The Whole Sick Crew

I have a new folder on my computer. "Bees."

They arrived in early Spring. I figure they liked Duke Ellington.

Before you raise your I-love-bees-brow, know that I'm a big fan, albeit the bees we make honey with are European imports. I just didn’t want them close enough to leave their clothes on the bedroom floor.

I had no intention of some sort of mass extermination. I asked Beeguy at work. He's also an Indonesian teacher, the vicar of some sort of Orthodox Church, and a gentleman to boot. But that's another story. Beeguy keeps bees, and sells good-sized containers of excellent honey for 10 bucks.

Beeguy said there are people who will remove the hives for nothing - apiarists.

Beeguy also said they tended to be a bit fussy. They wouldn't usually remove hives from difficult places. They might have to be poisoned. He said that with the calm of a man who believes in bee heaven.

The Whole Sick Crew (I figured the guests needed a literary handle) were obviously hunkering down for a nuclear winter. Two floors up, in a void over the stairwell. Entry via gaps in the eaves above the porch, their own private Leederville making-babies-with-the-big-girl pad. Absolutely no easy access to humans. No hatch on the inside, and a really long ladder above the ground. The tin roof slopes up at about 45 degrees for about a metre to the wall of the room above.

I would have kept them if coffee plants weren't self-pollinating.

Problem is, that small void is open to the BIG void above my bedroom (there's a joke in there somewhere) and that would give them space enough to make a 1:2 scale replica of Elizabeth Quay in wax, replete with river of honey.

I've lived in this house-on-its-side for 15 years. There's a park the size of the Amazon but with more trees 40 metres to my left. My view is modern grunge. Why now? I even avoided playing Ellington (except the Indigos, of course).

I found Beeman. Unlike Beeguy, Beeman is not an amateur enthusiast. He's a Belgian.

Beeman removes hives. He has a website and a phone number. He calls you back. He charges $200 for a normal job...

His highly-trained assistant, Hector the Ladder Rat arrived within the hour. He had EQUIPMENT.

We discussed the location. He looked up. "Won't need to remove the hive. We'll spray them. Won't kill them, just make them move on." He started donning EQUIPMENT, and banished me inside. There was obviously magic business going on. He knocked on the door 10 minutes later. "I got 'em". Ah, good man, Hector.

Except he didn't. There were a few dead bees on the ground, and the odd Bedouin heading North, but otherwise, I had no way to tell.

They were there the next day, in a neat holding pattern as they waited their turn to land. Ah, but Beeman guarantees his work.
Hector came back. I'll give it another go," he said. "Otherwise I'll have to hire a bigger ladder and take sheets off the roof."

We went through the go-inside-lest-you-see-I'm-dousing-The-Whole-Sick-Crew-with-soapy-water duet, and I snuck out though the pagola and looked through the gate. He was at the top of the ladder, pumping his sprayer. Then the Battle of Helm's Deep was re-enacted only better. A vast host streamed out wielding war clubs, then took off en masse, casting a shadow over whole suburbs.” Fly, my pretties. Fly.”

They came back. Took a few days, but gradually the bee-traffic got back to normal. Like cars coming off the Narrows.

I resolved to call Beeman first thing the next morning, so I got back to him three months later.

This time Beeman came. Hector "wasn't doing a good job" he told me. Shame. I liked the Ladder Rat. Beeman threw his hands in the air when he saw the situation. Couldn't be done. No access. Too dangerous. No chance. I told him we could cut a personhole in the plasterboard. (I actually said “manhole”, but I find it potentially vulgar when written down.)

"Yes, but that would be very difficult. Expensive."

"How much, Beeman?"

"$700 less what you paid before."

He cut the hole. This involved, of course, protective EQUIPMENT and me being banished due to magic soapy water. I supplied most of the tools. He took the hive away, leaving me with the suggestion I seal the gaps in the eaves pretty quickly. I also learnt that removing hives, it seems, is never neat. Some bees die. I gave them a quick salute before vacuuming up the collateral damage. "One last flight down the tube, guys."

I now have a large hole in the ceiling above the landing. I got enough of the honeycomb for a kilo and a half of excellent honey. The Whole Sick Crew took their show on the road.

Except they didn't. Beeman took the hive in the daytime. Some bees came home to an empty bedroom that evening. They were still there this morning. At that point I Googled bee poisons...

On the passing of Leonard Cohen

I'll not weep.

Image CC2 Wikimedia

I'll not indulge in some maudlin binge nor project significance where there is none.
An old man died. I didn't know him, although he was, apparently, an admirable, lazy bastard with a preference for suits.
I expect I'll continue to use his songs as a soundtrack, as has been my semi-conscious wont for 44 years. I may still use his words for distraction in the night.
I'll try to avoid using his shrewdest lines without context to prove a devotion, unless, perhaps, there's irony to be shared.
I do, of course, find significance in the words of my dear friends who have contacted or tagged me. If you are feeling grief, I wish you kindness and healing.
Time passes. We mourn for that.

