by Anita Heiss
We stopped at a stall selling bangles created out of stainless steel cutlery.
'He's the original Fork Man. No piece of jewellery is the same as another,' I said.
'Would you like one?' James asked me.
'Oh, I'd prefer to use my cutlery to eat, but thank you.' I was trying to be funny, but James and the artist both looked affronted.
The next stall had kitschy name bracelets for girls and they reminded me of when I was a child and all the crap we used to collect.
'We have one that says "Rachel" if you like,' the stallholder excitedly offered me.
'Okay, but my name is Peta.'
'I'm sorry, you look exactly like Rachel Berger.'
'Yes, so I've been told.'
I ordered one for Sylvia as a joke and spelt it 'Sylv-eye-a'. I knew she'd appreciate my humour if no-one else did. I bought one for Maya too.
I could smell the next stall before we got there. Beautiful natural scented soaps made with peppermint oil and other yummy delights. I was too embarrassed to buy some in the shape of cupcakes, though. It seemed too daggy to do that. So I just kept walking, taking in the glasswork, the Japanese calligraphy, magnets with inspirational messages on them, the silver jewellery, and the wooden chopping boards and, to my surprise, the stalls with eccentric cat and dog collars.
Towards the end of the stretch of markets there was a memorial in honour of Carlo Catani, 'a great public servant of Victoria, 1876 to 1917'.
'Melbourne must be the only city to have monuments to public servants,' I said, 'but I don't see any monuments to Blackfellas along the boulevard.' I started visualising a monument to Peta Tully, 'a great national public servant', but James interrupted my thoughts, pointing towards the monument.
'Carlo Catani was an engineer and landscape designer. I read about him at uni. The Catani Gardens are around here somewhere. It would be good to check them out. Might help with some ideas for a project we've got at the moment.'
'That's a great idea,' I said. 'But I'm a little buggered, do you think we could go to the Espy and sit a minute first?'
James pushed his bottom lip out like a child. 'Isn't that a grungy band pub? You know I'm not big on live, loud music.'
'Of course I know, but there's no music – loud or otherwise – on just yet. Let's just have one drink and then we can go look at your Catani hero's work, okay?' I took his hand and led him across the road and up the front stairs of the pub.
'I'm going to the loo, I'll grab drinks on the way back. You choose a table outside.' I made my way through the dark, beer-encrusted hotel, through the poolroom and entered the ladies on the left.
On the way back I stopped at the bar to get a glass of chardonnay for me and a Corona for James. We sat outside and looked out to sea. I liked the grungy feel of the Espy and imagined all the old rockers of the past who'd played here now sitting back at home with their guitars hung on walls. I smiled as I looked across the table at James. It was nice to be there with him.
'It's not the Icebergs, is it,' James said, looking around the courtyard, then at me.
'No, it's more like the Coogee Bay,' I laughed.
'Yes, and you'd never be at the Coogee Bay at lunchtime on a Sunday, would you babe.'
'No I wouldn't, but I'm in Melbourne, and my life is different here.'
I decided to let the argument go. He'd be gone the next day, and what had come to feel like a series of weekend holiday romances would be over again.
twenty-eight
Woodford Dreaming
The department had become a major sponsor of the Dreaming Festival in Woodford and I was looking forward to going north to escape the cold in Melbourne and to get an across-the-board look at what was new and innovative in Indigenous arts. I was also excited about catching up with cousins and mates.
The program had great local theatre and dance and some international films as well. I couldn't move five metres without bumping into someone I knew through family, or my old job in education or my new role at DOMSARIA. I loved the vibe and seeing everyone having a good time. The only disappointment was that the bitter cold I'd hoped to leave behind in Melbourne had made its way to Queensland and my toes were constantly numb.
I hadn't been to Woodford for about six years and didn't remember there being so many hippies in the past. I thought their claims to be living an 'alternative' lifestyle were confused, to say the least. If there were so many of them living the same way, could they be regarded as alternative? At Woodford they were the majority.
The hardest thing about being a government rep at any event or festival, though, was that I was considered to be the 'cashed-up Koori'. Compared to the performers, I probably was. Some locals took shots at me for not camping on site and choosing to stay in a motel in Caboolture.
'A motel eh? You're not Black, you living like a whitefella,' one local artist had to say when she heard I was staying in town and not camping with all the Murris.
'Well, you can be as Black and cold as you like in your tent tonight,' I began, 'but I'm going to be warm in a bed with an electric blanket and doona and heating.' I watched her face squirm at the thought of the absolute discomfort she would be in compared to me.
'Anyway, my mum was born in a humpy – you fellas are going backwards instead of forwards. God knows, Mum would never sleep in a tent now, and I know she doesn't care where I sleep as long as I'm warm and safe.'
'Yeah, you just don't wanna rough it. Too good for the bush, aren't ya.'
'That's right, I don't want to rough it, but I'm happy for you to and I don't expect you'll be asking to use my hot shower then, will you? I mean, that's too white, isn't it? No, you enjoy your freezing cold in the morning and queuing to get a wash,' I said.
'But what about sleeping under the beautiful stars, babe? You don't want to sleep under the stars?' asked a young dancer with bulging biceps.
'Yeah, cuz,' I said, to stop his flirting. 'I wanna sleep under the stars – five stars would be my choice if I had my way!' And I walked off to find Sylvia, before I attracted any more crap.
'Sylvia, please, can you stop telling people we're staying in a four-star hotel? They'll wanna come shower and then sleep over when they realise how fucken cold it gets at dark. Anyway, four stars in Caboolture are about two stars in Sydney or Melbourne, so you're making us more flash than we really are.'
Back at the hotel my phone was back in range and there were numerous text and voicemail messages from James. I hadn't spoken to him for over a week and he was fretting.
Where are you babe? Are you OK? Call me.
I was still in work mode, and I was too tired to deal with James after the ribbing I'd had at the festival. I was ripe for an argument and didn't want to take it out on him. The problem with being apart meant that every minute talking or together had to be conflict free, which was enormous pressure. I sent him a long text instead:
J – sorry, range poor, weather cold, work hard, mood crappy, won't share misery. Call when back in Melbs. Love u! Px
Shelley had also texted:
Hihi, cuzin Joe dropd in sum roo Bolognese. Called it kanganese. I'll save sum 4 u, maybe! X Shelley
I was so cold at that moment that I wished for the yummy bush-tucker-Italian dish to warm me up.
twenty-nine
Saltwater, spas and steam rooms
Before I knew it three weeks had passed and NAIDOC Week had arrived, along with the bitter July weather. I'd hoped to get to Darwin for the NAIDOC ball and some warmth but Sylvia had managed to build me a tight schedule of events right around the state. James offered to fly down and come with me, but there was no point – I was simply too busy and had no time to play.
'Well, don't say I didn't try, Peta.'
'Trying once in the busiest week of the year shouldn't be the end of all your effort, James. You get some points but you're not in the black – no pun intended – just yet.' I tried to make a joke of it.
Sylvia travelled the week with me and we did a Thelma and Louise ro
ad trip, starting at the Kaawirn Kuunawarn Hissing Swan Arts Centre in Port Fairy and then driving east to Geelong for a local Indigenous tourism experience hosted by Narana Creations. Next we headed north-west to Ballarat to the Kirrit Barreet Aboriginal Art Gallery and then west to Brambuk Aboriginal Cultural Centre in the Gariwerd National Park, or what whitefellas called the Grampians. I suggested we take an extra half-day to visit the Johnny Mullagh Cricket Centre in Harrow, because I'd heard so much about the man who bowled Don Bradman out for a duck.
Travelling for the week was fun with Sylvia, and even though we were comfortable enough to have periods of silence, there was plenty of singing along to the CD she had made for us as well.
'Best of the 90s!' she said as she pushed the disc into the player and adjusted the volume dial. I couldn't believe the number of Mariah Carey, Céline Dion and Whitney Houston songs that we both knew the words to, and how soppy they were. All in stark contrast to the 'Macarena' we both tried to do in our seats.
'Can you take the wheel for this one?' Sylvia asked, as 'I Believe I Can Fly' started, and she pulled over. I got in the driver's seat and she restarted the tune and sung along to it with arms out like wings. We belted out Michael Jackson's 'Black or White' and then I went silent when Jewel came on, singing 'You Were Meant for Me'. It was the song that James had always said was our song.
'What's wrong?' Sylvia asked.
'Nothing, why?'
'You've gone quiet all of a sudden. Giving your vocal chords a rest, are you?'
Before I had a chance to answer, Britney Spears came on. 'Okay, that's it,' I said. 'We're not doing Britney Spears, have to draw the line somewhere. And there's a STOP REVIVE SURVIVE place up ahead, what perfect timing.'
'Good idea, my butt is a bit numb anyway – a stretch would do us good.'
'Yeah, and my butt is spreading from all the chocolate I've been eating along the way.'
'Don't worry about it, you need it for the sugar, to keep awake.'
'That's right, because you thinking you can fly in the car isn't going to do that for me, is it.'
We got out of the car and I noticed my skirt was tight in the waist. Our driving tour meant we were eating too much restaurant and fast food and sitting for too many hours without exercise. I could feel myself packing on the pounds every day.
