This (Rocky) Life

Written for the 'This Life' section of The Weekend Australian, which calls for contributors to write a 600 word first-person account of some aspect of their life.

‘Bloody geos,’ the driller yelled the other day, over the roar of his phallic machines. ‘Give a group of ‘em a rock and they’ll argue over it for hours.’ A common anecdote in the mineral exploration industry, but a false one.

Now, I sit on the polished rubble of a pathetic low outcrop, one of the few God has delivered me in this remote quarter of Western Australia’s goldfields. Somewhere under this silent landscape there lies an economic accumulation of gold. I have to believe that. The prospect of there being no needle in the haystack – of this physically and mentally and financially expensive effort being not just fruitless but hopeless from the outset – cannot be entertained.

I will sit here studying the landforms and vegetation and the scarce red-weathered bedrock until I know, until I feel, what was happening here 2.5 billion years ago. Where would the gold-bearing fluids have deposited their treasure? If, indeed, there was any gold-bearing fluid. I shudder, despite the heat.

Contemplation – ‘becoming the rock’ – is a geologist’s most effective weapon. A multinational I once worked for asked that employees code their work time by activity performed. There was no code for ‘thinking’. The exploration department revolted and was made exempt.

The geologist is slow, but the earth is patient. The earth, in fact, is tormenting, showing just enough to bewitch, just too little to embolden. In my mind the geology and prospectivity change with each dusty scrap of evidence I gather, but the reality is that, out here, nothing has changed in a very long time. The earth is dormant, the gold either there or not there. But where? Or not where?

There’s a name for this illness of mine: gold fever. No, it didn’t pass with the 19th century. The only difference is that we have Landcruisers and water. No-one is dying. The lust, the passion, the absence of reason; geologists dragged away from their pet prospects, pleading with the money-men for ‘one more drillhole’. I see it often.

It’s strange behaviour to an observer, because the company geologist doesn’t stand to gain financially. It won’t be his gold or nickel or copper: he is paid good money to find it or, as is more often the case, not find it. But the fever is not driven by greed.

I have no interest in the mining and the money. I just want, once, to defeat Mother Nature. Or, to put it better, to have Mother Nature applaud me as her equal. I just want to find that mother-lode and walk away, vindicated. Oh, for the high that would give me!

It’s a consuming profession. I see life through the framework of geology. I see people metamorphose under heat and pressure; erupt like Krakatoa; settle like silt in the Ganges delta. It’s also intensely individual: just me, alone, versus the 100 km2 or 1000 km2 I’ve been assigned, armed only with a hammer, a magnifying lens and my bare wits. Unless they’re going to sit in the dirt here with me, no-one else need be involved.

There’s no such thing as a group of geologists.

I wander over to the next subtle rise, breathing in the heat and the smells and the flies. There’s no sound but my own. Perfect. I kneel down and lick the dust from the rock.

I am in a deep ocean trench. Sediment pours in from the adjacent volcanic range, hot bombs fizz past from above. The earth cracks and grinds and I know that I am close. Think, Michael. Think.

Letter to Kalgoorlie Miner

In response to:

As a resident of Kalgoorlie for the past 24 months, having come from Perth, I am becoming disillusioned by the current state and attitude by in the 'city of extremes'.

The majority of people here are (let's be honest) only here for the quick cash, and then bugger off somewhere else. I tend to find these types of people (usually identifiable by their apparent desire of material things like big 4x4 vehicles, several beer fridges, a 3 m wide LCD television, and basically a greedy nature without considering anyone else) they lack social skills when communicating with those of us who earn more modest incomes and live a more modest and real lifestyle.

Then on the other hand, you have people who won't lift a finger and find a job! They revel in dire conditions and choose to eat takeaway meals three times a day and wonder why they are obese!

Now before some whinge at me in defence, it is not jealousy or sour grapes, it's reality!

I mean, for a town that is probably one of the best known gold mining locations on earth, so little money is actually put back into developing a decent infrastructure for the benefit of residents! But then again the very roots of 'East Coolgardie' was greed and lust of the yellow metal. Instead we have wasted money on fleshy pursuits and crazy superficial projects that benefit only the wealthy.