Hoi An rant

Humphrey McQueen, the pompous old pseudo-historian, described Tokyo in the late 80's as The New Byzantium. This because all the worlds' artists, commentators, (McQueen included), wannabe fashionistas and I-wish-the-west-was-betterists were making a beeline for the land of the rising Yen. But none of the aforementioned attractees were the real reason for Tokyo's zeitgeist. It was plain old expat critical mass. Anybody with a vague knowledge of the English language (I even include Americans) could make a deposit on a house back home teaching randy Japanese housewives how to say, "I'm fine, thank you." I know. I sold my expat soul there for two drunken years, and had a great time doing it.

Tokyo was just one of a long line of expat get-togethers. And don't imagine I'm being pluralist and multicultural here. By "expat" I mean white and Western, preferably English speaking. Okay, we might give the French a guernsey, but only if they agree to do the cooking.

Other entries in this list would include pre-war Shanghai, Venice in the 18th century, New York anytime it's affordable, Bali sometime long ago, Paris when Beckett lived there, London in the 60's and 70's (I include the 70's because that's when I made it there, even though it was a decidedly fading), and Istanbul over a couple of millennium AND for a few years until very, very recently. Which makes sense, I guess, Istanbul being the real Byzantium.

I was lucky enough to visit a friend in Istanbul - yes, a beloved friend, because I don't bother with any other kind - a couple of years ago. I walked through the now infamous Taksim square several times a day, and the old foreign quarter around Istiklal was - hmm, cliché called for here - "cookin'". I hope it all survives the current troubles. Tear gas in the beer would be a tragedy.

The recipe is, to this white Westerner, pretty simple. Take lots of foreigners, preferably embedded (in the CNN sense) into the local population. The "preferably" is optional in the case of places like Vietnam, where long-term visas are hard to come by. Did I say foreigners? Hell, make that expats (you know, the white, Western ones I mentioned). Throw in a vibrant, artistic local culture. Add some sort of disparity in exchange rates - someone had to have a shitload of what someone else wants. An acceptable climate is highly desirable. Ageing, pleasing to the eye architecture helps, especially if the rent is low. Cheap alcohol is an essential ingredient. Mix it up and bake for a year or two, without attracting the attention of local authorities.

The result? The time of your life, even if there's always that uneasy feeling that someone is getting exploited. We'll brush over that - expat scenes always do.

Which brings me to Hoi An. I sat in a wine bar this evening, and saw everything an old white Westerner could wish for on the street outside. Laughing, polite children on roller blades and bicycles, couples in love, families who should have gone to a resort up the coast. Well-dressed middle-class locals out for a stroll, and an old woman by her trinket stall, asleep where she sat. Tall Europeans brandishing oversized cameras, and tiny, beautiful children selling silly toys to ensure their next meal. Peanut sellers looking for a victim, tired - oh, so tired - market women heading home after god-knows how many hours living to make a living. Beautiful, textured old buildings, crammed with ephemera to attract the passing trade, and women sewing late through the windows of the tailors opposite. In short, it's cookin'. Energy and mass, the candle that attracts us. It's awful and it's splendid.

Ah, maybe I'm just over-complicating this. What really makes Hoi An so special? Smiles are easy to come by, my own included.

I go home on Friday. I don't want to.

The Mỹ Sơn massacre

Hoi An is a river town. It's situated in the delta of the Thu Bon river, not far from the coast. The river is the centre of life here, and there's an endless procession of ferries, barges, fishing boats of all sizes, and brightly painted tourist craft, notable for their shaded benches and obligatory flags of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. Almost all are powered by putt-putting Chinese diesel engines, which provide a backdrop less annoying than one might imagine.

The tourist staple consists of pottering around the Hoi An river environs for an hour or two, and there are worse ways to spend a few dollars. My friends Simon and Jenny had greater ambitions however, and we set about negotiating a day's excursion up river. This caused consternation amongst the boatmen, but some assistance from Mrs Quyen, a generous restauranteur who has taken us under her wing, meant this dangerous deviation could be arranged after much map viewing, sucking of breath through the teeth, and face-saving. I was happy to play zeta-male throughout, as Simon is blessed with the ability to command any circumstance involving gesticulating mariners, cartography and currency exchange.

Thus it was at 5.30 the next morning, we clambered aboard said tourist skiff (launch would be too generous a description) and putt-putted for three hours against the current. The voyage was exquisite, as once away from Hoi An, we could soak in the comings and goings of sand barges, tiny fishing punts, bird life, and the oriental bucolic ashore. The river meanders through rice paddies, villages and plantations, and after the obligatory grounding on a sandbank, we reached our destination.

