My First TAFE Assignment

The Little Team

As a child I did swimming, tennis, judo, gymnastics and athletics. I also played netball. My best sporting memory belongs to netball. It was the pinnacle of my sporting achievement.

It was in my first season of netball. I was in the under eights — the little team. I do not remember my first night at training, or the obligatory thanksgiving service (it was a Methodist team), but I do recall my uniform. It was a grey box pleat tunic with two wide strips along the bottom of the skirt: one red and one green. I had to stand tall with my hands bunched at my sides, my knuckles determining my hemline. I wore a crisp white shirt under my tunic and a red corded belt at my waist. It had tassels like a misplaced curtain accessory.

The winter season was divided into two rounds. Sometimes we played at home and sometimes we played away. Our Mums and Dads took turns driving us to away games. We lined up jostling, hand-in-hand, determined to sit next to our best friend. For home games we brought oranges: one for our self and one for our opponent. I enjoyed the car ride. I enjoyed playing games at practice. I liked the oranges. But I was lazy on the court. I did not like being out of breath or running hard, I did not jump high enough and I did not care overly much about winning. But I was taller than most of the other girls so they put me in defence.

Juanita McCurdy's dad was our coach. He wore a gold neck chain and a leather coat. His skin was more olive than it should be. He made us do drills. We practiced bounce passes and chest passes. We learned how to attack and defend. We endeavoured to catch the ball without stepping. On Tuesday training nights, our breath came in little silver puffs as we giggled our way round the church netball courts. The overhead lights made circles of light on the gritty asphalt. Mr McCurdy was a good coach. We only lost one game that season.

The Grand Final was played on a neutral court. We brought our own oranges. I was skittery-nervous in the car on the way to the game. I checked the length of my fingernails. I checked the length of my friend’s finger nails. My Mum had tied my hair ribbons extra tight. My straggling fringe felt like barbed wire it was held back by so many bobby pins. The team bibs were given out in silence. As I walked on to the court the soles of my Levi sneakers felt too thin. We took our positions. The whistle blew. Suddenly, it was happening.

I do not recall the name of the team we played that day, or the colour of their uniform. I certainly don’t know the score. I remember jumping high, and my Dad’s smiling face, the sound of my mother’s cheering. I remember Susan Lacey and Catherine Purvis popping impossible shots from the edge of the goal ring. I remember sunlight and singing our team’s song with a high, light fairy-floss kind of feeling. I remember winning. Then, after the game, Mr McCurdy bought as all ice creams.

My Children

Today was a great day for our nation and not because of a our history, or in response to a great sporting event. It was not about ANZAC day, either. It had nothing to do with war or fighting. Neither was it about industry achievement or economic success. It was a day for saying sorry, and it was long overdue. It was a chance to right a wrong: to set the record straight.

My husband Andrew and his singing partner Monique wrote a song about the Stolen Generation a while back. It sounds best when they sing it. But I thought I would put the words up as my own little way of paying my respects.

Their skin a little lighter, they were mine
We heard the stories, they'd be taken away
I charcoaled them black, 'don't wash it off'
'Hide out the back if the truck comes'

Take my land, take my pride, take my dreaming
Crush them in your stride
Leave my children, here with me
Leave my children, here with me

We saw the dust, then heard the sound
Hats and paper forms, heavy boots and frowns
A trick, the door closed, then their screams
No ! leave my children here with me

Take my land, take my pride, take my dreaming, crush them in your stride
Leave my children, here with me
Leave my children, here with me

I am sorry

Green Tea

It is a curious thing drinking Green Tea. There is a sense of virtue in it. A flushed out, grit-your-teeth, this is good for me feeling. Not that I don’t like the taste. I do, but only when I am feeling happy.

You see, for me, green tea is not an o-my-God it’s morning sort of a drink. That is coffee. It is not a refined, afternoon tea experience. That is Earl Grey tea. Neither is green tea an I-have-to-stay-awake-or-else fix. That is Diet Coke, for me.

