Great Barrier Reef in danger! A Bluepaddock worth saving !

Friend,

I just signed this petition at SumofUs.org and I think you’d like to sign it as well.

Today, the government has given Indian company Adani the go-ahead for the $16.5bn Carmichael coal mine that threatens the reef, and further cements Australia’s terrible track record as the worst climate polluter in the developed world.

We have to act quickly if we want to stop the destruction of the Great Barrier Reef.

http://action.sumofus.org/a/great-barrier-reef/?sub=mtl

Thank you!

BOOK PREVIEW: BALI HEAVEN AND HELL

 

Bali, heaven and hell

 

THE START OF THE AFFAIR

Broken-hearted and suddenly unemployed in August 1974, Phil Jarratt spent his last few hundred dollars on a Bali Easy Rider holiday package, and began an adventure that has lasted a lifetime. In this extract from his new book, Bali: Heaven and Hell, he describes the beginnings of his on-again, off-again, 40-year romance with the island.

Despite its many layers of crowded confusion, its mysterious worlds within worlds, its dog-shit-spattered footpaths, clogged streets and odious drains, Bali has always had a therapeutic effect on my soul, right from the beginning when most of the above did not apply, to the present day, when all this and much more is sadly true.

It started like this.

In early 1974 I came home from London nursing a broken heart. Although the special girl had said she’d wait for me while I had the mandatory year’s working holiday in Europe, she hadn’t, and it ended in tears when I caught her in bed with my rival. In a rage, I took a pair of scissors from the kitchen and cut into neat bits the Carnaby Street dresses I’d bought her with my last week’s wages in London, then stormed out of the flat and never saw her again.

I took a job on a Sydney newspaper, but then Albert Falzon, the seriously cool director of the hit surf movie Morning of the Earth and the publisher of Tracks—in other words, an absolute god in the surfing world to which I aspired—phoned and asked if he could buy me lunch. At some fancy city bistro Falzon offered me the editorship of his magazine, then the most exciting youth publication in Australia. I was over the moon. Within a few weeks I’d quit the city job, thrown away my tie and moved into a rented house overlooking Whale Beach, just a hop, step and jump away from the magazine’s office.

Then Albe dropped a clanger. Yes, he still wanted me to edit Tracks, but next year, not this year. He’d forgotten that in 1972 at the world surfing championships in San Diego, he’d offered the job to a Rolling Stone writer who was now on his way to take him up on it.

He’d pay me a retainer to write the odd article, but I’d have to find other work.

I was hanging gloomily around the Tracks office one day when ‘other work’ walked through the door in the form of a loud, jovial, chain-smoking fellow who was introduced to me as ‘the Mexican’. David ‘Mexican’ Sumpter had just made a surf movie called On Any Morning and he wanted me to go on the road with him to promote it. He said: ‘You can write a funny story

and my whole life is one big funny story, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.’ He was delighted when I used my contacts at the newspaper I had so recently departed to get them to run a feature article titled, ‘Surfie filmmaker lives on dog food and yoghurt to finance new movie.’

The Mex and I hit the road up and down the coast, with him gluing posters all over towns while I chatted up the local papers and radio stations. After the Melbourne premiere he

handed me $250 in cash and said:‘You need to go to Bali,’ the Mex said. ‘Clear your head of all that girlie nonsense and get some perfect waves all to yourself.’

I did as instructed and took myself along to the Melbourne office of Bali Easy Rider Travel, where they got me the last spot in a group tour leaving in a few days. With return airline ticket, three weeks’ bed and breakfast and a motor- bike thrown in, it cost $49 more than Mexican had paid me, but I was in.

I knew a little—very little—about Bali. In our last year of school, a surf-chick girlfriend had told me she was going there as soon as we’d finished our final exams, probably to live. I was dumbstruck. She gave me an impossibly exotic address where I could write to her: Poste Restante, Denpasar, Bali. A few years later we hooked up again in London and she told me about the huts in the jungle next to the perfect waves, the gorgeous, friendly people

and the fragrant aroma of frangipanis, satay sauce and clove cigarettes. Albe Falzon had also told me stories about the mystical aura of the place and the incredible waves that he had found on the lonely Bukit Peninsula.

I still vividly recall the excitement as the plane broke through the clouds on descent and we saw glistening waves breaking along the coastal cliffs to the south and to either side of the runway. And then smelling that intoxicating mix I’d heard about as soon as we disembarked and hit the tarmac, followed by the craziness of the tiny terminal, and waiting forever for

our surfboards to appear, and the pandemonium outside as the porters and bemo drivers hustled for our buck. I loved it immediately. My ex, my now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t editor’s job and my whole shitty year in Sydney dissolved into ancient history. This was now; this was Bali.

