Day 9 – Deniki to Kokoda Village

March 6, 2009 by  
Filed under Forbes to Kokoda & Back

The last day was very normal. Up breakfast, pack kit ready to go. Mansoon was upfront ready to go.
Wok and Roll and our last days walk began only 3 hours to the end.
Just a short walk down the hills. We went through a couple of villages, one had a cassowary penned up, so we all went over and had a look. Then we came out into open country and a road appeared, rough track but a road.

We formed up in two lines side by side, with the porters behind us .We found out later they always do this so we can lead them in , Tractor was up front leading us in. The porters cranked up the guitars and sang nearly all the way into the village. For me it felt just great, with them singing all our blokes were fit and healthy the hair on the back of the neck were standing up, what a finish.

Before we knew it Phillip called us to a halt and we were finished at Phillips guest house. So we moved on into the courtyard and took of the packs and time to party. Phillip owned this guest house and ran it with his mother and his wife and family. He had solo panels to run all his electricity, which is rare in the villages. Phillip ran a good show. An esky was set up in the centre and Simmy became the barman. We all had a beer and the porters too and toasted the trip. Over several beers we had a chance to get lots of photos shake each others hands pats on the back for each other and the porters. I gave a lot of my gear away to my porter
Tassie, as did everyone else. That made him smile, as Tassie had been walking the whole track with an eye infection that closed his eye towards the end of the walk. No complaints from him though, tough little bastard.

We got to meet the legend him self Johnny Hunt-Hiviki the record holder of the fastest track crossing ever he did it in 22 hours 1 minute in the Kokoda track race. He is a partner and best mate of Phillip, was getting ready to take the next group over the track. (An update as of the 28/8/07 his record was broken. Brendan Buka set a new time of 17 hours 20 minutes for the Kokoda to Owens Corner crossing. He also holds the Owens to Kokoda time of 17 hours and 49 minutes.)

Tractor recited a poem that was written of the diggers of the track. Tractor did his usual top job but only just made it before his emotions nearly got to him. Very moving and I’m sure all the team felt there emotions at the end of that poem.

 

Tractor Rennick, reciting the poem.

Tractor Rennick, reciting the poem.

 

Fuzzy Wuzzy Angles (of the Kokoda Track)
By Bert Beros of the 3rd Battalion.

Many a mother in Australia, when the busy day is done,
Sends a prayer to the almighty, for the keeping of her son;
Asking that an angel guide him, and to bring him safely back.
Now we see those prayers answered on the Owen Stanley Track.
Though they haven’t haloes, only holes slashed through the ear,
And their faces marked with tattoos, and with scratch pins in their hair,
Bringing back the badly wounded, just as steady as a hearse,
Using leaves to keep the rain off, and as gentle as a nurse;
Slow and careful in bad places, on the awful mountain track,
And the look upon there faces, makes us think that Christ was black.
Not a move to hurt the carried, as they treat him like a saint,
It’s a picture worth recording, that an artist’s yet to paint.
Many a lad will see there mother, and the husbands wee’uns and wives,
Just because the Fuzzy Wuzzies, carried them to save their lives,
From mortar or machine-gun fire, or chance surprise attack,
To safety and the care of doctors, at the bottom of the track.
May the mothers in Australia, when they offer up a prayer,
Mention these impromptu angles, with fuzzy wuzzy hair.

 

We got our group photo and then went into the dining area for lunch. The presentations by Max and Phillip of our Certificates and shirts were made and we all got to say a few words at this time. Timed passed so fast and it was time to load up and head off. One last hand shakes with all the porters which took a while and then we loaded up on the truck and headed off.

On the way to Popondetta we had to go past Oivi Village. This was the village that Viv’s fathers in laws two brothers were killed. So we stopped the truck and Viv and I and a few others went back to the village as Viv had a job to do. He had carried the two photos of the men in his pocket all the way. Had a photo taken holding the photos in front of the village and left the photos with the villagers to take care of them and they will. I got a photo of the sign of Oivi Village as Uncle Trevor fought there as well.

On to Popondetta.

 

Popondetta to Port Moresby.

It was a two and half hour or so trip down to Popondetta on a rough road most of the way. We set up in the motel and had a hot shower for the first time in a week. Then we gathered at the bar.

We had a big long table for our group for dinner in the restaurant and it was a great night. Viv as usual had kept notes and gave each of us an award where could respond and say what the trip was like and what it meant to each of us. I can’t remember most of the awards, but mind was the corruption award for introducing the Dragons gear to all the villagers. I’m sure they are better off for having it.

The next morning we went around to the memorial the Governments had built. Protected by a barbed wire fence it explained of all the fighting on the beaches where we were about to go to. It showed us the date the Japs landed on New Guinea beaches 21/7/1942. Exactly 65 years to the day when we started at Owens Corner. No one picked that up till we read that then.

A long truck ride, on a rough track, down to the beach at Buna. When we arrived I thought, Nothing has changed there is still nothing there. Just a black sand beach a few huts and a swamp the Japs fought for. The locals showed us around the area and took us to meet Solomon. Solomon is 98 this year and lived there all his life. When the Japs came they shot through into the hills and came back to help the diggers when they were pushing the Japs back up the track to the beach. He is an original Fuzzy Wuzzy Angel. Solomon junior a great grandson showed how they climb coconut trees about 50 ft up and got us about 20 coconuts down. Mad I say mad. Fresh coconut milk and coconut not bad.

Back on the truck all the way to Popondetta air port. We had to wait a while for the plane and they had a market going outside the front gate. You would love the fresh prawns and fish, just sitting in the shade the flies being waved away. The locals didn’t mind. One truck came by and pulled up, must have been 45 people got of it; we were loaded up with 16.

Anyway loaded on the plane and back to Port Moresby. That was about it.

It was a trip of a life time. The mates, porters, track, experience brilliant. You just don’t know how far your body will go till you try. It was tough but I knew it was easy compared to how the diggers did it. Anyway I had a good time, whether this explains it to anyone else I don’t know. If anyone does it they have to want to do it. Don’t be taken there with a half thought you will suffer too much. Nothing can prepare you for it. I’m sure there is just no other track like it.

Back (L to R) Andrew Drane, Josh Baker, Steve Cook, Ian Bown, Scotty Reid, John Milton, David Hoggets, Zac Rennick. Front (L to R) Ralph Baker, Norm Cook, John (Tractor) Rennick, Michael (Harry) Walker, Peter Hollstein, Viv Russell.

Back (L to R) Andrew Drane, Josh Baker, Steve Cook, Ian Bown, Scotty Reid, John Milton, David Hoggets, Zac Rennick. Front (L to R) Ralph Baker, Norm Cook, John (Tractor) Rennick, Michael (Harry) Walker, Peter Hollstein, Viv Russell.

Story written by Ian Bown of Forbes

For more pictures visit the Kokoda Gallery

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Outback Junk Car

March 5, 2009 by  
Filed under Featured Photos, Photography

Bush Junk Car

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Gum Swamp 1

March 4, 2009 by  
Filed under Recent Art

 

Gum Swamp - Forbes

Gum Swamp - Forbes

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Bush Poetry

Bush Poetry, it has been said, is undergoing a modern “revival”. While this may be true in the cities, way out the “Back O’ Bourke”, two local bush poets, have fiercely believed for years that it had never died out in the first place, so how on earth can it be revived? 

The bars of little outback hotels throughout the bush have long been frequented by “Closet Bush Poets” who, with a bit of liquid persuasion, can entertain the bar with their humorous rhyming’s. Usually they will inspire even more patrons to stand up and recite their favourite verse, which surprisingly enough, is often written by the reciter.

Probably some of the best nights we have ever had were spent in an outback pub that contained no jukebox, no card machines and not even a pool table. But the our publican Tim could go verse for verse with the best and sometimes it seemed that bush poets out numbered non-bush poets, ten to one in the bar.

Australians all through history have maintained a close affinity with rhyming yarns, and bush poetry has always held a valuable place in folklore and history. All the warehouses filled with historical documents and records in the world cannot capture and permanently record the true “essence” of the peoples of an era? Bush Poetry records the peoples’ language and lifestyles, along with their life’s triumphs and tragedies, and does it in a format that is enjoyable to read. Bush poetry is a combination of poetry and place which is capable of turning a history lesson into a pleasant experience for even the youngest of readers. The pair of us fell under its spell before we were able to read, through hearing our “bushy” ancestors recite the words of Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson.

These days we have bush poets across Australia battling for their lives in rhyme on the Internet. A concept pioneered by yours truly, now taking the flavour of the outback across the world.

We have spent years sharing campfires on river banks studded with ancient forests of mighty “river gums”, on plains that vanish in far off horizons in all directions, and amongst giant desert dunes in an ocean of red sand. We have, in the process, been caught in every extreme of weather from floods that leave you cut off from supplies for weeks, to dust storms that roll in from the west with a blinding, choking fury. We have been held at the mercy of temperatures that seasonally plunge off the thermometer at either end. Throughout we have shared the ups and downs of life in the true spirit of “Bush Mateship” and our poems are a reflection of our experiences and values, written with generous lashings of bush humour.

After eating a hearty camp oven meal, we’ve watched many a campfire burn down to embers as we tossed verses to and fro under a blanket of outback stars. It was around one of these campfires that it was decided to put together a book that could be carried by campers throughout Australia and assist them to step into the world of a couple of modern day Bushmen, Bush Poets from the Back of Bourke.

We have provided a collection of camp oven recipes that can be cooked with basic tucker box ingredients to a standard that may have other wise been a bit ordinary. After your meal, you can turn the page and recite some original Bush Poetry and in so doing live out a lifestyle that has been idealised throughout history as being “Truly Australian”.

The recipes have been written to be “yarns” in their own right, making the book readable even from the comfort of the lounge chair at home. The most important ingredient is typically Australian. It’s a “no worries” approach to food and cooking. If you haven’t got the exact ingredients, substitute. If you haven’t got a substitute, use the exact ingredients. With any luck, you are enjoying a few beers or a nice Australian red anyway, so it probably won’t make that much difference. The idea is to make the recipes your own.

So whether you are camping somewhere in the bush or at home, dreaming that you are, read on and enjoy.

Ron Wilson 

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The Road Gang

March 4, 2009 by  
Filed under Bush Poetry, The Road Gang

Introduction

The earth moving industry in modern times is powered by huge machinery often with the luxury of air-conditioned cabs for operator comfort. Vast amounts of earth in a single day can be moved creating large water storage’s, “tanks”. Lengthy stretches of outback-corrugated road can now be graded in a day.

We both stand testament to this, having both worked as earth moving contractors throughout outback NSW.

Ron’s ancestors were earthmoving contractors also, but they used an entirely different type of plant. They used “Clydesdales” and “Bullock Teams” to haul scoops for tank sinking and road ploughs and grader blades for road making. They carved roads up the sides of mountains all over the Northern Rivers Region of NSW, in the days that it was called “The Big Scrub”, and its primary industry was the cedar industry.

Apart from mountains and cedar and rainforests, the area is known for its high rainfall, the highest in NSW by far. It was while driving on a road still in existence that was built by these tough bushies, in a torrential down pour and marveling at their feat when the inspiration to write about them came. This poem is dedicated to those early “earthmovers” who certainly had it tougher than us. 

 

By bark slab huts hidden in forests tall
And beside the bubbling creeks
Where ten inches of rain in a day can fall
And flood you in for weeks
Where men can’t walk they have to wade
Cause the ground all round is mud
Old roads are lost and new ones made
And the price is paid in blood

The bullocky snarls at the falling rain
With a dreary sodden curse
Then trudges on in weary pain
That is slowly getting worse
With a hand firm on his bullocks head
Round the mountain side they trudge
Trying to remember his last dry bed
And trying to ignore the sludge

A smoke is rolled under a battered brim
To shield from the pouring rain
Lit with stiffened hand cupped to hairy chin
But it gets wet just the same
It falls in half further down the track
So it is left there where it fell
He wonders why as he wanders back
There’s so much water in hell

Torrents down the mountain side
Fall down to a ferny glen
Where a team last week went a little wide
And that was the last of them
The bullock driver also lost his life
Because he tried to save his team
Then straws were drawn to tell his wife
Camped further down the stream

Road plows pulled with Clydesdale strength
Lay wider the treacherous trail
No gamer beast found in nature’s length
Their hearts refuse to fail
But if the plow pulls wide and starts to slip
And the driver reacts too slow
It will pull the horses out over the lip
And down to their deaths below

Winding slowly up through thick black clouds
The road is carved by flesh and bone
Leaving graves marked only by leafy shrouds
And at the head a mossy stone
The road gets built over the mountain side
Despite the constant flood
And those that remember the ones who died
Know the price was paid in blood

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The Bush Olympian

March 4, 2009 by  
Filed under Bush Poetry, The Bush Olympian

Introduction

How many of us have that special talent that we cultivate? Something we can do better than everyone else? The fencing we see in the Olympics isn’t the kind of fencing that we do out here, and those hats the horsemen wear wouldn’t keep off any sun.

Bush poetry by Andrew Hull

My legs were too long for cycling,
And my arms were too short for weights.
I’m no good at running or jumping,
And my boxing skills aren’t great.

Me hair was too short for tennis,
But I gave badminton a bash.
My hair was too long for golf,
And cricket pads give me a rash.

I can’t stay afloat in the water,
And I’m too scared of heights to dive.
I haven’t the balance for motorbikes,
And I haven’t a licence to drive.

But I have developed a tendon,
Between my elbow and my wrist.
And it allows a stubby bottle,
To fit perfectly in my fist.

I can roll a smoke one handed
(No handed if I try).
And my mouth is perfectly suited,
To swallowing whole a meat pie.

If you take me on at yarn spinning,
Then you are a bloody fool.
And I’ve tuned my body perfectly,
To sitting on a barstool.

I know I’ll never be recognised,
For the athlete that I am.
But these are skills I can use every day,
I’m a bush Olympian.

© Andrew Hull

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An Old Bloke Like Me

March 4, 2009 by  
Filed under An Old Bloke Like Me, Bush Poetry

Introduction

Every workplace seems to have a resident ‘Old Fart’ hanging around, someone who used to work there years ago and is now retired, or has some vested interest in the goings on of the place. Memories blur with reality on a regular basis, ( the older you get, the better you were) and shearing sheds are a notorious haunt for such past legends.

Bush poetry by Andrew Hull

Every old shed’s got a bloke like me,
I’m usually found by the door.
My cigarette smoke lines the roof of the shed,
My crumpled akubra near swallows my head,
All I am is my stories, the smoke that you see,
And the piles of ash on the floor.

I have no real title or job to perform,
I speak when I want you to hear.
I lean on a broom but I don’t ever sweep,
I wake up at four and by four I’m asleep,
I’m a remnant of days before union reform,
So they pay me with smokes, tea and beer.

The mornings I’m always hung over and down,
The rest is my memories it seems.
Like the time that I shore three hundred or more, 
Or the day that I knocked the boss clean out the door,
The young fella’s listen, but stare at the ground,
As I recall my half drunken dreams.

I know that there’s pity in the young shearer’s eyes,
But I talk and pretend not to see.
For the yarns that I give are half lies and half true,
But they’ll become their memories and their stories too,
And that way this old shearer never quite dies
‘Cause each shed’s got an old bloke like me.

© Andrew Hull

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Bourke

March 4, 2009 by  
Filed under Bourke, Bush Poetry

Introduction

I guess there are a thousand towns that are well removed from major centers that seem to have an obscure attraction for a lot of people. Once again the quality of the bush spirit remains undeniable, but almost impossible to explain.

Bush poetry by Andrew Hull

The publican at old Fitzs Hotel, 
Was watching the stranger approach. 
He would be in need of a beer he could tell, 
He’d just come in off the coach.

