Lerderderg 15hr Rogaine

A few weeks ago, Cecilia and I were on our way home from canoe polo at the campus pool when we bumped into Dan.  I didn’t know Dan, but Cecilia did – presumably because they’re both exchange students from the states.  During the course of our brief conversation, Dan said he was keen on the idea of Rogaining.  I had been out of contact with my rogaine partners from last year, so I did my best to etch Dan’s contact details on a banana I had in my pocket with my keys (in lieu of pen and paper).  It turned out that he gave me the wrong phone number, but we set the record straight with facebook.

I sorted out entry and payment for our team of two, Dan hired out camping gear and whatnot from the bushwalking club and found us a ride to the event.  Unfortunately our driver did her ankle at a netball game the Thursday before the rogaine and pulled out, so I found another ride at the last minute.

Greg met us at 8 on Saturday morning, we made it out to the hash house by about 10:30 after a wrong turn, a stop to pick up Greg’s partner Mick, and a coffee break at a fantastic small-town bakery along the way.  Dan and I pitched the tent, checked in, collected the map and made a flight plan.  We left at noon – Dan was the pack horse and I was the navigator.  Not how it’s usually done, but this arrangement turned out to be quite effective.

The first couple of checkpoints were quite crowded, as is to be expected at the start of an event.  At one of the early checkpoints, two older women arrived as we were writing our particulars on the marker.  The lady in front, while explicitly stating that she didn’t mean to be pedantic, pretty much accused us of trying to sabbotage their game by taking too long at the checkpoint.  Bitch!  I mean, waiting 15 seconds for us to finish isn’t going to make much of a difference over a 15 (or 24) hour event.  We were determined to get more points than the older women.

It was pretty smooth sailing all afternoon with few navigational errors.  We occasionally referred to features on the map more nerdily as things like ‘local maxima’, ‘local minima’ or ‘places with a maximised directional derivative’.  Steady progress was made in a southerly direction, away from the hash house to where all the high-scoring checkpoints were.  We met some older bush walkers from Tasmania at around 4:00, and then again before dark.  Nice to talk to, but they’d bite your ear off when given a chance.

We got lost on dusk (Mick told me later that’s what usually happens) – turned off the road too early and went up the wrong hill.  Oops.  By the time we went back down that hill and up the right one to the checkpoint, it was time to put our headlights on.  It was the first time I had done night navigation, and to my suprise we were spot-on most of the time.  We made it to a water drop at about 8:30 to find not only the usual supplies of water and fruit, but sandwiches too!  A fine selection of jam, vegemite and peanut butter we had to choose from.  Dan ate about half a dozen, but then again he’d been carring the backpack for the two of us from the start.

Tiredness made for some delusional conversation for the hour or two before we got back to the hash house at 10:30.  Soup!  Stew!  Cous cous!  Chocolate custard and stewed pears!  The hash house always has a top-noch meal for returning rogainers.  The catering team ran their first-class volunteer operation from a farm shed, all night long.  In addition, there were a number of camp fires to choose to warm ourselves with; the flames and a warm meal seemed to facilitate communication as tired rogainers swapped stories from the day.

Woke up around 7:00 the next morning, had a quick bite to eat left within half an hour.  I found the early moring walk a relaxing experience, perhaps even magical; the air was crisp and sweet as the dirt road – clearly less traveled than it once was – took us on a tour of crumbling houses, rusting machinery and vintage trucks with vines poking out of the cabin.  The odd pile of hay bales indicated that someone still used the land, but whoever they were they were nowhere to be seen.

This tree managed to catch my attention, for it had clearly suffered a traumatic experience earlier on in life.  Nevertheless, it manages to maintain a carefully balanced perfection, smooth, seamless, stable.  Do trees know about center of mass?

We made it back to the hash hous a couple of minutes before noon.  I experienced the most amazing cheese toastie ever.  Monash actually won the university competition, so we (along with two other teams) were recognised during the presentation and awarded our choice of chocolate bar.  I was quite pleased with our team score of 1420 points (unofficially, as one checkpoint wasn’t counted for some reason).  Packed up camp and headed back home.

We stopped at the same bakery, this time for a vanilla slice.  A top-notch vanilla slice is characterised by a crispy pastry and light custard filling; where I live most bakeries are run by Chinese bakers who have little appreciation for the humble vanilla slice.  I am pleased to report that this particular slice was top-notch.

I was sore and stiff for two or three days afterwards, but the weekend away was completely worth it.

Apparently there are rogaining events run in Europe, Japan, North America and North Queensland, so there’s really no excuse not to try it out.

The Kitchen on 10th

When I walk into the kitchen around 6:40, Jessi is busy ripping the gills out of a fish head as his female accomplice prepares to make it into a soup.  I boil the kettle and soak my dried bean curd and fungus.

I return at around 7:30 to see that Kane and Ben have invited some friends up from the lower floors to cook.  There are about six people and four or five dishes.  Tonight we have sweet potato risotto, chicken and mushrooms, an omlette and miscellaneous stir fry.  ‘Cafe Malaysia’, as I call it, happens several nights a week.

Lee Kum Kee, Yeo’s, Ayam… the Malaysians are still amazed to see that all the brands from home are available for purchase here in Australia.  I inform them that these all cooking lables are in fact Australian, exported en masse throughout the pacific rim.  They stare at me in disbelief for a few seconds (‘huh?’) before realising that I’m kidding.  I’m intrigued at my own choice of brands: Superior Quality shiitake mushrooms, Cock Brand bean curd and Goldfish Brand cloud ear fungus.  One of the few redeeming qualities of Clayton is that it has the Hong Kong shop – also a reliable source for staples such as Pocky.

I start to prepare my meal (braised pork and taro) as the Malaysians enter the eat phase of their well-established cook-eat-repeat cycle.  They marvel at my resourcefulness in acquiring the dried ingredients, and eventually I offer them some cloud ears (which had expanded in the hot water more than I had expected) for some kind of mushroom omelette.

Before long, the Malaysians are back at the cooktop, bringing the Stove Availability Index (SAI) down to 1, ie. one free hot plate.  My neighbour Pear wafts in and fishes out her wok.  She seems oblivious to the chaos around her as she prepares a simple cucumber, mushroom and egg stir fry.  Pear told me the other day that it’s not her real name that she uses, but rather a nickname from her aunty.  She’s got a twin sister called Peach.  Peach and Pear – now that would have been cute.

By now it’s about 8:30 and the Malaysians are just about done, as is my dinner.  Pear’s gone, but then Bruno and Marco (medical interns from Italy) come in to do roast spuds.  The SAI plummets to 0.  I take my pot off the stove and dish myself some rice.  Now for the moment of truth.  A skype call with Denise half way through the evening had me anxious at leaving so much star anise in my pot, for it’s supposed to have a strong flavour.  Oops.  Not to worry, it tasted alright anyway.  I’d give it 6 out of 10, but I will make the observation that things often taste better when somebody else cooks them.

I offer ‘Ding Dang’ Dong, the Chinese girl on my floor, some of my dinner in return for the beef stew she offered me a few weeks ago.  She was impressed, or at least extremely polite.  “I can’t believe a guy cooked this”, she tells me.  Thanks Ding Dong, I’ll take that as the compliment you intended it to be.

Mango Farm Madness

It was a week just like any other – hot weather, the hope of storms to send us home early, and dirty paddock talk to occupy our minds.  The way I get myself through the long 11 hour days is by aiming to get to the next break (morning or afternoon tea, and lunch) and hoping that by the time we get back to work a storm will come and wash us away.  The heat and humidity seems to melt time away to insignificance, though.

One day we had a storm building up in the north east, giving me hope before lunch.  It was deep blue and coming towards us, but it ended up wimping out and fading to clear blue sky in the space of about half an hour.  Twenty minutes later, however, my hopes were reinstated at the sight of another storm buildup, this time in the south west.  I called this one Gladys, and invited her to come for a cup of tea and scones.  It took her an hour or two, but she came.  I went home.

As I eat my lunch I am usually interrupted by a little dog, a cattle dog the size of a jack russell.  It runs around everyone’s feet and stands up on its hind legs begging for food, but I just kick it or give it a slap on the nose when it does that to me.  It’s almost learnt not to bother any more, but it’s still a stupid dog.  After charming a morsel of sandwich of the idiots who feed him, he drops its hind legs to the ground and walks forward on his front legs, rubbing his evidently itchy balls on the grass.   After I eat I have my grandad nap, either under a mango tree or – more recently – on a comfortable seat near the farm house.  I am joined by guinea foul – stupid birds who come to investigate the intruder into their territory.  One afternoon I witnessed a pair chasing each other all around the paddock, back and forth and around in circles for hours.  No joke, hours.  They were like the distance runners from Kenya with agile, skinny legs that propel them at high speeds without ever tiring.

Lunchtime Companion

Robin tells me guinea foul run wild in Africa, where he grew up.  He recounted a childhood spent with his mates rounding them up into a corner (stupid birds are not tactically minded), whereupon they would produce shotguns, fire and sufficiently injure a couple.  What do you do with an injured guinea foul?  I’m told you pick it up by the head and swing it around in circles – soon enough, its skinny neck will snap, the body will go flying and you’ll be left with a bird head covered in blood in the palm of your hand.  Robin says his Anglo-Indian friend’s mum made a top-notch guinea foul curry.

Ben, my age, tells me he used to be quite the distance runner.  We probably raced against each other back in our school days at the regional meets.  David, who I met at my previous farm and also my age, had a similar story.  Why do all the runners end up on mango farms?

This week, we were discussing spies on the mango farm.  Was anybody amongst us an undercover intelligence officer?  Korean spy?  Snoop from a rival farm?  The employee population on the farm is not entirely dissimilar to that of a horror movie, or even Big Brother.  Not long ago, we had a dozen people.  The high school graduate made his money and quit; Julian’s car broke down and prompted him to move to Cairns; a couple of other guys had had enough by week’s end.  Perhaps they’re all defecting to the other farms, or the communists.

