Banter with Bullies
Banter with Bullies avatar

Here I go again, like a recurring bad dream I look in the mirror on the morning of my interview. I am afraid that what I see looking back at me, may be a victim. The circumstances around this interview are out of my control for now. But given the opportunity to communicate, then I may be back in the driver’s seat controlling my own destiny. Most people have encountered bullying in the playground but are not aware that it extends much further than that. Some people aren’t even aware that they are being bullied and think that they are just having a bad day.

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To show that I am a genuine contender for this job and not to be victimised, I now must place myself in a position to take control of the situation. Understanding the process of communication is the essence of taking control. To put it simply, it is the skill of examining the message, understanding and verifying the intention, and correctly interpreting its delivery. To be effective, once verified, my response should also be immediate and assertive.

So now the paperwork or transfer of information in the initial interview is done, and I’m placed on the short list. Sitting in the foyer along with the other candidates, waiting for the “big guy” to arrive, I am contemplating the barrage of questions by the “big guy” (the CEO). At the tail end of my working career, I have been bullied by bureaucrats, bewildered by barristers, and baffled by the best of office bunglers bearing bad news. Having done this many times before, I’m comfortable with the proceedings so far, and I have a good idea of what will happen next.

An elderly mentor once recited the following saying for me to decipher. He said once I understood what was meant by that saying, then it would prepare me for what I may encounter in my aspirations. It goes like this… “Banter with Bullies, Bluster the Bureaucrats, Bemuse Barristers, but be amazed with Baristas”. The impact of those words took some time to take effect. Understanding the play on those words, eventually made the difference to me gaining confidence in examining intentions in a compelling situation. I later realised that all the occupations and categories in that saying are very skilled in their trade and have similar intentions toward taking control but more importantly, while in appreciation of their skills, I should know the difference between skill and bluster and not fall victim of their intended control.

My understanding of “Bullying” is, that it is the aggressive behaviour intended to physically, mentally or emotionally hurt, utilising a misrepresentation of the truth in order to gain control. Bullying encountered during employment is commonplace and the not so obvious, is when you are being “managed out”, otherwise known as progressive dismissal. This is illegal but its intention is for you to succumb by quitting anyway so the employer can label it as a “mutual agreement”. It has happened to me many times and yes, it hurts.

Another behaviour which most casual employees will encounter regularly in their endeavours and who will fail to see it as bullying, is after submitting an employment application, when enquiring about the success of that application, the enquirer is sometimes intentionally diverted. The contact name that was given is usually not made available to discuss the matter. This tactic is to have you patiently wait while placing you in a pool of applicants for later extraction as current staff wise-up to their exploited conditions and leave. This behaviour also clears the employer of discrimination.

The twist is that employers can also be bullied by government. When some employers have you hang there in fear of missing out, when in actual fact they can’t afford to engage you and consequently make inequitable statements, or if they do engage you, then you find yourself placed in an obscure category that does not match your job description or qualification. This area of bullying is brought about by poor government policies which burden inadequately trained government bureaucrats, placing pressure on the employer to offer you unachievable benefits and compensations. This in turn places employers under financial stress and exacerbates their bullying. Have you noticed that the term permanent isn’t really permanent any more? Tackling the roots of this divisive and detrimental behaviour is by voting for politicians or parties that will take responsibility for their implementations and exposing the ones that will not take that responsibility.

Bullying is not restricted to the work place. It takes place more often than you think and comes in many different forms. It is important to be aware that another form of unidentified bullying is utilised by the legal fraternity. You can be blind-sided by a legal practitioner deliberately threatening court action with false accusations that are intentionally designed to bluff and rattle your judgement. It is intended to place you under stress and may coerce you toward their preferred outcome. It is not nice when it happens, and many would find the experience hurtful and emotionally draining which may in turn provoke a detrimental response. But you must recognise the symptoms immediately. While knowing your rights and recognising that the accusations are false, you must react assertively with a counter, inferring that it is NOT OKAY to use those tactics. This then will place you on even ground and the bullying should stop. If it doesn’t, you should know your rights and be prepared to act on those rights. Otherwise be prepared to cut your losses to limit the energy and financial expenditure. You then move on with a firm parting statement which informs them that you are aware of their tactics. This will redirect the pressure to bear on their next decision or highlight the weakness in their strategy. Most importantly, it will be clear to them that you are not the victim they were hoping to target.

