Nature Does Christmas

It’s hot. Thirty degrees when I got up at seven this morning and windy. Everyone has been telling me that I should go and see the Christmas lights on The Boulevard, seeing as it is just around the corner. Last night then we headed out after dark hoping it might have cooled down a fraction but unfortunately not and joined the throng on the Christmas twinkle trail.

There were not as many houses lit up as on Franklin Road in Auckland but those that entered the spirit were definitely visible from space. I swear that it must have been a degree hotter on this stretch of road than elsewhere in Melbourne due to the radiation of millions of tiny twinkle lights and the greenhouse gases spewing from the snake of cars inching along the street.

“Are the lights worth it?” someone leaned out of a car going nowhere in the jam to ask me.

“Well yes they are worth a walk.”

And I thought people might be having an eco-Christmas this year but no they still went for the showy lights and tacky themes that I half expected to see the Virgin birth in animated lights watched by Rudolph the Red Nosed Pug dog and the three wise possums – “ooh a star, let’s follow the light.”

To me though, nature won the prize last night for being the most festive. A lone cicada serenaded the gathering buzzing a monotonous Christmas song and the brown moths illuminated fluttering in the light of the streetlamps took the prize over the twinkling Las Vegas lights.

Have I mentioned it’s hot? Thoughts of snow, sleigh bells and chestnuts roasting couldn’t be further from my mind. Apparently the fish shops are doing a roaring trade today. Shrimps to throw on the barbie will be heard sizzling tomorrow no doubt and that crack you hear is not a Christmas cracker but the spine of a tasty crustacean. This is Christmas in Australia.

A Batswing and Bottlebrush Christmas

Last night, in the balmy glow of a twilight warmed by a day of cloudless blue, I witnessed an incredible sight. Hundreds of black shapes took to the sky's fading light in elegant leisurely wing. I watched in awe as they soared above the trees on the banks of the Yarra River. The Yarra Boulevard is a popular drive the road twisting and wending its way up hill through a bushy park. It boasts some of the city's biggest mansions, overlooking stunning views and yet these millionaires share their park with the humble darkness creatures of black nightmares. Bats. The captivating display of winged symphony I was watching was hundreds of bats, trained to relocate their home from the Botanic Gardens where they were stripping trees bare, to the Yarra Parklands. And they are quite simply beautiful in flight. I'm not saying that I'm keen to meet one close up but then I dare say that they think the same was about me, freaky human that I am. In the sky however, sweeping overhead, I can appreciate how exotically awesome they are.

This has become my new reality adapting to life in a strange land with insects, creatures and weather phenomena my sheltered previous existence has only read about and promptly blocked out in terror. A storm in Melbourne is not done by half measures either. The other day the temperature climbed with the promised liquid blessing predicted to follow and eagerly anticipated. It held off till nightfall when sitting in the living room with the door open letting in the evening cool the atmospheric tension broke and the deluge descended.

Through the screen door I watched the air crackle with electricity cutting the night like a knife. With so much usual dry a storm sweeps through with spectacular display of sheet lightning and long, low rumbles of thunder. The rain hits at the end of the light show, hard and heavy for just a few minutes. The next moment it is all over and the temperature has cooled, the air is light and smells of fragrant tropical flowers. This is a bacteria I am told, triggered by the rain into releasing a lovely floral scent.

And speaking of flowers, the Bottlebrush and Wattle bush are in bloom as I hanker for the brilliant red of the Pohutukawa, in season at home for a Kiwi Christmas. The Aussie Christmas decorations are up in Melbourne City though not many houses around town have outdoor themed light displays, a sign maybe of people concerned about conservation. Even the big tree in Cathedral Square is not ostentatiously lit and the stars across the main streets are designed to reflect light rather than requiring power to shine. We are having a subdued eco-Christmas this year. The splash of red on the Bottlebrush reminds me that Christmas is this Friday and it will be the first I spend away from the traditions I have known. It is time for me to make new traditions and I look forward to the opportunity. The holiday season also is approaching and I am looking forward to a few days break. But despite all that, I do miss the Pohutukawa among other things.