We sat in the back of a three-wheeled bemo, facing each other on benches on either side, our boards and bags stacked down the middle. I peered through the small barred window at the driver in the cabin, surrounded by garish ornaments hung from the rear-vision mirror and the roof, jabbering away to his offsider in the passenger seat, one eye occasionally on the narrow sealed section of road, his hand never far away from the horn.

Our unofficial tour leader was Brian Singer, the co-founder of Rip Curl Surfboards and Wetsuits, a new company running out of Torquay, Victoria, near the famous Bells Beach. Brian had been to Bali for the first time the previous year, so he knew the ropes, and this year he’d brought along some of his employees and some of Torquay’s better young surfers. When we arrived at Kodja Inn, not far from the beach on Jalan Pantai, the first thing the Torquay surfers did was unpack their boards and start waxing the decks and fastening cords to fibreglass loops on the tail that they would then attach to their legs by means of an adhesive strip.

By contrast, no unpacking of my single board was necessary. It had travelled naked, a solitary ‘FRAGILE’ sticker pasted to its bottom. The previous year, in my first international travels, I had surfed all over France, Spain, Portugal and Cornwall, but I had never seen a board bag or a leg rope. After we had all enjoyed a warm-up surf in the friendly beach-break waves at the end of the track, Singer took me aside and suggested that since the swell appeared to be rising and we might surf the sensational new reef-break discovery, Uluwatu, in the morning, it would be advisable for me to use one of his leashes so that I wouldn’t smash my only board on the reef.

‘But I haven’t got one of those thingies,’ I protested.

‘A rovings loop,’ he supplied. ‘After dinner I’ll take you over the way to meet a guy who should be able to fix that for you.’

We watched the sun set over Kuta Beach, drinking the local Bintang beer purchased from a pretty girl in a sarong who seemed to glide along the sand with an ice bucket balanced on her head, then we walked up the dusty beach track to the night fish markets where we sat on benches and ate whole fish with our fingers, washing it down with more Bintang. The entire meal cost less than a dollar. Everything cost less than a dollar!

Having settled his young family for the night, Singer came across the garden to the bungalow I was sharing with a schoolteacher from Santa Cruz, California. ‘Grab your board,’ he said. ‘We’ll go see Boyum.’ On the other side of the track, perhaps 30 metres closer to the beach,

we turned into a dark laneway and then right into a candle-lit courtyard, from which point we could gaze into a house where a mixed group of Western and Balinese men were sitting around a table. A muscular blond with a slightly protruding jaw got up and shone a flashlight in our direction.

He smiled and said: ‘Sing Ding! Apa kabar?’

Singer introduced me to Mike Boyum and explained my predicament. In an instant Boyum had issued some instructions in Indonesian or Balinese—I had no idea which—and two young men grabbed my board and took it away to be modified. ‘Take about half an hour,’ Boyum said. ‘We’re just having some soup. Join us?’

I was rather pointedly excluded from the conversation, which was mainly about the great Hawaiian surfer Gerry Lopez, who was either about to arrive or who had just left, I can’t remember, but I was handed a small, chipped bowl of murky mushroom soup that I neither needed nor wanted after our seafood binge. Noting Singer’s enthusiastic slurping, I joined in and put away perhaps half before pushing it aside. It was enough.

I can remember laughing madly about nothing as we danced back to our losmen (bungalow) in the dark, me carrying my surfboard fitted with its sexy new leggie loop. I slept fitfully and uneasily, and at one point, fearful of waking my room mate, I sat outside on the porch and smelled the night air, alternately counting my blessings and imagining large animals in the garden. I didn’t come down from my mushroom high for days, but we surfed Uluwatu the next morning, my new leash kept my board from danger, I caught a few waves that tested me, and between sessions I had time to ponder what this adventure would mean to my life.

Like so many people in those days, I had experienced a psychedelic mushroom trip upon arrival, but I had few negatives to report, other than that I would have preferred to know what I was getting myself into. On the other hand, sharing my first night in Bali with Brian Singer and Mike Boyum profoundly influenced my perceptions. I had just turned twenty-three and this was such a cool new world. I couldn’t believe how so many random things—getting ditched, meeting Albe, getting the editor’s job, not getting the editor’s job, meeting the Mex—had brought me here at this perfect point in time. I knew virtually nothing about Bali’s incredible history. All I knew was that for me the planets had suddenly aligned.