Green tea is an all-is-well-with-soul sort of beverage, an I-am-strong; I am invincible; I am woman kind of a feeling. That is why I am drinking it now, in my study, with my dog at my feet.

Here are my reasons for drinking green tea:

I have been to TAFE, and made the right decision about what subject I want to do this year.

I am buoyant in anticipation of what I will be learning.

I have done the grocery shopping and have made a pot of vegetable soup (essential for ongoing weight management).

I have cut up fruit in the fridge.

Tonight I am going back to Welsh and my friend Anna is coming.

Tomorrow I am going to write all day.

I love Green Tea

Scatterheart

I just read the young adult novel, Scatterheart, by Lili Wilkinson.

It is a beautiful juxtapostion of fairy tale set against the harshness of the early Australian transportation system. The main character Hannah Cheshire is strong and(at first)selfish but extremely likeable. Her development is subtle, but easy to follow. I particularly liked her realtionship with Long Meg and I fell in love with the little convict girl Molly. Molly's tragic disfgurement and innocent, yet naughty, childlikeness was poignant.

As I closed the book I found myself wondering would happen next? Did Hannah the escaped convict, and Thomas, the fugitive murderer make a life for themselves in New South Wales? Is there a sequel in the making, Lili?

Post Script on Fiji

Andrew says my account of our holiday sounds kind of patronising.

It was not meant to in any way. I love Fiji and feel priveleged to have lived in that beautiful country.

I was, however, amused at how my cultural lenses affected me. It took me four years of living in the Pacific to begin touching the heart of the place and to learn something of the Fijian grace of community (that includes all race by the way), only to find myself back in the islands and seeing it once more through the eyes if the 'Big White Honky.'

Travelling in a developing country is always discomforting

My Island Home

The call came around five o’ clock. “Mrs Corbett,” (you will have to imagine the accent). “This is Rajendra here from Air Pacific Sydney. Your flight to Fiji will be delayed by two hours.”

You know the rest, my last blog described it. What I did not tell you, is that phone call had a subtext, a message borne of living in Suva for four years. It said “Welcome to the South Pacific, where time moves slowly — Welcome Home.”

The flight itself was uneventful (apart from being offered fish curry at 5:45 in the morning). We all managed a little sleep and our rental car was waiting at the airport as arranged (Ok, so folding seats needed help and one of the six seat belts wasn’t working, but there were only five of us and the air conditioner worked. It was functional). I had forgotten the soft diffidence of Fijian customer service and the shy smiles. I had forgotten how easy it is to intimidate people who are waiting for something to go wrong, the urge to reassure that once lived in my heart for four years.

Everything was familiar to Andrew and I. But for Phoebe, Seth and particularly Priya it was seeing things anew through grown up eyes. As we travelled through Nadi and headed for the Coral Coast it became a memory game.

Phoebe: “Oh. I remember that. One point to me!”

Seth: “So do I!”

Phoebe: “Are you sure Seth? I don’t think you can. You were only four years old.”

Seth: “Well, I remember going to McDonalds. I went there didn’t I?”

We drove through Nadi, past the temple, past small tin houses and gaudy cement mansions; past cane fields and through villages past the turn off to Sonaisali Island Resort.

“Oh, there’s Natadola beach and the sugar cane train.”

Seth: “Did I go on the sugar cane train?”

Liz: “Someone did. I can’t remember who.”

Phoebe: “Jack would know, if he was here ... ”

And later

Liz: “So what do you think Priya? Do you like it?”

Priya: “Yes, the air is kind of thick (humid) here but I like seeing so many brown people walking around.

I was all for brunch at McDonalds. Memories of our first, hungry, trip to Rakiraki were fresh in my mind. Newly arrived ex-patriots in Fiji we had set out with money in our pockets and the calm assurance that we could buy lunch in Korovou, only to find there was nothing nothing appealing.

“No,” Andrew said. “Not McDonalds. Sigatoka will have "come on" a bit.”