What about under staffing at the local hospital, the terrible pot holes in the roads and the most embarassing thing I have ever seen for a supposedly 'rich' city, the third world-like road conditions when the heavy rains were here three weeks ago? I was driving through many a street and was absolutely shocked with the very poor drainage system. I thought I was in India, driving through the Ganges or some canal in Venice.

Sorry, but Kalgoorlie is a laughing stock when it comes to infrastructure and culture. I've lived in smaller towns that actually have a decent standard of living, where people show genuine kindness to each other, have a culture other than sex, beer and money, and where greed is not the be all and end all.

Kalgoorlie and Boulder need revolutionising. It's time many woke up and smelt the coffee! If the much expected worldwide economic crash happens, many will truly be in the poo.

P Walterman, Kalgoorlie



P Walterman, in his thesis (Letters 15th March) dividing Kalgoorlie-Boulder residents, all uncultured, into two further sub-classes – the greedy and materialistic, the fat and unemployed - begs us not to cry “jealousy or sour grapes” in response. Don’t worry friend, I won’t say either.

What I will say is that you are ignorant. What I will say is that you are hypocritical. What I will say is that you belong to that third and most unwelcome class of Kalgoorlie residents: the man who vainly elevates himself to the position of anthropologist upon his arrival in town; who forms his opinions on exteriors alone; who flaps about in the shallow fringes of the river, too weak and insecure to explore the depths.

What I’d really like to know, P Walterman, is what you look like. Honestly. What is it about your exterior image – your body shape, your clothing, your motor vehicle – that will catch my eye as I pass you in the street, and define you as a man of culture and intellect and integrity? Do you have a t-shirt that says “I’ve read Dickens”? Or perhaps it’s your “Free Tibet” bumper sticker?

You won’t know me, because I’ll be in a dirty orange shirt or a blue singlet or a pair of footy shorts or, from time to time, nothing at all. I’ll have a patchy beard. I’ll be driving a rusted out Valiant. And yeah, I’ll be eating Hungry Jacks.

You are the shallow and judgemental one. You are the one defining people by the money they have the good fortune to earn. But you are not only defining the people by their exteriors – you are doing the same for the town itself.

I urge you, P Walterman, to look for depth in Kalgoorlie-Boulder and in its people. It’s not hard. The only people I know who leave town bitter and untouched are those that refuse - they are not unable, they refuse – to look past the trucks and hookers and pubs and spoon-drains. Some are the greedy, some are the lazy, but many are the P Waltermans.

You need to stop observing town and become a part of it. Leap through that window behind which you sit and lament, my friend. It will only hurt for a bit. And Kal chicks dig scars.

Harvey's Odyssey II

Startled by the heavy slam of the door behind him, the coach turns quickly, his dress shoes spinning on the sweaty white tiles. The shouts that lured him in die quickly to a murmur, and quicker again to nothing. Twenty-five pairs of taps screech, and the hiss and roar of twenty-five hot showers fades into the empty depth of twenty-five cold silences, one on top of another. The only sound remaining is the padded thump-thump of panicked hearts.

He can see nothing: some meddling immortal – that spiteful earth-shaker Poseidon, he supposes - has conspired to create a thick steam haze. His eyes scan the whiteness. It’s futile. He clears his throat and speaks sharply.

“What the hell is going on in here?”

The white-tiled walls return the query, unanswered. He can sense the bodies surrounding him, and opens his mouth to force the question, but a single faint drip interrupts. Biting his lower lip in contemplation, he surveys the mist again: nothing. Ten seconds later there’s another drip, a little bit louder now. It’s coming from the doorway. A long minute later, and the drip is beating at presto tempo in unison with the now-vibrating hearts.

The mist begins to thin. As his eyes begin to serve him, the coach is horrified by the sight of a swirling pink rivulet of diluted blood, sliding into the drain at his feet. Like prospectors chasing some cursed treasure, his eyes follow the trace upstream to the headwaters, slowly revealed by the mocking mist. Then Poseidon, with an impeccable feel for dramatic timing, sweeps the remaining cover away in an instant, revealing the source with stunning effect. Its form is unmistakable.

Minutes earlier, it had all been good fun. But convention dictates that after any period of good fun, somebody must lose an eye. That somebody was:

“Sandi?”