Brian Singer would go on, with partner Doug Warbrick, to become a multimillionaire surf-industry mogul. Mike Boyum would become lifestyle instructor to surfing’s superstars while bungling dope deals for the Brotherhood of Eternal Love and other drug cartels, before

dying mysteriously in the Philippines in his early forties. Practically everyone I met on that first trip was doing something interesting, on one side of the law or the other.

On my third day, someone advised me to cycle across the cow paddock to Arena Bungalows to see Dick Hoole, who could organise a fake student pass for me so that I could buy airline tickets at a discount. A genial guy who loved a chat, Dick distractedly told me to come in when I knocked. I was somewhat shocked to find him stretched out on the floor of his room stuffing Thai marijuana sticks into the hollowed-out balsawood stringer of his surfboard.

‘Won’t be a sec,’ he said. ‘There’s a thermos of tea on the porch, help yourself.’

At the time, Dick was a struggling surf photographer who needed to subsidise his lifestyle in whatever ways he could. Back then we were all into that, even Brian Singer, with whom I travelled overland to Yogyakarta, Java—a horrendous bus and train journey in those days—to buy batik print shirts to smuggle back into Australia. I had no idea, and barely made my money back on the hideous shirts I bought, but if it was good enough for the boss of Rip Curl, it was good enough for me.

In 1975, now the editor of Tracks at last, I came back to Bali with my new girlfriend, hung out with Miki Dora, Gerry Lopez, Rory Russell and other star surfers of the day, had coffees and cakes at a cool new joint called Made’s Warung, got stoned at full-moon parties at the

abandoned Kayu Aya Hotel (later the Oberoi) at the far end of the road, got to know the Windro family at Uluwatu, sat in the cave out of the noonday heat with Aussie mates Fly and Hocky, drank Foster’s beer with the rising tide of ocker tourists at places like Norm’s Bar, and pigged out on the buffet breakfast at the new Bali Hyatt in Sanur.

In 1977 I came back with another new girlfriend, now my wife, and as we hiked along the track past Windro’s village, heading for another day of perfect Uluwatu surf, the village kids began to chorus: ‘Pillip’s got new darling, Pillip’s got new darling …’ That was when I knew I’d made it. Despite some embarrassment, I felt a surge of pride, a kind of belonging. I felt like I was a Bali guy, an old hand, a Bukit pioneer. I was deluded of course, but I was also enchanted by the sense of belonging, no matter how fleeting, and that has never left me.

Since those halcyon days I’ve ridden many perfect waves in Bali, nearly choked on the brown effluent-filled water of the monsoon surf, been caught short embarrassingly with Bali belly, survived dengue fever, covered royal cremations and US presidential visits as a journalist, holed up in bungalows and villas and written books, taught my kids to love Bali, taught my grandkids to love Bali, leased some land, lost it, fallen out of love with Bali, fallen back in, seen friends prosper in Bali and others fail and die.

As much as we love to travel to new places, as much as we lament change, as all old people do, my wife and I feel that we are joined at the hip to Bali, and we will come here until we can no longer, for whichever reason.

A Sunday walk at Noosa Heads National Park.

You know when you feel sunday relaxed and just want to wander, grab a coffee and breathe some fresh air, fill the lungs and shout,  its good to be alive !

Here’s a few photos of a short walk into the Noosa National Park, you could easily lose yourself here for a day, if you are coming to Noosa give it a try. Bp.