Mỹ Sơn is at the base of a range of low mountains. It's a complex of Hindu temples dating to the 8th Century, and whilst it is (I'm reliably informed) more ruined and less substantial than Angkor Wat, it fully deserves its world heritage listing.

Once ashore, we had a 10 kilometre ride as pillion passengers on motorcycles, pre-arranged as part of our "package deal". I found myself sitting behind a slip of a a girl, desperately trying to grasp the seat strap without appearing to make meaningful contact with her bottom. I make no comment on the quality of her bottom, but my self-appointed status, albeit delusional, of gentleman-of-a-certain-age was fastidiously preserved.

Now, I should mention, lest you have images of pith-helmets and elephant guns, Mỹ Sơn is a very popular tourist draw card amongst Vietnamese and foreigners alike. Most arrive on air conditioned coaches, so the real adventure in our visit was the way we got there. And I'll admit to a healthy fantasy involving Joseph Conrad, a machete and a sextant for several hours.

The temples are ornate and mysterious, echoing a sophisticated culture, long disappeared, The complex covers several hectares, with paths winding through thin jungle. This status of "recent regrowth" is, apparently, a function of our American friends, who applied skills with chemistry in reducing the pesky trees hiding the Viet Cong during what the locals call the American War.

Mỹ Sơn was identified as a hideout for the forces opposing the good ol' yew-ess-of-ay. Which explains why some of the oldest temples are a little the worse for wear. Alright, let's be blunt here. The Yanks bombed the shit out of the place. A 28-metre temple tower, one of the oldest and most striking, is now a collection of intricately carved rubble. Others in the same group are very large piles of bricks. Deep bomb-craters are plentiful, and there's a few intact bombs on display, right next to the alters, columns, inscribed tablets, and carvings that I can't describe, except to say that they look like penises.

Note that there's no great propaganda effort here. The signs and information panels make slight mention of who fucked over this treasure - the devastation speaks for itself. The Vietnamese have put a lot of effort into preservation and a little into restoration. The place seems carefully managed, and Disneyland it ain't.

So why was Mỹ Sơn bombed? I guess the American thinking (no mention of oxymorons from me) was that these substantial structures were the perfect place for the resistance to - er - resist. A pity they didn't refer to the body of writings by the French archeologists who uncovered the place early in the 20th Century. The interiors of the extant temples are tiny, and some are just solid edifices. This is a place of monuments, and all the action, ritually speaking, was on the exteriors. Shivas, Ganeshas, friezes, inscriptions... you get the idea. Digging a hole would provide a much better place to store your AK-47's, and nobody would run into one of these places to hide. They made perfect targets.

Which leaves, to my amateur military tactician's mind, several possibilities.

1. They really were convinced this was some sort of fortress. Hey, the buildings are solid and impressive (each approximating a smallish brick house in floor area) and they're not made of bamboo.
2. They could see them, so it was the only thing they could hit.
3. A 28 metre tower is decidedly phallic, and the Americans just wanted to make sure the locals knew who had the biggest dicks.

Bring your beloved friends

In the late 80's and early 90's I spent, with my Indonesian speaking then-partner, a goodly amount of time in the back blocks of Java, and, of course, Bali. It wasn't Bali's heyday, from a traveller's point of view. We were probably 10 years too late for that. But it was still damned exciting, especially around Ubud and Lovina. Kuta was already a chaotic wasteland, but once you headed north, these were pre-"You want transport?" days.

Further east, the gems of central Java were a revelation. Malang, Solo, and the high-energy of Jalan Marioboro in Yogyakarta made one feel a little (just a little) like some pilgrim walking the streets of Byzantium. I remember wheeling down this crazy market street with beloved friends, senses tingling in the knowledge this wonderful place was a thousand kilometres closer to Perth than Canberra.

I've not been back to Yogyakarta in 20 years, but I've revisited Bali a few times. It's a shadow of what it was, we all know that. But still there is the scent of the exotic, the lingering flavour of how it can drug the most cemented of sensibilities, and the most precious of cultures yet battles on.

There's another place now. A rare, exquisite town that's hanging under the sword of the backpacker hordes.. Hoi An, in central Vietnam. And I'm here, with - yes - beloved friends.

I've already heard the line. "You should have been here ten years ago." Probably true, but it's still one helluva ride. Dignified, welcoming people, a commercial culture that's not at all strident, and hidden secrets everywhere. The place is far enough north to take the oppressive edge off the tropical clime, and the food... Well, the food is extraordinary. Consistent and cared about.

Maybe it's because I saw Bali mutate before my eyes, or maybe it's just because the bottle of water I bought today had a tiny Coca Cola brand hidden in the fine print, but I can only recommend - passionately, sincerely, with no hint of a punch line - that you pay a visit, before it's too late. It's a town on the brink of tourist stardom, and that can never bode well. Come now, and bring your beloved friends.