Getting back to my story…. The CEO arrives and beckons me into his office. He glances through my application, scans my resume and without raising his head from the folder, shifts his eyes in my direction. His lips stretches slightly to almost a commanding grin. He then utters a bombastic question as if to land the killer blow in an easy joust hoping to unhorse me. “How come you have only lasted 2 years at any job?…… He had hardly taken his next breath when I assertively returned… “If you are here in 2 years time so will I be.” What could he say?… The expression on his face was now a definite smile of touché…. so he said “Welcome aboard. Can you commence work at the beginning of the next pay week?”

We all must turn it around from what we are lead to believe so as to drive behavioural change. On a bigger scale, we must have some awareness of this aggressive and unkind misuse of power and position. This behaviour continues to show a serious lack of respect to one’s integrity, and if we do nothing, it then will eventually allow us to become casualties of Kleptocratic vandalism. Seeing it on a global scale, it will ignite an unwanted war. No matter how you look upon it or at what level, it is Bullying and should not be tolerated.

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Poppy Seeds
Poppy Seeds avatar

A cigar box was sitting on the dresser beside the bed at my Great Aunty Kitt McMillan’s house in Bronte when I went to visit her in 1968. Strange place for a cigar box, especially when she didn’t smoke cigars. Inside the box, there were old photos of some war torn place in Europe. The photos were the kind with zig zag edges. Amongst the photos was a pressed flower. It was a single Poppy. I own that box now, but the contents have long disappeared. Needless to say that the box now haunts me and I often grieve over the missing contents of that box, because I now know what that pressed flower represented. It was the done thing for soldiers to pick a flower and put it in with letters to be sent home during the War. There was an abundance of poppies on the battle fields of Europe.

Aunty Kitt told me lots of stories. One in particular makes me well up every time I think about it. She spoke about Uncle Alex waiting at the bus stop that was just around the corner where the neighbouring children would wait on their way to school. The old bus backfired one morning and the children were entertained as Uncle Alex would shake uncontrollably and looked as though he was doing a highland jig. He had never fully recovered from shell shock received in the trenches during the Great War.

Not everyone joins up to defend our country. Lest we forget the ones that did when their Fortitude transpired into respect and we, that remain, are now charged with the task of fulfilling those words…. “Lest we forget”. We utter those words as we do lip service to the Ode Of Rememberance. The question then arises … What are we asking Australians’ now and in the future to remember? … Amongst all the thousands of heroic stories, is there someone or something to single out amongst the flag waving, trained dogs, carrier pigeons, brumby horses, along with Simpson and his donkey? …. There is one person dubbed “The forgotten ANZAC” who I would recommend for all to discover and then set his story indelibly in our values and culture. He alone initiated the legend of the “Digger”.

A documentary is available on YouTube and will take you on a journey about this very person and may change the view of some Australians and the way we feel about the legend of ANZAC.

The link is as follows: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AGkRJHJ5juI

Allow me to slip past this section quickly because you have probably heard it all before, but it must be said. On April 25th 1915 a navigation error landed the AIF at the cliffs of Gallipoli now known as ANZAC Cove. The troops dug in and did what they could. With their courage they forged their well earned skills and the AIF earned the nickname “Diggers”. Resourcefully they evacuated and were deployed to the Western front and it was there under the command of General John Monash that the ANZACs became legends.

Ironically John Monash, a German Jew, became Australia’s Commander in Chief and won his own battles in the political arena of “The War to end all Wars”. As an engineer his tactics proved to be superior. He was the only general that was knighted by the King during war time for his actions. He was given the title of Sir John Monash. Under his command, the AIF totalled only 5% of the allied forces, but punching well above their weight, the AIF (Australian Imperial Force) achieved what the allies could not, by breaking the German defence known as the Hindenburg Line which ended the Great War. This feat earned the AIF a reputation acknowledged by the allied forces and feared by the enemy. On the 11th of November 1918 the German government signed The Armistice. PoppySeeds SirJohnMonash CigarBox Edited

           Pressed Poppy                      Sir John Monash                           Decorated Cigar Box

It is worth noting that Sir John Monash was the first military authority to set up a rehabilitation scheme for his battle weary men as they waited to be returned home to Australian shores.