The incense of Eucalytpus leaves drying in the sun infusing the warm air with a pervasive healing fragrance has infiltrated my new Christmas memories as has the eardrum piercing drone of giant green cicadas. I know which one I prefer. The birds in the trees are making themselves more known as the summer warms up. Pink Galahs and Crimson Rosellas sing their own carols overhead as they gather to roost while the sun goes down. Wattlebirds are not as pretty or colourful but they have a familiar song. The northern hemisphere images of snow on fir trees and heavy winter dinners of plum pudding and turkey seem even more incongruous in the Australian dry, dust bowl heat. A cold picnic of refreshing sparkling mineral water or a glass of wine, french bread smeared with creamy brie, pear and crisp celery with blue cheese on a blanket under a tree features in my plan for a new tradition. Whatever I do, I will finally this year get to achieve my dream of having a quiet, peaceful Christmas with no rushing about, no over-eating, just a restful holiday from the usual busyness of life and a true sense of goodwill to all man. Merry Christmas everyone.

Welcome to the Apocalyse

There has been much hooplah in the news lately about Australia's lack of leadership with a commitment to the environment as the climate summit at Copenhagen approaches. Brown coal, the exclusion of farming from carbon trading and water catchments that remain painfully dry in a weekend of rare Melbourne downpours have me spreading my arms and welcoming my friends to the apocalyptic weather becoming our reality. Seriously people if you want proof that global warping (no that was not a typo) is happening then come to Australia where spring heat waves are already plunging three states into hellfire.

It's only November, keep that firmly in your mind as you read on. Last February fires devastated the state and Victorians are collectively holding their breath as reports of flames spreading through the Blue Mountains in NSW send shivers down the spines of the population. There's still three longs months stretching between where we currently stand, having just seen two weeks in the mid-30s, and a time looked forward to as, 'over the worst'.

Let me tell you what it is like for a newcomer to experience the start of Melbourne's summer. My first thirty degree day I thought I had stepped into an oven and felt immediate sympathy for roasting chickens. Breathing was a struggle but I was reassured that come fifteen degrees hotter, I would actually continue to breathe it would just seem like my lungs were burning. This, was nothing – yet.

By the next 30+ day about a week later I had already acclimatised to expect air like dragon's breath and surprisingly this time it was not so bad. Dry heat is more bearable than the debilitating humidity I am used to in Auckland. Nothing decays into rot the way it does when you add moisture. It just fossilises into crumbling dust powder. Strange but true however this scary weather continues to astound me almost every day. As the heat wave continues day after day night time can't cool enough to allow the temperature to drop and so the next day starts off hotter than the last already. Twenty degrees at 7.00am rises a further two degrees within the hour. If you do the math the prediction for the day seems frightening.

Imagine if you will midday mercury climbing to thirty-eight, a searing dry heat, eerily still and silent. The next minute a wind sweeps through whipping dust and parchment leaves from the gutters to circle the air. I look up at the noise of what incredibly, sounds like rain and find that it is...followed closely by thunder. The heavens open and bellow dirty rain onto the gasping ground and the temperature instantly drops at least ten degrees. Just astounding! The following morning I blinked several times only to discover that the cataract-like haze before my eyes was in fact a humid cloud clinging to the tops of roofs and tall buildings of the city. By the afternoon it was raining and children splashed joyfully in puddles as their parents watched without censure. It was so rare that passers-by paused to smile. For the first time in months I fell asleep to the sound of rain rather than an oscillating fan by the bed. During the night I heard its familiar lull and in the morning the sky was darker than usual because it..was..still..raining. The radio DJ's children have never seen what she terms “old-fashioned rain”, rain that reminded her for childhood downpours lasting days. They are too young to know what I take for granted. Tomorrow's generation is already forgetting or worse, oblivious to the joy of water.