The 211 cm chunk of flesh now guarding the door had been the innocent victim of a twisted-towel whip fight between the two Johnsons: a typically-reckless Mark had missed a typically-agile Michael, lashing the eyeball of the typically-omnipresent ruckman. Several small midfielders now lay writhing on the floor as testament to the sickening violence that followed.

Sandilands now licks at the blood streaming from his bubbling right socket, savouring its thick metallic tang and salinity. His good eye peers up from under his brow, fixing on the coach, and a growl escapes from his cavernous chest. The men, now visible and pressed against the walls, await direction from their leader. Their leader awaits direction from above.

Bright-eyed Athene, Olympian advocate of the great purple chief, rushes to the scene from her mountain-top day-bed and sets about her task with urgency. She works first on her favourite’s appearance: browning his skin and making it lustrous with olive oil; broadening his shoulders and filling out his biceps; adding tasteful blonde tips to his mullet and smothering it in top-shelf product. Seeing that the men are now looking upon the coach in awe, as if he were some immortal god, the goddess sets to work on his mind, granting him cunning and craftiness over and above that for which he is already renowned. Pleased with her intervention, she whisks back to Olympus to spectate.

With the blissful knowledge that Zeus’ daughter has blessed him, the coach hesitates no longer, darting behind a low partition while the one-eyed giant stands frozen by a strangling mixture of admiration, fear and agony. Finding himself face-to-face with the sheepish Johnsons, he takes them into his counsel with a wink and, with a whisper, lays out his devious plan.

Slithering across the floor now, he grabs one of several soaps that lie conspicuously around Luke McPharlin’s feet, and flings it at Sandilands with godly dexterity. Atop Olympus, Athene hurriedly dons a panama hat and lobbies the archer god Apollo, who agrees, for a reasonable price, to vouchsafe the soap’s passage straight and true into the good eye of the terrible beast. Apollo is a man of his word.

The impact and sting of the soap blinds and enrages Sandilands, but his woes are far from over. The two naked Johnsons leap forth and begin slapping him in turn. Meaty thwack after meaty thwack batter his face and torso. Bang! Slap! Crash! Who has ever seen such furious Johnsons! They swell with pride at every blow, knowing they are serving their god-like leader with honour.

While the tormented giant spins and howls, the coach now opens the door and leads his troops out, like a simple shepherd boy leading his fattened-lambs from the woods. But unlike the shepherd boy, he strides before the pack glowing and surging and electrified by the motherly labour of bright-eyed Athene. The exhausted Johnsons bring up the rear of the pack, leaving Sandilands crying and staggering and crashing into the walls. As a final act of fury, the wounded giant throws great handfuls of loosened tiles towards the fading sound of jiggling buttock cheeks. But his tormentors are too far gone.

The coach lets the group pass him by. He looks back and sees Sandilands framed by the doorway, curled up in a ball amongst the dust and the rubble, wailing like some huge dying cat. It makes a sorry sight for his eyes but he’s certain that, with the goodwill of the Olympian gods, the ruckman will return to health in good time – if not by the time Dawn paints the sky with crimson, then certainly by Round One against Collingwood.

Kalgoorlie Delis

In Kalgoorlie, the proprietors of my local delis were larger than life. They made every purchase an adventure, and left me with a story to tell, always. In Perth, at least so far, that hasn’t been the case.

You’ll have noticed that I used ‘proprietors’ plural and ‘delis’ plural just moments ago. See, in Kalgoorlie, I lived halfway between the Carbarn deli – or ‘Carbarna’ as a housemate of mine tagged it, trying to spice up its image – and the Wilson Street deli, and was able to choose between them on a whim. Sometimes I would step out with a few dollars in my pocket and not the slightest inkling where I was going. Usually, though, the choice was clear.

I chose between the delis not on appearance, nor by the goods in stock, but by the character of the proprietor, and, more specifically, the compatability of that character with my mood at the time. My moods were, and still are, variable, but the men running the delis were constants. Old Cheeseman at Wilson Street and Old Genovese at the Carbarn, eternally jovial and eternally melancholy, respectively; predictable, like the sun and the moon. Those men were the benchmarks, the standards, the knowns, that I, the unknown, gauged myself against.