The Movie of Sir John Monash “The Forgotten ANZAC” available on DVD is a must see. The link is as follows: http://360degreefilms.com.au/productions/monash-the-forgotten-anzac/

Journalists at the time were intent on their own propaganda and would not publish the facts properly. As Monash put it “There were runs on the board and people back home needed to see the score truthfully”. The fact that our diggers and their allies were being slaughtered by the thousands was hidden from the homeland. To show the runs on the board meant that the slaughter needed to be exposed. Some of us may remember that the reality in Darwin during WW2 was not revealed until after the war and some of us are still held in disbelief about the reasons for its suppression. Similarly, staggered bombings in Northern Australia were not reported between 1942 and 1943.

As we try to remember the fallen for reasons of future prevention, we may struggle to understand why. Britain declared war on Germany eight months before Gallipoli on August 4th 1914. Historians clash to justify the reasoning. A clue may be found in the reason why they called it “The War To End All Wars”. Many factors were involved, such as gathering numbers in the struggle for world domination, economics for a strangle hold over contributing countries and pride in elite bloodlines. What triggered it was an assassination to gain an edge over all these reasons. Forensics reveal that there were many plots for murder from all sides. It leads me to ponder over the reasoning for Australia’s sacrifice. “Lest we forget”.

The ANZAC Day march is not a celebration of an event but a commemoration of the fallen, as we join in with their families who adorn their earned status as legends in Australian history. Banners and medals are proudly displayed to acknowledge them and in return we extend our gratitude to the current bearers for sacrifices made by them and their ancestors. Their legacy now includes the seeds for thought as we face our next involvement.

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A hard Dogs Night
A hard Dogs Night avatar

I wake up from a deep sleep with dogs breath. My dog JOK is two centimetres from my face.

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OK, this tells me that its time to get up, feed the horses and let the chooks out from their fox resistant compound. Foxes pay regular visits at the chook house. We have lost several chooks recently to foxes.

The usual for JOK in his morning routine is to go with Lou on a morning walk or run depending on who Lou is meeting with that morning, then on his return, he would wake me up to do the chores and see Lou off to work. At this stage I’m usually harassed continually to get up or he’ll jump into bed with dirty feet.

One morning in particular, I heard some continued barking from outside. This meant that I had to investigate as he was not going to let up. I opened the front door and saw that there was movement in a distant position near the top of the hill. The small reddish brown figure stopped and defied the barks with an arrogance which could only be identified as an older and experienced fox. I reached for my binoculars to investigate closer. As I verified my suspicion, I confidently said “OK get him then JOK”.

I watch from a distance, the fox criss cross its own path sending JOK round in circles as it watches from a higher rock. I see JOK lose the fox’s trail for a while then suddenly the fox is spotted and the chase is on again. The fox and JOK both disappear into the surrounding bush. I hear a familiar bark which beckons me to investigate. I follow the bark and arrive at the scene. There I see a maimed fox using the shelter of a fallen tree as cover. I trim down a sizeable branch from the tree to use as a club, then I move in to complete the job. I take a swing and at that moment, JOK dives in for the kill. Unfortunately for JOK, he beat me to the target and I connect JOK on the top of his head with my intended killer blow. This sent JOK reeling back in a momentary daze. I don’t know how he was not detrimentally affected but I turned and reassured him that I didn’t mean for him to be hit. The fox was not running away because it was already fatally maimed with a wound to the abdomen. So I told JOK to stand back as I finished the job.JOK 1

I enjoy the confidence that I can leave JOK unattended at the sailing club with the car door opened as Lou and I take time out, for about an hour, and go for a sail on Jindabyne lake. JOK is very communicative in his own way and with his antics it would not take much time for anyone to understand his behaviour and sounds.

Fast forward to Early Friday morning last week. I am woken from a deep sleep, the dresser is shaking…. what the?? I peer over the end of the bed …. there is JOK on his side, legs running and he is foaming at the mouth. I’m in disbelief, what to do….? I can only clear things out of his destructive motions, for now.

Three hours later JOK’s running legs subside but he is still twitching and dribbling. Thank goodness he is still breathing. He has no strength left and it seems as though he is paralysed. If you have ever experienced taking the sporting field and playing for forty to forty five minutes then doing it again the second half for the first time in the season, then can you recall, how long did it take you to recover from that?

Lou rushes JOK to the vet as soon as it is opened for business. The vet assessed him and prepares us for the worst. He offers to monitor JOK’s condition with the hope to find some improvement but fears he may have some permanent brain damage from the extended seizure. Late that afternoon a call from the vet confirms a faint sign of improvement but he still has some paralysis and can barely swallow. The vet recommends to take him home for the weekend and continue medication with the view of monitoring his condition in further hope for more improvement, but gives no assurances. He makes an appointment for first thing Monday and he tells us, it is then that he will euthanase JOK if his condition shows no improvement.

There is more improvement towards Sunday afternoon. JOK can now stand up for a short time before he flops back to the ground. The vagueness is slowly turning into awareness. By Monday morning he recognises me and is able to swallow small amounts of food and is drinking some water. He has lost a lot of weight just in those few days.

The vet was astonished to see how much JOK had improved, then tested his responses for a neurological assessment. The short term prognosis was good but predicted a relapse of siezures which JOK may not recover from due to his age.

The news was good but still devastating. The vet now had the difficult job of addressing a management plan with me. He took both JOK and I for a short walk on the lawn as he urged me to now consider a plan for a now ageing dog. I found it hard to accept because the way I was thinking was, it was all about how I was feeling and not about how JOK was feeling. In retrospect, I can see that the vet was educating me to care for JOK and for me to now consider the best for JOK and the quality of his remaining life.

The vet gave me some medication and showed me how to prepare the dosage of medication to render his next siezure manageable, or maybe, even avoid it. Both he and I knew that the last part of that statement was for my benefit. So I took him home with tears in my eyes. I’m not sure if the tears I shed was for JOK or for me but the responsibility now weighed heavily on my conscience. The next few days saw JOK slowly improve but I could see that he would never return to the agility and the active level of his past.

The following week passed slowly as if I was aware of his every painful move. I took him for a walk where he used to beat me to the top of the hill. I turned around to see him stop then struggle on. I walked across the cattle grid that not so long ago posed no problem finding the lateral stringers and now I had to pull him free from between them and set him on his shaky legs. I found it harder now to hold back the tears. And I still am not sure if I am crying for his loss or for mine.

For his sake I will be strong and cherish every moment we have together before the inevitable. I dare not think about what someone put to me, “Will there be another dog to replace JOK?” the answer would be NO thanks.

I don’t know if JOK has another one of these endurances left in him, and even more so, have I the strength to see him go through another ? I can’t answer that one. But I know, if I can’t manage to avoid or lessen the severity of the next one, then I will not let him endure another.

He trusts me to make good decisions no matter how hard they could be.

So I will ensure that we will have a fun packed day prior to saying goodbye…. and let go.

JOK 2 JOK 3

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The True Story of Sinterklaas
The True Story of Sinterklaas avatar

Tis the season to be Jolly and deck the halls with boughs of holly….

There is a general acceptance about these sayings that we are entering a time where we do things that we traditionally enjoy doing. We replicate family gatherings with special food and decorations because they have a special magical purpose as we remember them along with tales of yesteryear. The season possesses a powerful sense of belonging which encourages giving and sharing along with singing and decorating which enhances the spirit of the season.

Historically, we have inherited a diverse community with many cultures that celebrate this season in different ways. As we experience these cultural diversities, there are noticeable similarities which may raise some confusion toward the derivations of such behaviour around this time. In order not to miss represent or initiate a deviation from these memorable activities it would be wise to investigate some glaring facts that surround these Yuletide similarities.

Yule Or Litha, the date varies from December 20 to December 23 depending on the year in the Gregorian calendar. Yule is also known as the winter solstice in the Northern hemisphere and the summer solstice in the Southern hemisphere due to the seasonal differences. Many customs created around Yule are identified with Christmas today. If you decorate your home with a Yule tree, holly or candles, you are following some very old traditions. Traditionally a Yule log is a branch of oak or pine set upright with holes drilled in it to hold candles and is brightly decorated and dusted in flower then burnt in the fireplace at the end of the festivities.