After a nod to the group at the bar, 
And a long cool draught of beer. 
The stranger announced that all roads so far, 
Had finally bought him to here.

He said that he knew that the weather was good, 
And he knew there was plenty of work. 
But while he was here he hoped that he could, 
Find out what was so special about Bourke.

Now a publican has his own social class, 
And he has a unique point of view. 
So he quietly filled up the strangers glass, 
And he poured himself one too.

“That question”, he said as he filled up his jar. 
“Is much more complex than you think.” 
“But the answer lies at the end of the bar, 
With those four blokes having a drink.

The bloke on the left is a grazier, 
He’s a man of some wealth and renown. 
He owns about two million acres, 
And he’s well respected around town.

The bloke two his right is a shearer, 
He’s only just finished a shed. 
He makes his way in about every two months, 
For a beer and a comfortable bed.

To his right again is a local, 
And he plays a valuable part. 
You could say he keeps the town moving, 
As he drives the dunny cart.

And the man next to him is a learned man, 
And a good bloke to have as a mate. 
if you find yourself in some trouble, 
He’s the local magistrate.

Now I see that I’ve got you confused, 
I can tell by the look on your face. 
You ask me what’s special ‘bout Bourke, 
And I don’t even mention the place.

The special thing is the fact that they’re here, 
All sharing a beer and a joke. 
The dunny cart man will probably shout, 
And the magistrate could bum a smoke.

In no other place would the social standards, 
Allow them to all sit down there. 
But in Bourke, none of that matters, 
And you don’t find that anywhere.

You see mate, money and power, 
Don’t work when you’re out this way. 
They don’t make it any cooler, 
On a 40 degree summers day.

And they don’t make you closer to Sydney, 
When it floods and supplies can’t get through. 
And you don’t smell any better in drought, 
When one bath a week has to do.

You can call it mateship or madness, 
Whatever it is seems to work. 
It’s the fact that we’re in it together, 
That’s what’s so special about Bourke.”

It was that stranger who told me this story, 
His families now lived here for years. 
And he told me and a rich cotton farmer, 
After we’d sat and had a few beers.

And we were joined later on by the mayor, 
And a council bloke, just out of work. 
And I thought, well, we’re all still here in it, 
But we’re on it together, in Bourke.

Andrew Hull

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Fishing for Wasps

March 4, 2009 by  
Filed under Bush Poetry, Fishing For Wasps

Introduction

It is a common rule in the bush that ‘anything that flies and can bite you should be made extinct’. The problem with wasps is that if you miss on the first attempt, their common rule is that ‘anything that tries to kill you and fails, should be made extinct’. And a fishing boat is definitely not a good place for the two species to co-exist.

Bush poetry by Ronnie Wilson

We were whaling on the Darling,
On a lazy Sunday afternoon,
Not bothering if we caught any,
And no plans to head home soon.

Well we found a very fishy site,
Near a big old fallen tree.
So we moored the boat up tight,
And settled back comfortably.

We set the bait and began the wait,
With an esky near each knee.
And before half a can I felt a bite,
From a fresh water Kamikaze.

I reeled him in with a bit of a grin.
And said mate, I think we’ve found the spot.
Well settle in here and if it takes all day.
We won’t move till we’ve caught the lot.

It was somewhere round the second fish,
That I froze with a sudden gasp.
On a protruding branch just three feet away,
Hung a bloody big nest of paper wasps.

Well we called a meeting on what to do,
Should we pack up and go or should they.
Or were we really in any danger at all,
If we just kept well out of their way.

Well I passed a motion and “Chris” he seconded,
That both parties had a right to stay.
Then we had a beer with the voting ended,
And continued with our fishing fray.

But I soon snagged a stick and I dragged it in,
As I cursed the flaming pest.
And in a rum spurred rage I threw the thing,
And it hit the bloody nest.

Now a wasp bite is ten times worse than a bee,
The only good one that I know is dead.
And they all charged into battle straight past me,
And attacked me mate, Chris, on the head.