Old Cheeseman was a talker. I knew a couple of his sons and they were talkers too. They may have descended from a long line of storytellers or bards. Or cheese men. Who knew? All I knew was that, before setting off to Wilson Street, it was wise to clear the diary for half an hour, maybe more. One certainly wouldn’t leave a pot of tea to brew at home, unless one was fond of cold, bitter tea. No siree.

He had a story for every item in stock, Old Cheeseman. Bottled water: his mate invented it. Chiko rolls: he knew how the filling got in. Washing powder: his dog ate some and had to be put down. These yarns would be told to completion in a slow and methodical manner, no matter your hurry or the hurry of those waiting behind you. If unsure of a narrative detail, he would stop counting your change and sieve through his mind, carrying on the story (and the counting) only when he had extracted the elusive and entirely insignificant fact in question. You could tap your watch or naked wrist, drum your fingers on the counter, clear your throat, pass wind, or scoop out your eyeball with a teaspoon, all to no avail. Nothing would stop him.

On certain days, though, when the sun was a-shinin’, the birds were a-singin’, and the lollipops were a-plentiful, I could appreciate Old Cheeseman and his quaint, saccharine ways. Wilson Street was the optimist’s deli. Steve Irwin would have liked it. Terri Irwin and Bindi Irwin and Bob Irwin would like it. And Marcia Hines and Brad Hogg and Scooby Doo. But sometimes the thought of clanging through that flywire door and seeing Old Cheeseman’s ruddy, smiling face would cripple me. Some days the sun was a-hidin’, the birds were a-rottin’ on the pavement, and the a-plentiful lollipops were a-laced with strychnine. On those days I went to the Carbarn, the pessimist’s deli.

The Carbarn was entirely devoid of warmth: physical or conversational or atmospherical, faux or genuine. Old Genovese made sure of that – in fact, like some strange deep-sea bacteria, he positively thrived in the anoxic conditions. But, like Wilson Street, the Carbarn was therapeutic for certain states of mind. You went there stressed to be served in silence. You went there jilted to be numbed in the cold. You went there angry to mentally duel with a man angrier than you; a man who would flog you with a liquorice strap as soon as sell you one. I found his weakness, though, and visiting the Carbarn then became a fiendish game.

See, Old Genovese had an unsettling habit of cupping his hand to receive my money before I had placed my goods on the counter. There his hand would remain, unwavering, as I furrowed my brow and fumbled my coins and apologised to all and trembled like a junkie sans junk. And all the while, he wouldn’t even bother to lift his eyes from the morning paper. At least, that’s how it was to begin with.

I knew Old Genovese didn’t tolerate ill-prepared fools like me; fools who interrupted his day with their petty concerns and indecision and clumsiness. So I adopted and exaggerated these habits, giving mad performances of verbal and physical slapstick designed to make him shake and sweat like I had before his motionless palm. As I searched for a dollar in ten cent pieces or considered aloud the pros and cons of having sauce with my pie, I casually twisted a red-hot poker into his gut, eager to hear him scream. But even my wackiest performances failed to break that most determined of warriors. I just wanted to make him laugh or cry, but he did neither, and for that he has my respect. Our silent armwrestle, imperceptible to the passing observer, and perhaps even to the man-of-stone himself, remains undecided.

Characters they were, Genovese and Cheeseman - annoying characters, but characters none-the-less. They were end-members of the personality spectrum - one light, the other dark, one warm, the other cool, one licky, the other bitey – but in having and displaying personality they occupied common ground, and made the deli run an experience.

I’ve no doubt that such personalities exist in Perth, but too often they are not displayed. The deli owners are friendly, efficient and helpful, but in the fashion of the air hostess. I find that paid familiarity disturbing, a whoredom of sorts, and I wonder about the society that demands it. I wonder about the society that values homogeneity; that puts smoothness before texture; that sands the edges off its sharpest and rarest stones, when it should be dusting them off and putting them on display in fancy glass cases.

But I’ve wondered long enough, so I step now onto my soapbox and I shout: “Shine on, you crazy diamonds, you Cheesemans and Genoveses! Pay no heed to my petty critique. Shine on, shine on!”

Harvey's Odyssey I

The nail of his right index finger lazily scratches at the armrest of the recliner he now inhabits. Sweat-derived scum begins to peel away in distinct sections: a thick consistent top layer; a wafer-thin film; a pale and uninspiring goo; and, finally, a heterogeneous but strangely beautiful basal crust, whose peculiarities – like the pea beneath the princess’ mattress - are mimicked by the overlying strata. Blowing the scrapings away, he sees the clean black leather beneath. And he sees that it is good.

Easing back in the chair with hands clasped behind his head, the coach now forms an imposing silhouette against the grass and blinding concrete terraces of Fremantle Oval, the ground’s centre circle framed by the isosceles triangle of his left arm. His gaze drifts beneath the desk and, seeing the heavily-pilled tracksuit pants and tattered ugg boots, he eases forward again, feeling embarrassed, though no one else is around. If a visitor happened by – Pav, Rick Hart, that old water boy who looks like Yoda – he would have to remain seated.

He leans forward now, elbows on desk and fists on jaw line, forcing his cheeks high until they almost touch his furrowed brow. All of the videos and DVDs and books and papers lining the shelves loom before him, laughing and probing, coldly: “Are you ready for this?”.

“Dunno”, he whispers, stroking the patchy stubble on his chin. A short time later he resolves to stop conversing with inanimate objects. That was the downfall of Damian Drum, or so he has heard.

Abruptly, and without knocking, a deep mauve haze of melancholy enters the room, settling around him. He begins to feel strangely out-of-place, as though adrift in an ocean far from home. Frowning at his ill-fitting purple polo shirt, he plucks at its fabric, testing its reality. It all seems so foreign, so other-worldly. Doubts infest his mind, bouncing against and chewing at his skull’s inner wall. Was he good enough? Were they good enough? Why was he even here? Here, in this harsh, isolated place, far from the padded jackets and the icy breath and the sloppy, tasteless four-n-twenty pies of his earlier life? His head, involuntarily, rattles now from side to side and now from back to front and now round and round, fruitlessly attempting to expel the concerns through one or both ear holes.

Calming slightly, or perhaps advancing into a higher, Zen-like form of madness – it’s hard to say – he reaches for the phone, pining for the counsel of Kevin Sheedy. But just as his clammy fingertips touch the handset, a knock at the door jolts him.

Without awaiting his invitation, Cameron Schwab enters the room - at least, the bodily form of Cameron Schwab enters the room. The tense, squirming muscles and flickering red eyes betray his real identity: Apollo, deliverer of prophesies, cunningly disguised as Cameron Schwab. The coach is wary.

“Hi Cameron”, he says, smiling as best a former Essendon hard man can.

“We should never have sacked Troy”, booms Schwab, foregoing any niceties and displaying fury dramatically incongruous with his pale skin and delicate spectacles. “It leaves us lacking centre-square hardness.”

A droplet of sweat trembles on the tip of Schwab’s equine nose as he awaits reply. Knowing better than to engage in a shouting match with an immortal – a fiery death usually results - the coach is measured and unflinching.

“Hardness won’t be an issue Cameron. And Troy retired - he wasn’t sacked.”

“Oh”, says Schwab, noticeably slumping as Apollo, defeated, sublimes and dissipates through the open window. “Sorry, I...,” he starts, turning his flaccid body back from whence it came, “I don’t know what came over me.”

As Schwab’s shaking head is eclipsed by the closing door, the coach sits back in his chair and sighs. If he could ward off the meddling Gods – and he was certain they would interfere again – then, he reasoned, he was capable of handling anything, even a pre-derby press conference with John Worsfold. It was almost time to perform now: like a demon before the players, like a gibbon before the press, like a philosopher before the fans. Like a Docker.

With that thought lingering, he springs from his chair and strides out of his office and out of the building, possessed by supernatural energy and entirely unconscious now of his bogan attire. He would go home, roast a suckling pig for himself, cast another onto the fire to appease the Gods, and retire to enjoy the boon of sleep until the first rays of rosy-fingered dawn. Then he would awake and lay out his plan for the men, his plan to take them all to their rightful home: the MCG in late September.

Armenia Decides

(published in the Kalgoorlie Miner on election day)

I have just recieved a frantic pigeon-mail from Michael Gorey, advising that an ‘Australia Decides 2007’ feature piece is needed from my out-station. “Get out and about,” he directs from his red-brick tower, “I want the opinion of the man on the street”. The editor’s oft-criticised decision to post a foreign correspondent in Kapan, southern Armenia, will now bear fruit, most likely a lemon.