While discussing these old traditions with my partners sons Paul and Luke, and as they knew that I grew up in another culture, they asked me to recall my personal early experiences in that culture around this time of the year. I then began to realise the complexity of such a request and I was reminded of how important this subject matter was to the advancing next generation. It can be as important as sex education during adolescence.

I can recall the effort that my farther put into creating a memorable experience for my birthday, on the 5th of December, during my early years, which will remains with me forever. I grew up during the Dutch influence in Indonesia where Santa Clause was not heard of. It was Sinterklaas with his Swarte Piets that was the norm in that part of the world during Christmas.

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My fondest recollections are, when I was restrained from investigating the approaching sounds of squeals and screams, I caught a glimpse of a Bishop’s Mitre and Crook through the crowd. I was terrified but I would not miss this for anything. And similarly the older generation may recall the 1947 version of “Miracle On 34th Street” staring Edmund Gwenn, Maurine O’Harra and a young Natalie Wood. This Youtube clip of “the little Dutch girl scene” gives the exact song that was sung to herald the visitation of Sinterklaas on that very day. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ibDD8Y3IJrg

It is this fond memory which is void of current marketing influences that I would like to share with you as readers. Doing this will perhaps provoke the tale of similar experiences and emotions which intern can be passed on to the next generation and will enable the true story of Santa Clause to continue to be preserved in time. There is a film production recently released about St Nicholas of Myra which has similarities that run parallel to my research and the story that I am about to uncover. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HvKg0EwRDSM

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So now let me tell you the true story of a 4th century Roman senator from the ancient multicultural province of Lycia where the ancient ruins of Myra is situated on the Southern coast of Turkey. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k0WBkVQiX6c

To set the stage, this area of the Mediterranean, shares a history which started before the Egyptians with Anthony and Cleopatra, ran through ancient Greek times with the mythical Helen of Troy that sparked the Trojan wars, was pivotal in the Persian wars, it was invaded by Alexander the Great, and for many years became part of the Ottoman Empire, then later would be invaded by the Crusaders. This area was in Roman rule when the events of this story took place. On a trivial note, history has it that the Roman governing articles and their democratic principles of that time in Lycia, influenced the framework that lead to the constitution of the United States of American.

As you can imagine there was lots happening to influence the origins of many of the cultures that we know today, and there is no wonder that these cultures have similar threads about this celebrated person that has survived the passage of time.

Senator Nikolaos, was an only child born to a wealthy family and lost both parents at an early age. Nikolaos was then brought up by an uncle that was a bishop who ordained Nikolaos into Christianity who in turn became a bishop at a very early age. It is this which influenced the practice of child bishops which was later abolished in England by Henry the V111. The practice continued in Germany and spread throughout Europe and some examples can still be seen today in some isolated cultures where a young boy will be ordained as a bishop for a day around Christmas time. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nnahmDRAKko       Note: I found that this particular “newsreel hyper-link” may not play the audio on some mobile phones due to its early format file type. It can be heard on most PCs.

In those times class distinction was an important community function which would affect one’s responsibilities and influence the manner in which one would live. Due to this highly regarded clerical position, Nikolaos became a very influential head of state which attracted a political role in the Roman Senate. Senator Nikolaos would now need to be careful not to be seen to compromise situations that would deteriorate his status in the community. He would enlist the assistance of henchmen for covert duties enabling him to make well informed decisions. Stories abound of such surveillance that have manifested as legends and now enshrined in folklore.

During a period of famine it was feared that a local butcher kidnapped the naughty children and made them into mince pies until Senator Nikolaos found them and escorted them to a safe return.

Stories of rescuing black slaves bound for the gallows and putting them to good use by looking after and protecting the physically and mentally challenged who were constantly teased until they displayed aggression. This brings rise to the creation of the demon character from Scandinavia known as Krampus, who eats children that misbehave.

A close acquaintance of the senator was experiencing financial difficulties and could not afford dowries for his three daughters. When the daughters came of age they each received a purse of gold that Nikolaos provided incognito. The most bizarre story was when in the event of preserving Nikolaos’s identity the gifts to the youngest daughter were dropped down the chimney and the small parcels descended and lodged in her stockings that were hung out to dry over the embers in the fireplace.

