawadee-kup’ he says.
‘Sawadee-kaa.’
When he nods permission, I lift my bag onto the train and take a seat by the window. From there, I see the man step back to the empty station. He raises a whistle to his mouth and blows three times.
‘Krung Thep,’ he says. ‘Final call.’
I take off my shoes, one at a time, and slide them under my seat.
The woman with the pineapple has fallen asleep.
A little while later, we are gone.
Kate Cantrell teaches Creative Writing at QUT.
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