Of course, “come on,” is a Western construct based on our own values and expectations of progress. It really means looking for evidence that another country is like our own. No matter how crass, you simply can’t help doing it.

In Sigatoka we saw no evidence of “come” or “on,” but we had lunch there at a Cafe proudly advertising that it was: “under Swiss management.” The Swiss management had been in Fiji for too long judging by the pile of cigarettes on his ash tray beside his laptop, but the curry was nice (Swiss?) and it was a clean shop.

Two things of note on the way to Suva:

One was the advent of the public telephone called a Drua Phone. Not a booth a sort of Perspex cone with phone in it. They were everywhere!

Second was an innocent observation of Seth’s while driving through a Fijian village. “It’s two ‘o clock Friday afternoon. Is everyone on holiday or something?”

Suva was just as we remembered it: chaotic, crumbling and smelly. I love it. You will be pleased to know there were signs of both “come” and “on,” in Suva, although I am not sure who is paying for it. The two Coups that have occurred since our time have had a devastating effect on the economy. Never-the-less, there were new buildings everywhere. The parks and footpaths along the Suva sea wall had also been developed.

We had a fantastic Curry at the Bad Dog Cafe the first night in Suva – yes! It is still there – and we went to a movie at Village Six which was built while we were living in Suva. What can I say about Village Six? It smelled distinctly like Blue Vein Cheese. Now, I am rather partial to blue vein cheese as a culinary experience but not as an olfactory experience, and especially not when trying to watch a movie. The upholstery, the carpet the curtains were simply unsuited to tropical conditions.

Priya and I used the public toilets at the cinema. Ok, so it was challenging. But you can do anything if you have to. Priya was not so sanguine. The noises of dismay coming from her cubicle (some sort of insect) were astonishing. I expect I sounded rather callous. “Just stop making a fuss and get on with it.” A woman emerging from a nearby toilet asked: “Is she alright in there?” Her accent told me she was Australian. “She’ll be fine,” I said. “She is just experiencing cross-cultural meltdown.”

Priya spent most of our time in Suva clutching convulsively at my hand. It was all so strange and so unlike what she was used to. We took her to the market, the fish market, the hospital where she was born; the orphanage where her mother stayed (ante-natally); as well as to the International School and to our old house. A highlight was morning tea with Naomi the Fijian Marama who worked in our house for three years. She has not changed a bit, except that she is a Bubu (grandma) now and very proud of it.

My general impression of Suva is that it has Westernised. We ate breakfast at the Queensland Insurance arcade and lunch at The Cottage (a brightly painted weatherboard specialising in local cuisine for Kai Vulangi’s). I counted three escalators and a number of new shopping centres around town. There were Cafe’s and cappuccino machines everywhere and some of them actually worked!

When we were living in Fiji, Indian women wore full Sari or Salwaar Kameez with gold bangles and ear rings and toes rings and necklaces as well as red pigment along their hair parting denoting their marriage status. Fijian women wore Sulu and Chaba, men wore Sulu Vakatanga. The city was alive with Bula prints. It was always grimy and over crowded, of course, but colourful and somehow exotic.

Now cheap western clothing is the mode. Even older Fijian women are wearing skirts and the younger women are wearing shorts. Traditional hairstyles have been abandoned for relaxed perms and various hair products. I am not saying this is a bad thing. Hey, if it is cheaper, more comfortable and convenient, so be it. But to me it felt like something was missing. Suva had lost the cultural manifestations that made it unique.

The resort was fantastic. We stayed at the Fijian. We ate too much, of course. We swam we snorkelled and read books. Some of us sailed and played tennis. Andrew and I went to the gym every day to try and counteract the kilos we were gaining. I have a new i-pod so I revised my Welsh by listened to a number of podcasts from BBC Catchphrase while pounding away at the running machine.

The service at the resort was very professional. It was not simply a few Maramas from the local village waiting on tables with enormous smiles and very little industry experience. These days the Lovo night is exclusive and expensive. The local village Meke is a choreographed event. The boy who climbed up the coconut palms to collect fronds and coconuts wore a harness and spiked shoes. Safety standards have made it to the pacific and that, by the way, is a good thing.