Imagine the terrifying experience I had,
Sitting there amongst world wasp war three.
But I suppose it wasn’t really all that bad,
After all they didn’t come near me.

When the attackers finally called a cease-fire,
Me mate he was flat upon the deck.
All bleeding and moaning in tattered attire,
With big blotchy bites above the neck.

But he really was a game sort of fellow,
And not easily deterred from our quest.
And though his face was a peculiar yellow,
He wanted revenge on that wasp nest.

So a plan was hatched of evil theme,
And we prepared to face the foe.
These wasps were fast and particularly mean,
But we weren’t exactly slow.

We snuck the boat in at a drifting pace,
Like commando’s stalking their foe.
Then first mate Chris with his swollen face,
Swung a stick with a mighty blow.

Well the nest hit the water in an instant,
And we watched it disappear from sight.
But the bloody wasps didn’t go down with it,
And they looked like they wanted a fight.

We went straight into battle stations,
And prepared to repel all invaders.
Our act of aggression had severed all relations,
And we were attacked by the homeless raiders

I straightaway summed up the situation,
As I tried very hard to look like a tree.
But Chris was swamped by the invading nation,
All hell-bent on wasp victory.

Like a living swarming human hive,
He staggered gamely to his feet.
And though I thought he must be barley alive,
He showed he wasn’t beat.

He lurched and threw himself overboard,
No doubt to drown his foe.
But he only took with him half the hoard,
The rest weren’t quiet as slow.

It was about then I turned back into a tree,
As they circled me round and round.
But once again they didn’t see me,
And Chris was no where to be found.

Finally they realised they’d had a clear win,
So they gathered together to gloat.
And Chris set a new record for an underwater swim,
As I still sat perfectly still in the boat.

Eventually we reunited, and we quietly stole away,
And it was good to see the homestead lights.
Then my wife asked, “did we catch any today”?
And I just said “no, but Chris got a lot of bites”!

© Ron Wilson

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The Bush Telegraph

March 4, 2009 by  
Filed under Bush Poetry, Bush Telegraph

Introduction

In the city, housewives meet for cups of tea and bickies, or lean over the back fence to discuss relevant topics of the goings on of the people around them in their communities. Well the bush has the same sort of system, we call it “The Bush Telegraph”. It covers vast distances, as do the properties of the great out back, and is usually the first source of information on an important event in the outback community. It would have to be one of the fastest forms of communication on the planet even in to day’s high-tech net driven society.

It starts at the source of the event and then at great speed the information explodes out covering vast tracks of land, crossing rivers in flood, hot barren deserts and clearing mountain ranges in a single bound. It hitches rides with every phone call and every station bound road train as well as every mail truck and every “cocky” that scratches a stick in the dust during weather information exchanges with his neighbor. The outback always has depended on the Bush Telegraph and we believe it always will.

 

On every far off bush selection,
Out where the dingo’s roam.
There’s a means of communication,
that’s faster than a phone.
Its movement is always continual,
It’s not something you can photograph.
It’s an early Australian original,
Known as the Bush Telegraph.

It was used by early selectors,
Ploughing the sun baked loam.
Carried by all the visitors,
And distributed home by home.
It still moves around the outback,
Though the roads are often rough.
Both black soil road and bulldust track,
Carry the old Bush Telegraph.

It was used by ragged miners,
For news of each new rush.
Spurring dreams of untold riches,
Buried somewhere in the bush.
It starbursts out across the land,
Carried on, like wind blown chaff.
By “Cobb and Co” with four in hand,
All carrying the Bush Telegraph.

It was used by wiry stockmen,
With skin hardened by the sun.
And bush women raising children,
On a distant lonely run.
Where the loneliness is unending,
And she’s forgotten how to laugh.
She hopes soon they’ll be sending,
News on the Bush Telegraph.

Its not restricted by elements of weather,
Nor hindered by boundaries of time.
It can’t be bought sold or tied with tether,
It’s no more yours than it is mine.
The weight of its cargo is boundless,
So for the want of a suitable epitaph
Try unstoppable, necessary and priceless,
The grand old Bush Telegraph.

© Ron Wilson

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