I decide immediately that to connect with the man on the street, I need to become the man on the street. I dye my hair black – if you’re blonde, you’re a hooker – and pencil in a monobrow, then don trousers, a jacket, and pointy shoes, all in black leather. The thought occurs to me that it might have been easier to meet men on the street if I’d left my hair blonde. Too late now. The finishing touches on my disguise are a packet of long, peach-scented cigarettes and a Kalashnikov assault rifle. Right to go.

My trusty donkey, Alby Mangels, bucks as I drag him from his pile of cabbage stubs and cast an Iranian tapestry across his midriff. It takes three quick shots of vodka to settle him down - one more than usual. I jump on side-saddle, in observance of Armenian traffic regulation 1.1(a), and begin the ride to town, lighting up a cigarette and pop-pop-popping a few birds with the Kalashnikov, just to show I’m one of the boys.

The ride takes me down a pot-holed concrete footpath, past a crumbling concrete apartment building, through a damp concrete tunnel, and beside a long concrete wall, pocked-marked with bullet holes from Azerbaijan. “We showed them though,” a local once told me, aiming his imaginary AK-47 at the mountain side, “Three years ago, the nearest Azeri was up there. Now, he is 200 kilometres away.” I laughed for five minutes – any less would be considered un-Armenian.

The central markets are abuzz when I arrive. The local currency, the ‘Cucumber’ (CBR), has strengthened against the greenback in recent times, and inflation – long the enemy of former Soviet states – has steadied, with a standard basket of pickled green tomatoes only CBR 2.15 more than this time last year. So men and women and transvestites are spending Cucumbers like there’s no tomorrow, which may well be the case if Iran, just 30 kilometres away, goes nuclear.

Amongst the throng I spot my language coach Cher, named after the singer Cher, the greatest living Armenian. She is a pretty young thing (this Cher, not that Cher): facial desiccation – the curse of Armenian women – has not yet taken hold, and her moustache is fashionably styled. I slither through the crowd and reveal myself to her, and by that I mean reveal my identity. With a little encouragement, in the form of a cabbage leaf dipped in vodka, she agrees to follow and interpret for me.

I canvas several market-goers, and most seem to favour the Coalition. In a country where brides must be virgins, and flatulence brings shame to you and your family (as I discovered during dinner at the mayoral palace), it is natural that Armenians favour the Howard Government’s social conservatism. I discover that WorkChoices is also revered: earning AUD $5.00 (approximately CBR 12.00) an hour is a dream here, where most take home less than twelve Cucumbers per week.

Moving across to the stalls, I meet Armen (after Great Armenia), a greying, 50-something vendor who specialises in cabbages and vodka. I show him pictures of John Howard, Kevin Rudd, and Bob Brown. I’d show him a picture of the Democrats leader but I don’t know who it is. Slapping each photo in turn, Armen speaks with great animation.

“In Armenia, we call these men The Shun, The Esh, and The Katu,” Cher translates, “That is The Dog, The Donkey, and The Cat. Howard is The Shun because, like an Armenian dog, he is rabid and wiley, but will whimper and lay down when cracked with a cane. Rudd is The Esh because, like an Armenian donkey, he is painful to listen to, and will bite off your fingers if provoked. Brown is The Katu because, like an Armenian cat, he pisses on all of your favourite things.”

I nod in agreement with Armen, and continue pushing through the crowd. At the far side of the market square I spot a group of old men – good for political comment in any culture - enjoying a traditional lunch of boiled cabbage and vodka. I greet the men, and reveal photos of some prominent candidates.

At the sight of Barry Haase, the men, all called Armen (after Great Armenia), giggle and mock his baritone voice. I show Alexander Downer and they laugh for a solid half-hour, stopping only when I fire a few warning rounds from the Kalashnikov. When everyone has their breath back I show Julia Gillard, and things suddenly get crazy.

The Armens descend upon me, tearing Gillard’s image from my hand and nailing it to a length of two-by-four. They parade it through the square, bouncing to the beat of spontaneous gunfire, and the crowd ascends into frenzy. As I flee the dizzying scene, leaving Alby Mangels behind, I remember that in Armenia, ginger hair is considered a virtue, a sign of The Chosen One. I sense a strong swing to Labor.

On the way home, I stop on the bridge and peer into the Kapan river. The water is a vivid azure blue, not because it’s sourced from melting alpine glaciers, but because it runs through the local mine, and contains enough copper sulphate to kill a man. A rotten cabbage races an empty vodka bottle through the eddies, and I am reminded of the local proverb: “In Kapan, look up - don’t look down”.

That wisdom, I decide as I wander off, applies equally to this election: we shouldn’t look down into the poison torrent of fear, we should look up at the brilliant mountain and aspire to reach its summit. We’ve been slipping down the slope for the past ten years. Now is the time to stick the ice-pick in, and claw back some national pride. I’m just sorry I won’t be on the ground to see it. I was gonna have a sick election party.

Dear Sam [former housemate]

Your letter really got me thinking about what I am doing out here: Am I here because it's something I want to do, or am I here because society expects it of me? I genuinely believe I am here because I enjoy it; because, exactly as you and Tim discussed, you never know what a time you've had until you tell somebody about it. While sometimes it may be difficult, there is always a story to tell and laugh at years from now. While some prefer events to run smoothly, I prefer everything to be crazy and difficult and for shit to go wrong. The best travel adventure stories are always about shit going wrong: The time you got the shits, the time a rabid monkey scratched your face, the time you ate magic mushrooms and thought a googly-eyed German was the Devil himself. No-one cares for stories about beautiful sunsets, nice hotels, or friendly locals...

... But back to the question of why I am here - and, perhaps, why you are there. A lot of people, when I say I am finding the fly in-fly out a little bit difficult, will say something like "You'll get used to it", but I have concluded there is a great difference - a huge terrifying chasm - between "getting used" to something and letting it kill your spirit and soul. Do you know what I mean? If I keep doing this work and, after a while, it doesn't bother me, is it because I am "used to it", or because I have let it grab my soul, tear the skin away, and leave it hanging to dry from a meat hook, like a great piece of beef jerky, or "soul jerky", as it were?

Yes, this "soul jerky" is what we have to stop ourselves becoming my dear boy. There's people I work with out here who are definitely in the latter stages of becoming hard, dry soul jerky, and the sight of them causes me to dry-retch. They are career FIFO workers, whose lives have so subtely eroded away that they don't even notice it happening, until one day they find they have nothing left - no friends, no lovers, no passions. They have no reason and no desire to go home because they have no home. This lack of a centre to their lives is like the blazing sun to the meat of their souls. Without a spiritual hub, one is dangerously close to becoming soul jerky.

But enough of this depressing talk of soul jerky, though I do like the term I invented just now by the campfire, after a few beers. Aah beer, the lubricant to the cogs of my brain...

Dear Gerard [former workmate]

... The shame is that after 9000 metres of RC drilling since my last letter I am not quite so excited about geology. I think I mentioned then that I had stopped reading high-brow literature between drillholes, taking to the hills instead, yes? Well guess who is currently sitting on the passenger side of my Landcruiser? Fyodor Dostoyevsky. It's official: I am burnt out.

Speaking of books, I have read but two about Africa [Gerard had just got back from a trip there]: Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, and a biography of Cecil Rhodes. Neither, you will understand, endears me to the continent, but both were thoroughly excellent. The Rhodes biography was read at the tail end of a long period in my mid-late teens when I read only non-fiction, declaring to all that there was no need for escape to fiction - then I became an adult and discovered Aldous Huxley, who could tease the joy out of a dinner party, and Henry Miller, who could make it out to be a fiery pit of terror. So I altered my stance: The only books worth reading are those that find the joy, the terror, and the magic in the everyday world. Hmm, a tangent.

But yes, Rhodes - what a cunt, but what a brilliant cunt. And I mean brilliant, not as good or clever, but as 'shiny'. Yes Cecil Rhodes was a shiny, polished, flawless cunt, and if you don't know his story well then learn it. Cunts like that need to be spotted at an early age and shot. There's heaps of them out there, and all that you and I can do is buy a shotgun and read about the life and times of Cecil Rhodes. Knowledge is power...