Nikolaos was renowned for generosity and during the ages among the many unexplained events that have been deemed as miraculous Nikolaos’s patronage included Sailors and horses which bear their own unique stories. A sainthood was inevitable. Besides being hailed as the patron saint of children, The marketing world, Christianity and historians have chosen to focus on events that have created a house hold name.

The Western world now would recognise this character to be Santa Clause, People of the Netherlands have Sinterklaas and Zwarte Piets, The Northern Europeans have Saint Nicholas and Krampus. The more religious now follow the modern tales that focus on the miracles of Saint Nicholas of Myra. The Vatican council played down the events of Saint Nicholas in fear that he was gathering more momentum than could be managed as a disciple of Christ gaining such a powerful following.

bw-nicolaus-and-multi-swartze-pts krampus-blue-n-black zwarte-piet-1

The sentiments and good will to others have been set by this wonderful ancient character and now, that we have a broader understanding of the events that surround this legend, we can all enjoy future Yuletide gatherings and take these examples to the next level.

I bid you all a very merry Christmas.

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Synopsis of the Demon character Krampus
Synopsis of the Demon character Krampus avatar

Title:   The Little Boy Krantz (AKA Krampus)

Category:   Fiction based on folklore and actual historical events.

Teaser:   The beast lay shackled within his cage , for the moment silent and undisturbed, so it seams. His physical restraints prevent him from investigating the squeals and screams which feeds his increasing adrenalin and makes him quiver with excitement as his shifting eyes now reveal an impending danger.

krampus-green-n-black krampus-cage

Synopsis:  The protagonist (Krantz) is a young goat herder and burgeoning pyrotechnist who inspired a Yuletide legend. This young boy, abused and bullied throughout his childhood, becomes a street wise misfit in an early pagan community under 4th century Roman rule. Due to his unmanageable behaviour the local villagers nicknames him Krampfziegen (convulsive goat). Krantz is disfigured by a pyro accident and his parents abuses and punish him by killing his pet goat. Horrified by his disfigured appearance, and with increasing abuse from a crowed mentality, the community have renamed him Krampus (Devil like). Emotionally distraught, he runs away wearing the goat carcass.

A Visiting Roman politician (Senator Nikolaos) is burdened with a decision if to execute some black slaves suspiciously blamed of several petty crimes. Nikolaos seeing Krantz milling around the gallows, amongst the crowd, appearing obviously distressed and draped in a goats carcass, takes advantage of this situation, and in a political manoeuvre, assigns the black slaves to the care of the mentally and physically impaired, then singles out Krants from the crowd to be restrained and placed in the care of the accused black slaves.

Now as new members of Senator Nikolaos’s entourage, the slaves and Krants align their strategies and refine their theatrical covert performance toward the gaining notoriety of Krampus. Whilst carving out an acceptable and financially affordable existence with their road show production, they all become aware that, abused children and class distinction, have a related unsavoury outcome.

Krantz, now a teenager, recognises the self destructive habits of some deprived children and he is beginning to show signs of morbid and sadistic tendencies toward the children of the upper-class. As it brings back memories that now haunt him, he is compelled to devise a plot to rescue abused children.

Under the disguise of a crazed animal and seemingly under guard of the black slaves, Krampus abducts these abused children and relocates them to a new environment. This action is seen to be brutal by onlookers which gives Krampus an even more notorious reputation as a demon that eats children that misbehave.

Abductions occur frequently as the production event that is familiarised as the Krampus Run, visits different cities in the senators electorate. Krantz and the slaves now have the task of training these new recruits along with covert operations which Senator Nikolaos has set out for them prior to his organised visit. These performances are conducted to distract from the politically motivated seeking of sensitive information that keeps the Senator well informed. One young conscript in particular, has the talent to keep the legend of krampus alive.

The full story and “The Twist In The Krampus Tail” is soon to follow….. so stay tuned.

Written by Nic Luntungan in collaboration with Paul Mahony and Mark Luntungan (AKA Mun) while initially inspired by Luke Mahony in 2010.