Slip Past Main Beach on the coastal track out to the entrance to Noosa National Park.
Slip Past Main Beach on the coastal track out to the entrance to Noosa National Park.
IMG_1179
Ocean kayakers passing by National Park on their way out to Hells Gates .
IMG_1200
National Park Information centre and kiosk busy day for these guys .
IMG_1189
Joggers galore faster than a speeding Scrub Turkey.
IMG_1183
This guy jumped in for a swim down through Johnsons point and little cove bay , very cool idea might give that a go this arvo.
IMG_1197
Turn right at this sign and charge up.
IMG_1202
Coffee to go at the Kiosk not bad at all and the carrot cake moist and sweet good stuff.
IMG_1198
The wrought iron display at the entrance to the park something about this structure always makes me stop and breathe easier.
IMG_1204
Local resident protected species, bloody things !
IMG_1205
National Park informative display at the start to the track on we go.
IMG_1206
Coastal track time for a quick sit and view.
IMG_1208
Cobblestone steps to the ocean off flatrock.
IMG_1211
Great day for a Sunday drive cruise on.
IMG_1212
Boiling Pot lookout, not boiling today.
IMG_1215
Two young ladies paddling past Australia in the foreground. The view from the water here is stunning if you ever get the chance don’t pass it up.
IMG_1219
Paddlers now in close so good.
IMG_1214
Boiling Pot lookout looking north to Teewah Beach town.
IMG_1221
Stand up paddlers enjoying a leisurely sunday paddle along the coast from Ti-Tree bay. The coastal track contimues on around the Ti-Tree bay headland in the distance and for another 2.5kms past Granite bay and on to Hells Gates.
IMG_1222
SUP’s rounding the Boiling pot.
IMG_1228
A view back to Noosa Main Beach a paddle worth doing.
IMG_1218
Ladies cruising along chatting about the week they had ? !!

Surf Check 11.00am Noosa Heads

Noosa Heads beaches, clear blue ocean and small waves at Noosa today . 1ft peak  between the groynes and a hint of 2ft plus  waves at Ti-Tree bay for later today on low tide. First point is swimmers paradise and National Park a paddlers paradise. Suns is out and car parks are full, nonetheless worth the trek for a Massimo ice cream !

Enjoy your Sunday wherever you are , bp.

PS: Ti-Tree out back infested with thousands of jellyfish yesterday expect some today as well.

IMG_1173
Noosa Main Beach sungods are shining .
IMG_1186
National Park lone rider might be waiting a while.
IMG_1174
First Point swimmers doing laps .
IMG_1225
Ti-Tree Bay sets breaking off the back rock ( just) winding through the inside on high tide.
IMG_1238
Middle Groynes ALL ON and to the beach with all speed.
IMG_1234
Middle Groyne right now chopped up but surfers all having a ton of fun.
IMG_1232
Middle Groyne sunbakers getting their fair share.
IMG_1226
Ti-Tree Bay playground.

Surf Check 10.30am Sunshine & Sunrise Beaches

Surf this morning has been clean at 3ft plus
Long lines now settling Down with high tide
Coming . Shorebreak kegs on offer in the
Next 2 hrs but wind is in from the SE chop
Starting to appear . Another joy day on the
Beach take the sunscreen and hat it’s warm.
Pitta st will be on and Alex bay a chance.
Sunrise. Bch looks better than sunshine for
Peaks. North sunshine has a left bank worth
Watching get the timing right. Happy days bp.

A friend of mine says he cant blog – what do you think of this mini- mini story, should he start blogging ?

I wanted to post this because a friend of mine thinks he cant write and cant blog, I think he can do both and should give it a go what do you all think ?

Yep , friends for over 35 years and never ever until today knew he could  write like this !

Thanks to all, 

bp.

 

“You have to start with the first time you saw him, how come you are on the 7.25am (new job) what you think his name is, what is going on with his hair, why is it that all the other girls on the train are looking at him too….he is not that good looking….what is going on with that battered leather jacket he wears EVERYDAY., doesn’t he know its 30 deg outside.

WHY am I so frantic in the 17 minutes it takes me to go from Sutherland station to Hurstville station…..just to see him get on the train an sit in the same seat and look at me first with, I think a very small smile of pleasure because “I am here today in my seat sitting opposite from about 10 mts away, meanwhile, a quick glance confirms all the women from the age of 17 to 30 can’t take their eyes off him. Actually, there are NO other men in this carriage other than him.

What does he do for a job in the city?

He gets off at Central every day. He must work later than me as I catch the 5.45 from Town Hall every day and I have not seen him once.

Does he have a girlfriend he catches the train home with?

WHY do I need to know all these things.

Why is this one of those weird random secrets I keep from my friends….why do I not want to share him….I don’t know his name, what his does, how old he is, what he is listening to. I am finding myself awake at night try to invent this person for my friends…perfect in my mind…..weird, why am I doing this

Tomorrow I am gong to sit in his seat…..god I am nervous

7.52 am. Hurstville station. He did not get on the train……I am frantic…as is all the women I have eye contact with…somehow I feel they blame me….

Exasperated I turn to the front of the train…this next 20 min to town Hall will take forever…where did he go…..what was his damn name????

And then slowly I realise, I can feel him looking at me…..I look up…..and find him………….

Sitting in MY seat…..with a smile that tells me I belong to him “.

by AD.

%d bloggers like this: