Phiona Rhodes
​September 2023

One of our focus trips when travelling overseas was to go to Israel and work in a Kibbutz , as many of the young Kiwis and Aussies did when travelling. Mainly because of the “new Jewish State” as an outcome from WW2 and the Holocaust.

Both Karin and I had read many books on the death camps and the migration of the Jewish people to Palestine post WW2. (One of these was by Leon Uris).

Karin had applied to join the “Bridge over Israel” after completing her final year of school but was declined due to her age. She was Jewish by descent.

Anyway, after working in shearing and pubs in England and Wales we booked our tickets to Israel. What a journey for that time. We had to go to Stanstead Airport.  The security was mind boggling, with Israeli security forces, guns and all checking every passenger before boarding a flight direct to Tel Aviv.

Arriving in Tel Aviv at 10.30pm local time we came out to the main airport terminal to discover that all the buses to Tel Aviv had finished and only option was taxis!! We were harassed by Palestinian taxi drivers telling their colleagues that they were booked to take us to Eilat (about 1000 km from Tel Aviv!!!!!)  We told them all to get lost and stayed the night in the airport. The next morning, we caught the bus to Tel Aviv and eventually ended up at one of Karin’s family for a few days.

We found our Kibbutz experience didn’t appeal as it was all about picking fruit. They asked what we could do, and we advised that we grew up on a dairy farm.  They placed us in a Moshav Shitufi (a family based collective) which meant that we had our own accommodation and had all our meals with a host family. They were South African Jewish migrants, so we weren’t living with 100’s of young British and Antipodean travellers. We lived with the locals who really looked after us and took us all over Israel. We milked 360 cows 3 times a day and I also milked 1200 sheep twice a day.

While working in the sheep milking shed (the Dere in Hebrew) I asked how they shore their sheep. They advised that they placed them in the rotary turnstile and would take them out one by one, tie their legs so they wouldn’t move and shear them. I offered to show them the way in which the Kiwis shore their sheep, via the Bowen method.

So, after breakfast one fine sunny day a crowd gathered to see this kiwi show them how to shear their sheep without tying them up. I shore the first one in under 3 minutes using narrow gear, it really caught their interest. They then challenged me to shear 5 in 15 minutes. Accomplished that with ease.

Afterwards I offered to bring my gear back to Israel and shear all their sheep plus the sheep on Moshav’s around the Bakar Valley in Israel (near the Sea of Gallilee, Hagalil in Hebrew). However being a collective farm, they wouldn’t spend the money and the offer was declined.

Many months later when in Europe we met up with another volunteer from the Moshav collective in Holland and he said that one of the workers thought he knew how to do shear the sheep and after trying one or two gave up, too hard!!!

We had a wonderful experience including every bus trip there was normally a terrorist incident before or after our presence!!!

Anyway, back to UK and work in bars then…….

Europe on $10.00 per day  .... (next post)


James Davey
September 2023

​Switzerland, Hayman Island, England, France, the USA, Austria, The Netherlands, Hayman Island, South Africa, Italy, Germany, Singapore, Hayman Island AGAIN!
 
Where can we travel to, that is different?
 
Papua New Guinea had been featuring in the news due to the country gaining independence from Australia at the end of 1975.
 
My Uncle Les had fought on the Kokoda Track in 1942 in World War 2.
 
Why not go to see the Kokoda Track?
 
It never occurred to us that, as there were absolutely no tourist brochures for PNG, we should pause to think this through a bit more.
 
So, tickets were booked to fly there, with numerous short flights around the country due to the lack of roads.  Our paper tickets unfolded like a concertina postcard!
 
Off to the doctor for an advance course of anti-malarial drug Chloroquin and we were soon ready to take off with our back packs.
 
Jackson Airport – Port Moresby, 1976.
 
The Customs official asked our reason for visiting PNG.  Who do we know there?  Where are we staying?  With amazed laughter, he told the other staff that we knew no one and had come for a holiday. 
 
“You are the first people we have ever known to do this!  Good Luck!”
 
Outside into the stormy heat and bright sun, we trudged up the hill on a dusty road towards the small hotel the Customs man had directed us to.
 
Lots of people walking, all black.  It was the first time in my life that I had experienced my partner and I being the only while faces.
 
It felt strange, even intimidating as everyone stared at us.  I tried a tentative “hello” and a smile.  Immediately, everyone beamed wide smiles with greetings of “afinun”.
 
I relaxed.  It would be OK.
 
The hotel staff warned us that we must travel in taxis.  Moresby was rife with ‘raskol’ gangs and unsafe for everyone.  All non-PNG nationals lived in heavily fenced, gated and guarded compounds.
 
Out to Bomana War Cemetery by taxi.  Nearly 4,000 sparkling white headstones, mainly teenaged young Australian soldiers.  Heart wrenching.
 
The taxi driver had not waited as promised.  The hotel was 19km away.  How do we get back? 
 
Finally, with no alternative, we bravely boarded one of the PMV (Public Motor Vehicles) mini-buses.  Again, the black faces all registered shock as we climbed in.  My long hair blew out the window and I could feel people touching it.  The local people’s hair does not move at all in the wind. 
 
Back at the hotel we exited the tightly packed bus by climbing out that seem window.  The few white businesspeople at the hotel promptly snubbed us quite distinctly as we had used local transport.
 
Flying up the Highlands in a tiny Air Niu Guinea plane was an incredible experience.  Again, the only white people apart from the pilot, we shared our space with baskets of vegetables, chooks and piglets as well as local people.  Many of the runways were very short and up or down hill in thick jungle.  Rather hair raising at times as we descended through steamy mist to a virtually non-existent airfield.
 
Mt Hagen, again, no other whites, all PNG nationals, staring hard at us.  Not a town, but groups of grass roofed timber huts, open fires, cooking pits, dogs, lots of little shy children.
 
A small man in a lap lap, ass grass and bone necklaces approached, wanting to know who we were.  With the help of a Pidgin English book, I asked for accommodation.  For a few kino, we could stay in a hut with a local family.  We slept on grass matting with green geckos running across the walls and roof above, and]shared their food, yams, hoping we wouldn’t get worms from it!  We went to sleep as soon as the sun went down and up at daybreak.  This became the pattern of our accommodation for the whole trip. 
 
The people were very friendly and interested in us.  They were fascinated by my 6’7” husband as they are of such small stature.
 
Whilst in Mt Hagen, we witnessed a pay back murder between two warring tribes.  A poor woman was macheted to death in front of us.
 
Another flight, to Goroka.  So strange the contrast between the people’s basic primitive lifestyle and aircraft travel which they all happily embrace.
 
A huge gathering of over 100 different tribes from all over the highlands was happening in Goroka.  A sing-sing.  Dancing, singing and everyone dressed in their most colourful feathers, grass and ochre- based body paint.  Bones through noses included!  The Mud Men of Asaro were frightening with their mud-caked bodies and huge mud head-dress masks.  We also ate meat, pork, for the first time.
 
We hired a local guide to take us to the Owen Stanley Ranges in a jeep, where we walked a couple of miles of the Kokoda Track from McDonald’s Corner.  Vale Uncle Les.
 
We landed near Lae on an old-time military runway.  Lae was a lovely town on the coast, still very hot, but not safe to swim in the sea.  There were orchards growing everywhere, a truly beautiful sight.  It was good to stay at a small lodge where we could shower and sleep on beds.  Fish, pork and plantains were available to eat, which we welcomed.  We found a Burns Philp Trading Store where we bought Sao biscuits and cans of Spam.  The biscuits were soft due to the humidity.  No fresh fruit or vegetables at all.  No chocolate either!
 
We were beginning to think about food a bit more frequently and by the end of the fourth week, we would lay on the grass mats, watching the ever-present geckos, fantasising about our favourite meals.  Fresh salad, lasagne, Mum’s roast lamb!
 
There were always markets in the villages but very little variety of food.  Yams, tapioca, plantains.  But as we could not cook for ourselves, it was difficult.  However, the most favoured commodity was the Betel nut, a nut chewed by virtually all adults and even children, known locally as buai.  It contains an addictive psychoactive substance that causes oral cancer.  It creates a sense of euphoria and alertness apparently.  It used to be used for sacred ceremonies but has become a real health problem in PNG.  It stains the chewer’s mouth, gums and lips bright red and then they spit out a stream of bright red spittle on the ground.  The ground everywhere is literally covered in bright blood and spots of goo.  Is it another machete massacre site or betel spit?  Very alarming.
 
Next, we went to Bougainville Island where copper mining was the mainstay.  The Buka people here actually have the darkest skin colour in the world.  Blacker than black!  It is unbelievable.  If their eyes and mouth are closed, one cannot detect their face.  Absolutely incredible and so beautiful.
 
We flew to New Britain Island and stayed in Rabaul.  It was incredibly beautiful and surrounded by the most gloriously blue of the Solomon Sea.  There were many WWII pieces of equipment and artifacts visible in the water.    Sadly, the island and Rabaul were ravaged by a volcanic eruption in later years.
 
Again, we were fortunate to find a lodge to stay in, so I decided to wash my accumulated dirty undies.  I hung them on bushes to dry, as the locals do and we went off exploring for the day.  When we returned my unmentionables were all missing.  We finally tracked them to a dog who had taken them to his lair under the building – he was too aggressive for anyone to retrieve them. 
 
Luckily, we are departing soon, as the remainder of the trip will probably be me going commando!
 
Last night in Port Moresby with flight before dawn.  We will need to go the short distance by taxi to avoid the raskols.  But, we only have 42 kina left and we have to pay 40 kina departure tax. 
 
No credit cards in those days, so the taxi driver scored my husband’s watch as payment, which was a pity.
 
Flying back to Australia, I was both happy and sad.  Happy at the thought of regular showers and food.  Sad to be leaving such a different culture and land behind.  It was an amazing adventure.
 
My husband didn’t say much, however.  He complained of an extreme headache and felt he was burning up.
 
Just how effective were those chloroquine tablets?
 
It looks like another, less happy, adventure is looming…
 
 
Jill Gaumann
September 2023

​Over a period of almost 10 years, FCJ College Year 7 students have worked with the elderly community to provide a musical mingling of youth with older people, and to eventually stage a concert for the public of Benalla.

The college initially chose to work with Cooinda Village, providing wonderful companionship for the residents, until 2021.

Then, of course, COVID intervened.  Cooinda was “out of bounds”.

The college, buoyed by the successes of the earlier relationships and concerts, sought an alternative partnership to continue.  Approaches were made to U3A, the membership of which is restricted to retirees, and to grandparents of the college students.  I was qualified on either score, so enlisted for what was a fulfilling musical adventure.

In the next year, which was 2022, we had a group of 22 adults and 45 Year 7 students (FCJ was selective, and the students had to be volunteers!)

Rehearsals in the FCJ College hall were held over a period of 10-12 weeks, with the songs chosen by the students. Such titles as ‘Listen to me’, ‘Africa’, and ‘This is Me’ were popular with the schoolies. As you may imagine, these songs were not within my repertoire, so I was continuously relying upon the music sheets.

Over the period of the rehearsals, a considerable mingling between the students and the elderly occurred. The students had so obviously been primed to make conversation with us and I was regularly greeted with the question “How did you fill in your week?”

I found that I was familiar with the surnames of most children that I met, and each week the kids would seek me out.

In addition to the singing, I, as the oldest of the group of adults, was singled out for an interview, the result of which was also to be featured in the upcoming concert. I and my wife Bernadette were interviewed by a very impressive Year 10 student, whose ambition was to qualify in Medicine.

All of this culminated in a concert in BPACC on 23rd November 2022. There were approximately 300 people in attendance and the show was very well received.

When the topic ‘FCJ concert’ was again mentioned in early 2023 I was very responsive

This time, all year 7 students (more than 80 of them) were compulsorily enlisted, and there were 26 adults. We were well and truly outnumbered, and the background noise at rehearsals was unimaginable.

Nevertheless, the camaraderie, again, was outstanding and memorable. At each rehearsal I had “Eddie” and “Angus” seated either side of me and we became great friends. At the concerts’ end they both gave me a big hug.

Although we rehearsed for 12 weeks, “Suspicious minds”, ‘When I grow up” and “The Eye of the Tiger” were outside of my range.  I continually had my eyes glued to the music sheets.
.
This year we held two concerts: one for the Year 7 students from schools at Euroa and Mansfield, and the main presentation for a local Benalla audience of parents and the community in general.

The venue for these concerts was not BPACC as last year, but FCJ’s own hall, where we had rehearsed. There were capacity crowds of over 300 people, and we received excellent reports.

Both years’ concerts were orchestrated by a very capable and engaging FCJ teacher, Catherine Burton, assisted by top music teacher Adam Toms. The accompaniment was a band entirely of FCJ students.

I look forward with anticipation to singing in the group again next time.

What a “WONDERFUL (MUSICAL) ADVENTURE”!

Ray O'Shannessy
​September 2023

​​I’d left work in February 1961 and we’d moved our belongings to obliging in-laws. They graciously took us in for a few weeks. But that’s not the way things work in Indonesia.

We were on our way to work as volunteer graduates to replace Dutch public servants until Indonesians graduated and took over. The scheme had been running for about eleven years. Our proposed place of work changed several times in the next three months but eventually we were off to Aceh in the far north of Sumatra.