But I remember a different Fiji. A Fiji where the man who supervised the sail boats at the resort sat down with an out of tune guitar sang to us over lunch. Where a woman (who was obviously a man) performed proudly in the front row of the women’s Meke. I enjoyed holidays at island resorts where the kerosene for the resort’s torch lights was stored unsafely on the beach. A Fiji where young boys shimmied up coconut trees in a pair of ragged shorts and bare feet. Those of course were the bad old days and that is purely nostalgia speaking. I am glad, for the people working there that those days have passed, that there is now work safety and adequate professional training. I am also glad I lived in Fiji when I did. Before excessive Westernisation, in a time when there was at least an illusion of innocence, when Fiji was unsophisticated and, somehow, more free.

I will put the photo's up on Flickr so you can walk down memory lane with me.

Varuna

We are back from our momentous week in Fiji and wonderful week camping at Lorne. We are unpacked. The washing line is groaning under the weight of its load. I have booked the car in for a service and the dog in for a hair cut. I am yet to do the grocery shopping and pick up the last of the school books for tomorrow. The first few days are always the worst after a holiday. I have not forgotten to write about Fiji and put some photos up on Flickr. I simply have not had time to do it justice. Before I write about Fiji, I feel compelled to update you on the status of the Varuna Awards.

Unfortunatley, I was not selected for the final shortlist. I am dissapointed, obviously, but not surprised. I think you will have gathered from my previous blog that I was esctatic and surprised to have made it to the second stage. The director of Varuna Peter Bishop very graciously wrote each person not adavanced to the final stage a personal letter. Among other things he wrote this about my work:

Chrysalis didn't quite make it to the final shortlist for the Varuna Awards.
With very strong competition I couldn't see it being successful. But I must
emphasise that all the competition came from novels of a completely
different kind, and I do think that if a publisher was looking for the kind
of novel you write then Chrysalis, which is very well-written and
interestingly characterised, would be in with a strong chance.

I am hanging on to the very well written bit and the words interestingly characterised. I would have liked him to elaborate on the kind of novel you write bit beacause I am still not sure myself what that is. But I guess that is all part of the journey.

Congratulations to those who made it to the final shortlist. I look forward to reading their novels when they are published.

SHORTLIST –VARUNA AWARDS FOR MANUSCRIPT DEVELOPMENT

RHONDA AARON THE GLITTERING TART
PAM BAKER THE TRIANGLE
AMY BARKER OMEGA PARK
SALLY BREEN THE CASUALS
DIANA BURSTALL ANIMAL MAP
ALISON CHAN THE HOSPITAL OF EARTH AND SKY
EMILIE COLLYER BIRDLAND
DEMET DIVAROREN ORAYT?
PAMELA DOUGLAS MILKRIVER
CATHERINE HARRIS THE JANE MANIFESTO
TONI HOUSTON SHIP SHAPED
ELLY INTA SLIPPED THROUGH THE NET
HEATHER JACOBS FRIENDS OF PHO
CHRISTOPHER JOHNSON IN THE PENTHOUSE
PETER KAY BLOOD
CHRISTINA MANAWAITI THE BREAKER RISING
CHRIS McCOURT THE CLEANSING OF GOOL MAHOMMED
STUART McCULLOUGH THE CONCRETE KING

We are also pleased to announce the list of writers invited to attend the Pathways to Publication Masterclass, to take place Monday April 21st (arrival) to Sunday 27th (departure). Five outstanding writers –with a definite emphasis on young adult writing: there were so many exciting submissions in this genre in this year’s applications.

PATHWAYS TO PUBLICATION MASTERCLASS (April 21-27)
AMY JACKSON THE ISLANDS: NAUGHT
ANGELA MEYER SMOKE AND DANCING
JEROME PARISSE BODY SWAP
GABBIE STROUD MEASURING UP
KIRSTEN REED THE ICE AGE