Dear Peter [old Uni mate]

What's new pussycat? Nothing is new where I am. It's all old, weary, rotten; and there's not a thing to be done about it, but learn to love it. No, things aren't so bad - in fact it's quite good fun, apart from the whole being away from Carlie and my friends and my dog; from the beach, the shops, the football; from the realm of the sane man. The Kimberley is a hub of insanity, a Mecca to pilgrims strange and dangerous, and an accepting, womb-like hidey-hole for those on the run.

But who - this is a question that has been brewing in my head - is insane, and who is sane? And who does the judging? And how do we know they are sane? Mental state can not - must not - be thought of as a linear continuum, with sanity and insanity as the opposing end-members. Why? Because sanity and insanity so closely approach that to distinguish one from the other is an impossibility. Take the example of a man who has given up all his worldly possessions and resolved to walk the earth as a primitive man - I met such a man a few weeks ago at the Kununurra Hotel (he hadn't given up beer, obviously). Is he insane because he can't see the value and usefulness of modern technology? Or fantastically sane and clear-minded because he has recognised the evil inherent in a world run by machines? You decide.

I have decided that sanity and lunacy, if not one and the same, are at least kissing cousins. My driller is walking the blurry line that I speak of, after seven weeks out here with a total of three half days off to get supplies and spare parts from town. At the beginning of the program he fooled me a few times by saying things like "We have to stop the hole here (short of target depth) - there's too much water/the bit is broken/the ground is too hard" or "Oh no! If we stop the hole here (after a particularly short hole, which they find frustrating) then the rods will get bogged and we'll have to stand down." After about 10 seconds, or after I realised he was bullshitting me, he would laugh and tell me he was joking. He says the same things now, but with dull, pleading eyes, where before there was a sparkle; and the chuckling has gone, replaced by an uneasy silence, a scuffle of the feet, and a half-baked excuse to drift away. Yes, my driller is walking the line and beginning to list badly - towards the anoxic cesspool of insanity.

The good thing about this "isolation-style" insanity is its temporary nature. It allows a normally sane man to look through the foggy glasses of insanity; to crawl towards the edge of reason and sing "cooee" into the abyss. But, to paraphrase Hunter S. Thompson, the only people who really know the limits are those who have gone over the edge...

Dear Chris [old workmate]

... Today as I staggered over yet another spinifex-matted gabbro outcrop, I asked myself this question (no, not aloud - I am not yet COMPLETELY mad): Is what I am doing living, or am I missing out on living? Is life the experience of walking through kilometres of thick, head-high cane grass in search of a high-magnetite gabbro, or is it the steady process of progression of work and play and meeting with friends for "a cup of joe" (I like that silly word that you taught me in the Norseman kitchen)? Or is it a bit of each? Who has lived more, by the common understanding: a man who spends every week of every year in the city, or a man who spends one thrilling week out of every four in the city and the rest of his time alone in the wilderness? Who is really missing out? Oh I do propose such leading questions don't I, and I think my feelings on the matter should be quite clear to you, if you have half the understanding of me that I believe you do.

The main goal I set for myself in my life is that I continue to add to my collection of stories, and that I also improve my ability to tell them, for I believe that all we can hope for in life is to laugh with and connect with those closest to us, and maybe add some new friends along the way. Maybe many people think this way, and that's why old grandpas and grandmas are always telling useless stories. Perhaps we should pay more attention and respect to old people. Nah, we shouldn't.

So how does one go about gathering stories? Do I simply walk the trail of life, picking up stories as I happen across them, or do I veer from the trail into the dampened thicket and return at some later stage - if at all - with a bloody great sackful? I'd personally like to think that even if I were to not leave this Coleman four-person tent (with vestibule*) for the rest of my days, I could still come up with a good story or two per day - true or false or somewhere in between.

I used to be a great believer that stories should be told modestly and accurately and with minimal foul language, but not any more. Any story can gain from a little embellishment, the addition of a hero or villain, or the skillful use - but not overuse - of the word "fuck" or one of it's many variants: fucker, fuckstick, fat fucken motherfucker, and so on. See how this letter has suddenly been brought alive by that sentence? Would the effect have been the same had I opened with "How the fuck are ya?" and carried on with the obscenity from that point forth? Hardly...

* My bedside dictionary defines a vestibule as "a room or hall just inside the outer door of a building". My fieldy and I have been puzzling over it's meaning since we found it on the tent boxes.