It's drier than I ever imagined here and this is the city, it's not the Outback cliché of the movies. Driving between Melbourne and Wagga Wagga the other weekend I witnessed more shame. Lake Eildon, famed site of Bonnie Doon in the iconic film “The Castle”, is so dry that not even a trickle flows under the bridge that used to span one of the major water supplies to the Goulburn Valley. In the movie they fish and blat about on speed boats on Lake Eildon. Today you can drive your car off the long concrete boat ramp straight into the hollow should be under water. A rabbit dashes in front of the car. The city rain has just stopped after two days of consistent falling and the 6 o'clock news describes it as torrential. Okay so it was steady but nowhere near that exaggeration. Have Victorians really forgotten what torrential looks like? Still we bless the rains down in Victoria until the weather reporter shakes his head answering the question on everyone's lips at the slightest spattering. Despite flooding in parts of the city, a city so unused to water that it has forgotten how to cope with more than a millimetre, it failed to raise the total catchment capacity above its current 38%. The best the weatherman could offer was that the addition has postponed the lake levels dropping further for a couple of days. Clearly they are in the wrong place to benefit from the preciously sparse rainfall and yet the solution offered by authorities is not to build more or shift the catchments but to de-salinate the bay! And what is the response? Blame it on the weatherman.

They Must Be Giants

I have come not to the Land not of Oz but of Lilliputt where I feel dwarfed by the insects. I kid ye not, the creepy crawlies in this town are Big Mothers and the folk ‘round these parts simply shrug at my squeamishness and say, “just be grateful you ain’t in Queensland darl. That’s where the real nasty buggers hang out.” Oh gee, thanks for the reassuring comfort.

Met me a Red Back spider the other day and while it didn’t look all that large, I hear that they are sneaky sods and – yeah reasonably poisonous. I mean, apparently they won’t kill ya, not unless you are a cat or allergic to them but still, a nip from one of these purdy critters will I’m told, make you mighty sick for a few days.

The harmless arachnid type that I did meet not that long ago was a Huntsman. Well two actually. The first was just a baby but in my mind it was still big to eat a hamster. Now, I am arachnophobic but I can handle the creepy crawlie as long as I can trap it in a glass and release it into the wild where let’s face it, it belonged in the first place! So this ‘baby’, yeah it technically came under that heading. Its big brother, rudely not formally introduced to me in the toilet one morning not so long after was a different story. The size of my fist I’m looking at it looking back at me with multiple beady eyes and my mind starts screaming…I don’t have a glass big enough for this one. If I’d met Big Daddy I’m assured, a pint beer glass would not have contained the body let alone the legs jammed under the rim. But they are harmless friendly spiders. Yeah right! They can scare small children with a cocky three-eyed wink but they will not kill ya.

Ants…twice the size of Kiwi cousins and the bigguns will nip you if you let ‘em. Beetles…big as bottle tops or a fifty cent piece without the bevelled edges. Cicadas…I haven’t actually seen one but I’ve heard them in the trees and they sound like they would definitely get stuck in a bird’s throat. Maybe that explains the mean look in the raven’s eye and the squawking caw they make. All in all, a land of giants.

That's Entertainment

There's been a few festivals on lately and as is my habit, I went to some of the offerings. This year however, rather than making my choice based on reading the programme with price at the forefront (I was economising last year), my selection was made on Triple R interviews. Yes folks, I am a supporter of the Melbourne community radio station Triple R and it is the most fabulous thing since sliced bread as far as I am concerned. My morning begins with the Breakfasters gently shaking me awake before the real alarm barks at me to stop lazing around and get up. Saturday morning eases into activity with the eclectic mix of music on Vital Bits and Sunday lazes around till midday with information by osmosis on Radio Marinara, Radio Therapy and Einstein A-go-go. Thanks to The Breakfasters too I can while away a rather dull double train ride with information of things to fill my spare time and enrich my life, like...

Philip Escoffey's Six Impossible Things Before Dinner at the Melbourne Fringe Festival. It was very entertaining I have to say and just the ticket to cheer us up in a trying week of freezing cold and no electrons in the house. It's a long story but the power accidentally got cut off in the coldest week of Spring. Anyway, Philip Escoffey does not claim to read minds but he does do some pretty wicked tricks that suggest to his audience he does. And I was one of the audience members to have my mind read...well sort of, it was a trick after all because if he had been reading my mind, he would have seen only blank space between these blonde ears. It was however very entertaining and clever and his show gets my recommendation.