We boarded a Norwegian passenger-cargo ship in Melbourne on 26th. May. First stop Sydney for a couple of days, then Brisbane, a one day stop in Makassar, then a night or two in Surabaya, finally hitting Jakarta on June 17. During this time flour and Holden cars were being loaded and unloaded at various stops. The passenger list numbered four, us and two men headed for Malaya. The captain’s Australian wife was making the trip so it was good to have another female on board.

Other volunteer graduates awaited us in Jakarta. Our Indonesian language was extremely basic but the morning after we arrived, we eagerly took a bus into the city centre to find the office that was to organise our travel to Aceh. We found the office but our man wasn’t in. Days went by. We did eventually find our man who told us his department didn’t have the money so try another office. We got to know Jakarta buses and markets quite well. After a month we managed to get plane tickets and we were off to Medan – not quite Aceh but a good start.

After the very basic hostel in Jakarta, the accommodation in Medan was a step in the right direction. We met a few Australians and found that a university lecturer from Aceh (who turned out to be our future neighbour) was also trying to get home so we handed our responsibilities to him. We had several days of ‘Plane’, ‘Bus’, ‘Maybe plane’, ‘No, only bus available’ and after a happy eleven days in Medan, we boarded the bus for a three day trip.

​The bus seats went right across the width of the bus so the way to get on was frequently to climb through the window at your row. I’m trying to remember whether we actually did this but I think the answer is Yes. Much of the road was in very poor condition and there was the odd bridge missing.

​Varying accommodation was provided for our two overnight stops and we did eventually reach Kutaraja, the capital of Aceh.

​Almost there but not quite, as the new university, along with the lecturers’ houses, was being built in the middle of rice fields several km. out of the capital.

Before long, a car arrived to take us to Darussalam and our new home at last. Well, no. Some army personnel had occupied the new house while it was empty and there were a number of repairs that had to be made. We were to live in the Mess next door until the house was ready. We actually moved in on August 21, just on three months after sailing out of Melbourne.

​I came from the United Kingdom to a farming area in the South of Western Australia which is where I did my schooling. In my final two years of high school, I had the chance to see the North West with my school buddy’s family. They were experienced bushies, 100% Aussie. They carried an old plastic rubbish bin which I learnt later was to be our washing machine. Put clothes and soapy water in the bin, secure the lid, then secure the bin in the trailer or van. After long miles over dusty dirt road the washing is agitated like it would be in a commercial washing machine. At your overnight camp spot, you rinse and hang the washing. It’s so hot there it dries overnight. Simple.

We headed off with 4WD and caravan towards the Wittenoom Gorge.  WOW, that’s some canyon. Rugged but beautiful. We travelled around Fortescue River, Broome, Karratha and numerous other mining towns. All I can say about that area is, red dust, red dirt and hot. The rugged ground could be said to have an element of beauty and I suppose if my aunt, the artist, were to visit she would have been painting it like crazy. However, I was not overly impressed. I did like the hands of bananas growing around Broome and the fabulous beaches.

Another thing unique to the North is the Road Train. I saw plenty of trucks with two and occasionally three trailers, but some of those N.T. trucks are 55 meters long !!!!!!! It’s a bit concerning when you are on the road and a hand pops out of the driver’s window and waves you around, the roads are very straight but narrow. Of course, with a 55mtr road train, that just isn’t going to happen.

I was amused when we headed up to the Northern Territory and a remote community called Humpty Do. It was virtually a pub and that’s it.

Around Kakadu, where the scenery improved no end, we saw Jim Jim Falls, Barramundi Gorge, Jarranbarnmi and Mamukala Wetlands.

​At one point we camped under a shady tree alongside a dry creek bed. I was told at this time of year its normal for creeks to dry up. There were three families camping right in the creek bed out of the wind. My guides called out to them and advised them to move up out of the creek. They just laughed and waved. I didn’t understand why we stayed at the top copping the dust storms and wind. I got my answer just before dawn broke.  I was awoken by a loud rumbling noise; I assumed it was a thunder storm and wished we were down in that protected area. Then the noise got louder, I could hear crashing, banging and screams. Within minutes the dry creek bed was flooded and the caravans washed away, smashed against the rock walls. Fortunately, the tourists from the creek bed campsites survived with only minor injuries. We were able to pull them up to safety, but they had learnt a hard lesson as they had lost everything except the clothes they stood up in. Now they, and I, understood.  Apparently, it’s a phenomenon experienced in that location, after tropical storms and rain further up north a wall of water comes down filling creeks instantly. A lucky escape indeed.

Heather Hartland

This story was published as a 'Members Choice' topic in August 2022, and set as the topic for our session in September 2023.
Photographs to be added.