While we’re on the topic of other farms, the allegations against my previous mango boss were flying across the paddock.  For those of you that don’t know, Mr N. is of Italian heritage, quite rich and runs a large, regimented farming operation.  Word of mouth is it’s the last place you want to work, but somehow I found myself there (for the record, it was weird – but not that bad)  Mr N is the alpha male, the king of Camp N – the Australian version of Camp X-Ray.

Now to the dirt spreading.  Apparently the cute Japanese lady he keeps in his house (along with his wife) to do domestic work is actually his mistress, and she gets traded in for a new one every 12 months.  There were stories about illegitimate children of his, not to mention how he obtains his mistresses.  Says Michael to Greg (the boss), ‘Now what you don’t know Greg is that the kids at your place are actually mine.  And the kids at my place are all yours!  Now I know what you get up to when you leave the paddock!  And then there was this aboriginal fella come knocking at my door telling me I was his dad, prolly just afta he’d been to see you about it too.’  I suggested that Greg and Michael swap kids and be done with it, to which he replied, ‘Now that’s smart thinking.  Probably why you’re a scientist!’

Although he seems bogan at first sight, Michael’s not exactly unintelligent.  He is capable of reasoned thinking and objectivity, although he usually communicates his conclusions in either a whinge, or a ruff-tough manner.  This week he told me that he realises we need police (he just doesn’t like the standards held by the current force), and that he knows he sees the bad side of things more often than the good.  Some say that self awareness is a sign of intelligence.  The strange thing about Michael is that he doesn’t smoke or drink, comes from a Jehova’s Witness background, has experience in the Army (Reserve, although he doesn’t emphasise that), liked maths at school (but nothing else) and gained most of his agricultural skills from growing dope on a commercial scale, for which he served time.

I’m not sure if I mentioned in a previous post a woman named Nakibra who works in the packing shed.  I haven’t met her, but I hear that her and Michael don’t get along well because the won’t take orders from each other.  Michael complains about her every second day in the paddock, but today he says, ‘Maybe if I don’t say anything else about her for the rest of the season she’ll give me a big fat hug like she did last year.  I didn’t mind having a feel of her big fat arse last time, and I’d like to have her tits rub against me again.’  Greg replies, ‘You know what Michael, they’re definitely getting lower each year, ay?  If you want a hug from her then now’s the time to get one, I’m telling ya.’  Classic paddock talk.

Which reminds me of a phrase I overheard this week.  It’s definitely not a nice thing to say, but I will report it here nevertheless.  “Like a gin’s left tit”  A gin is a degrading term for an aboriginal person.  This line means, ‘It’s not right and it’s not fair’, and can be used in learned discussions about politicians, government or bureaucracy.

Most days I like to lie out in the paddock for morning tea because I gain the time it takes to do the return trip to the farm house and back out again – up to 10 minutes more for me!  Recently I’ve been discovering the benefits of coming in to the house for smoko – namely hot ham-cheese-tomato toasted sandwiches (thick, real ham and not the paper-thin sandwich variety), light scones warm out of the oven with jam and cream, and most recently cake.  This particular cake was the ultimate example of perfection, made by [big boss] Allan’s wife Dianne.  I had the feeling that she implemented the recipe for Orange Tea Cake (with Lemon Frosting), as documented on page 68 of All Time Favourites from the Australian Woman’s Weekly, with a precision unrivalled by even the most careful chemist.  As the cake melted on my tongue I was sure that every last ingredient was bought to specification and painstakingly measured, the oven preheated to 180 C, plus or minus no more than 0.5 C, and that even the cake tin matched the exact specifications as written in the book: round, diameter 25cm, with a 5cm hole in the middle.  Candied orange peel on top.  All for half a dozen paddock workers.  I’m back for smoko next week, I tell you.

On the truck back to the house one day, Robin and Allen (remember, he’s the boss extrodinaire) were having a half-serious debate about how to run the farm, following a spat in the paddock over how the packing shed manages itself.

R:  Look Allen, you just can’t start packing at ten in the morning cause there just isn’t any bloody fruit I’m telling you
A:  No, we’ve got enough there.  We’re back to KP so it takes longer to pack you see…
R:  What you’re doing is setting the shed up to finish early or just sit around all day waiting for us to send the fruit in
A:  No we’re not
[...continues for a couple of minutes while Ben and I sit and laugh at the two old men fighting]
A:  Alright Cosmospostman, you’ve got a rational scientific mind.  What do you think?
R:  You can’t pack mangoes before they’re picked now can you?  He’s telling us we can all bloody well go home and the mangoes’ll pick themselves!
C:  I’m not even sure mangoes exist
A:  Look Robin, you just don’t understand.  You’re a dickhead!
R:  Get fucked!!

I’d better hurry up and post this before the storm I see brewing over the mountains comes any closer and cuts out our internet connection.