Second Triple R recommendation for something to do on a Sunday night was Mal Webb and Adam Page's musical gymnastics with loopback machines and more instruments than two people should be able to play in a million years. Yes, these two were completely, spontaneously impressive on trombone, saxophone, paper fan, nose flute and tin whistle to name but a few. Mal's vocal ability with sound effects was also pretty impressive as they jammed for two and a half hours. Mal's songs too were very funny and acrobatic with words.

Triple R also offered a Black Cab performance in their performance space which as a new subscriber, I was welcome to on my own merits rather than as an invited plus one. Yay, for my Radiothon inspired subscription.

On Sunday afternoon Lauren and I wandered down to Federation Square for a dose of Melbourne Arts Festival with Living Room on the big screen. It featured photos people had sent in of them at home in their living spaces. It was pretty cool to recognise all the neighbourhoods featured now that I am a local and I thought that my living room photo could easily have featured alongside the rest. My living room would have fitted in perfectly.

The big show of the week however was Debbie and me going to 'Chicago' at Her Majesty's Theatre. I was captivated. It was a truly great show, better than Wicked and all it had was one set and one costume each. Pretty low budget on effects but it made up for it with big voices and big acting to keep me spellbound. All in all, well worthwhile arty couple of weeks.

Things that sneak up on you

I met my first unfriendly Aussie the other morning. A Huntsman spider stalked me from the corner of the ceiling in the kitchen. It was black and all legs, as big as the average Avondale arachnid.

“Ah, there's a big black thing in the kitchen. Do something,” I commanded Roger.

“Like what? It's a spider,” he answered inexplicably nonchalantly.

Yes, that's right, it is a spider and that should be enough don't you think? He was showing a distinct lack of seriousness for the situation I thought so I reluctantly spelled it out.

“Like get rid of it. I don't care how, I don't like spiders.”

The unspoken look on his face indicated that he thought I was in the wrong country then but humouring me he went into the kitchen to check it out.

“Oh it's only a baby,” I heard his disembodied voice announce and considered his joke to be in very poor taste.

“Well it's bigger than I've ever seen. I'm from New Zealand, we don't have beasts that can eat you in one swallow.”

What happened next made me squeal like a girl's blouse. He picked it up in his hand and let it sit on his arm while walking the thing to the door. Eee-yew.

“No seriously it's just a baby,” he said as cool as a cucumber icy pole. “Wait till you see what it grows up to be.”

“Ah, yeah, I'm good with not thank you.”

A few days later I spotted a book in the library called 'Melbourne's Wildlife'. Melbourne mind, not Victoria, not Australia's wildlife – just Melbourne and it was still the size and thickness of the complete Oxford dictionary! I look up Huntsman because I had a ghoulish curiosity. Yep, pretty frigging huge, Roger was not joking.

“Of course,” remarked my Queensland colleague. “They get bigger than that in Brisbane.”

Placing her fingers and thumbs together to make a circle she showed me a shape the size of, oh – I'm thinking a hamster! Remembering the comment of the old guy on Brighton Beach about it being too cold in Melbourne for most beasts, I knew there was a reason I chose Victoria over Queensland, the most deadliest place on the planet it would seem. Queensland boasts one of the only two animals in the world to hunt humans for fun. That would be the 'Salty' or saltwater crocodile. The other is a polar bear but thankfully Melbourne is not quite cold enough to attract them either.

Anyway back to my friend the Huntsman spider because the story doesn't end there. Saturday morning, bleary-eyed, grumbling about having to get up at 7.00am, I stagger into the toilet. It's a gloomy day so I turn on the light and as I look up – Ah! Harry the Huntsman's big brother Everett (as in Peter 'Spider' Everett the local sportsman) is looking down at me. Little Harry was more like Dirty Harry setting his older, hairier sibling on to me. Well I was not feeling very lucky punk so yet again Rog the disposal expert is called in only this time I'm not prepared to watch him bare-hand the beermat sized creature. I retreat to the bathroom to shower away my shattered nerves, making sure of course that I check every ceiling crevice first.