We arrived back in Melbourne for the finale of the week at the Koorie Heritage Trust on Friday night, with soul and country performances by two young hot musos, Dan Sultan and James Henry, but I was almost too exhausted to enjoy it. I didn't think I'd ever be too tired to perve, but I was.
♥
I woke up on Saturday feeling fat and frumpy and very, very unsexy. I'd have to marry James because I couldn't possibly take my clothes off in front of anyone else anyway. It's the ones who love us unconditionally who don't worry about love handles.
My weight gain wasn't just from NAIDOC Week, but also from eating date slices, plum cakes, cherry tartlets and other goodies from Monarch on Acland Street. The shop had been there for over seventy years and looked like it still had its original fittings. But my big weakness was Le Bon Cake Shop. Every time I went there I confused myself over what I would have because there were so many choices. Date slice, raspberry slice, rhubarb and apple slice . . . I reasoned that anything that had fruit in it was remotely healthy, but of course, nearly everything was full of sugar and fat. I had no rationale whatsoever for pigging out on the brandy, chocolate or caramel slices: they simply looked delicious and had to be eaten. I wished they could genetically modify carrots and celery to taste like anything I could consume on Acland Street.
Because of my indulgences I needed to get more exercise. I really missed swimming, and it would give me the best overall body workout, but winter in Melbourne had a chilly bite. Shelley had raved about the St Kilda Sea Baths, insisting that I should check them out; they were indoors, and heated, so I decided to take the plunge. At least my brown skin meant I'd look a bit better than everyone else. Fat and dark was better than fat and pasty white.
It was expensive to enter the baths, so I wasn't surprised that it was quiet and peaceful with plenty of lane room to swim. I guessed that most people like me would see the experience as a bit of luxury rather than part of a daily exercise routine. Shelley told me it had once been more 'working-class friendly' but from the moment I hit the change room, I felt it was a place for middle-class mums and retirees. And even though both groups of women had more stretch marks than I would ever allow myself to have, I still couldn't bring myself to undress in front of strangers. I laughed to myself, thinking that Josie would relish the change room experience, but I just couldn't do it so I took my cozzie (or my 'bathers' as the Melbournites called them) into the privacy of the toilet and got changed.
As I lowered myself into the pool I felt more relaxed immediately. I began doing backstroke in the salty water, watching the blue skies through glass roofing, then swapped to a slow breaststroke towards the horizon, watching the ocean approaching. In Sydney there was always competition to get a lane, but here there were only a couple of people in each, and none of them looked like they were here for a serious workout. I even managed to swim in the 'fast lane' as opposed to the slow or medium lanes I swam in back home. No, this pool was about relaxation and enjoyment, not fitness.
I shared a lane with an old man who should have been in the play area. I could hear his breathing, like an underwater foghorn vibrating throughout the pool. It was almost scary, like a whale was approaching. He swam so slowly that I caught up to him rather quickly, and copped an eyeful of his worn and wrinkled genitals floating around freely in his too-wide-legged swim shorts. At least Speedos kept everything packaged tight and close to the body. I couldn't swim another twenty-five metre lap with that in front of me. I considered stopping at one end of the pool and then kicking off in front of him, but then I felt weird about the thought of him swimming behind me and taking in my back view while doing breaststroke. The only thing worse than the idea of his wrinkled old penis was thinking that I might actually cause it to go hard. I couldn't have that, so I just kept going, but I switched to backstroke, focusing on the flags above the pool to make sure I didn't go head first into the wall at the end of the lane.
The pool was sea water, and so salty it reminded me of gargling hot water with salt out of the big white Saxa bottle when I was a child and my throat was sore. Even with goggles on my eyes were starting to sting. Not being able to take the salt or the wrinkled testes any longer, but determined to get my twelve-dollar entry fee's worth, I headed to the hydrotherapy heated seawater pool where even more old men played. At least their genitals were well hidden under the foam. They hogged the few spa jets in an attempt to cure their aches and pains. I had none of those, but I wanted to get the full experience, so while I waited I checked out a bald guy in black shorts. He was the youngest male in the pool and had a well-cut chest. A jet became free and I paddled over and pushed my back up against it, facing the main pool.
I turned around and rested my head on my hands, looking out to the bay and thinking how beautifully relaxing a space it was to be in. I could have gone to sleep but I turned my head left and read a sign that told me I should only spend ten minutes in the spa, so I got out and set off for the steam room, walking up the stairs as sexily as I could, aware of the cute bald guy still in the pool. I knew my legs looked good in my black Speedo, even though I often fantasised about wearing a red Baywatch cozzie like Pamela Anderson. I believed that kind of cozzie could help make anyone look good, or at least better. A good cozzie was a far healthier and cheaper option than cosmetic surgery.