Far out, I'm still having palpitations thinking about the thing. The good news – they are apparently friendly spiders by comparison. Comparison to what!?! Black Widows? Darth Vadar? But yes it's true, the Huntsman is not a venomous arachnid and they don't nest, hunt in packs or curl up in shoes, clothes or bedding, unlike the White Tail, Funnel Web or Red Back. Except that they are all Australian crawlies too! Huntsmen, or so I am reassured and I hope that they're not just being kind, only like to hang out in ceiling corners so while they can be pretty much the size of small rodents, they don't come near humans much.

In fact Harry and Everett were as scared of me as I was of them - apparently. So while I'm screaming at Harry, Harry was not taking any of his eight beady eyes off me in terrified fear that he might lose track of the human and not know which part of the house I might be lurking in. “Ah, a girl,” would no doubt have been the shaky words on his fangs if a spider's mandibles had the ability to form words. Okay look I'm trying but Roger's advice to shake my irrational fear by thinking of the poor spider and giving is a name to become it's friend is just not working when every time I close my eyes I see an image of it having four times as many eyes and legs as me. I don't think Harry, Everett and I will ever be enjoying tea together unfortunately but if this beast meeting carries on, I might have to see a therapist.

Oh and by the way, book on 'Melbourne's Wildlife'. I don't care if you decide to call it a 'legless lizard', I'm afraid it's still a goddam snake.

Doggies canned in Pies

Well, here we are again nearing the end of another AFL season, the Grand Final looming next weekend. It's a menagerie fight between Cats and Dogs over a bunch of Magpies and Crows it would seem with Geelong, Collingwood, St Kilda and Footscray the prominent teams hanging in there in the finals. Oh, and the Adelaide crows are there too but we don't talk much about them 'cos they are not a Victorian team. It seems that there are still the diehards that believe the uniquely strange game that started as the VFL (Victorian Football League) should never have gone national. They take comfort in the knowledge that the Sydney Swans migrated from South Melbourne and that Brisbane's team is Fitzroy in disguise. I know diddly-squat about footy but I can't help overhearing the passionate conversations. Even those who support other sports as far removed as motorsport and yachting still know the names of the Victorian teams at the very least. It's a Melbourne thing and you can't call yourself a true local until you know a war cry or two.

I once asked why Australians couldn't just play rugby like everyone else and be happy with international competitions. The indignant answer came back; “we had to have an identity, a sport that belongs just to us. The U.S. has grid iron, there's Pacific Cricket and Canada is pretty much the only country to go nuts over ice hockey. Ergo we invent a wacky way to play football so that it will be neither soccer football nor rugby football. And it shall be known hence forth as footy.”

So how do you support footy? Well apparently you pick a team based not on form but on prejudice. You are completely within your rights to pledge allegiance using whatever criteria you wish as long as once pledged, you are a supporter for life. There's no option to change without very scary things happening to you. Your choice might have been based on lineage, who your father, grandfather, etc supported. It might have been a whimsical youthful rebellion against afore mentioned paternal influence. It might have been a team chosen in direct opposition to your husband just to piss him off and create healthy competition within the marriage. Support divides families when Mum and Dad barrack for different teams. Parent's openly vie with bribery and corruption for their children's loyalty. It's important to catch 'em while they are young and impressionable because remember, membership is FOR LIFE!

So if you are a team and your supporters have nothing to do with playing form, the idea is to get yourself a raucously wicked war cry that will attract the masses. Hence “Go the Doggies” for the Western Bulldogs and “Carn the Pies” to mimic the call of the Collingwood Magpies. This team would better get my allegiance if said pies were actually handed out free at games but apparently it's not what the cry means. That's all it takes apparently, a cry that sounds fantastic when bellowed at the top of cigarette graveled lungs.

So who does this fresh blood new Melbourne immigrant barrack for? Well I give as much toss about it as I do the back end of a rat which means that my allegiance is up for grabs based purely on the best pie deal. Yes that is correct, I am corruptible and my support is for sale. But remember folks, I'm a vego and have yet to be offered a really good, innovative pastry meal so you will need a sophisticated pie offer to tempt me to your team.