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Blangkon Yogyakarta
Blangkon Yogyakarta avatar

Now for that story I promised you all, about the “Blangkon”.

A blangkon is the traditional head attire worn by the Javanese. It is proudly worn during official functions or as part of traditional dress when a special occasion arises.

traditional-yogyakarta school-blangkon-1 nic-n-cristo

In my previous post A life changing “Habitats for Humanity” exchange, I was staying at the exquisite Royal Ambarrukmo Hotel  in Java’s’ central province YogYakarta. In that story, I briefly mentioned the bus trip to the build site. So now allow me to elaborate on that part of the story.

On our first morning, we all gathered in the lobby of the hotel where we were separated into our previously designated teams for the transfer to the Rock The House build site. A medium sized plaque was placed on the windscreen of each minibus and we quickly found our “B4” allocated sign and the eleven of us piled in. The bus moved off amid the chatter of us all getting to know each other, and then we passed the security guard check-point of the hotel car park. The guards had white helmets and armed to the teeth.

It felt a little surreal but I took it all in, being in a different country. After plunging into the heavy traffic and floating around the sea of motor bikes and scooters, there was little conversation other than the nervous banter and astonished remarks of this so very different road behaviour.

We approached an intersection of two major roads, slowed down and stopped. Suddenly I heard the automatic door locks slam into the lock position. As I pondered and explored the reasons for such an action, I began to reflect on my childhood memories. The experience brought back the fears, the sights, the smells, the flashbacks. I felt tears running down my face, and I’m sure I heard the tear drops hit the minibus floor …. “aduh” (how embarrassing in Indonesian)…. here is a grown man, a mature adult, I might add, sitting in a bus balling his eyes out. I must have been a sight..!

The build team “B4” that I was travelling with happened to notice my condition of distress and pleaded with me to offer a hint as to the trigger of my distress.

I began to tell them my story. This story I had previously blogged about in a tribute on Mothers day this year. Peering through my fingers, I then noticed that there was not a dry eye in the bus, I forced myself to take my hands from my face, straighten up, dry my eyes and remember where I was.

I realised that I had slipped back in time and was in a post traumatic condition where I was sent back in time to my childhood and was exorcising my own demons. Thank goodness that I was with a caring and sensitive group that would allow me to save face and regain my composure from this embarrassing situation.

KAren Swain was sitting beside me offering a tissue while Jarrett Yap dropped more tissues over my shoulder from where he was sitting in the minibus. I can’t imagine what Karen Green was thinking, poor girl? However, KAren Swain pursued me further to share my story publicly. At first I was reluctant, because I was feeling vulnerable and struggling to understand what had happened.

To experience the full affect of my story I will encourage you to follow the link to my 2016 Mothers Day tribute and read it to the end, there in, is the essence of that story which I shared that day on the minibus: “Reflections on Mothers day

The story of my breakdown swiftly travelled across the camp and consequently I was gingerly prompted by many that had heard, to recall those times of distress. I guess that this was a therapeutic experience when, at first, I was reluctant to tell my story.

I struggled with my thoughts flashing in and out of period. I could hear the faint memory of a joke that Karen and I share from time to time which ends with an endearing …. “get over it”. Eventually I regained my confidence by witnessing our current situation, at the build, amongst the local children and their families.

In the final hour of the build, Martin Thomas conducted the hand over to the receiving family, their friends, the construction supervisors and the minibus driver who had the responsibility of our daily transfers. We all had a chance to say something at this momentous occasion, but I struggled to hold back the tears. The team knew what the tears were for when Martin encouraged me to share my feelings with the family. There I explained briefly the affinity I had with Bapak Simba (The grand father). During his youth and mine, we shared an untold experience that was still to be talked about in both our communities. And now I have returned to see the sharing and caring of what we are all doing together. When translated in Bahasa to Bapak Simba, through Ari (our building supervisor), I could then see a different look in his eyes as though the sun shone through the clouds as he welled up and nodded. The surprised stares of the onlooking Indonesians listening in, were also showing signs of affect, and so was the driver who we had all forgotten about until he showed his appreciation that was duly translated for us.

On our return to the hotel, I waited for the right moment to alight from the bus, then made it a point to remove my personal “rock the house” cap and place it on the drivers head. Both of us speechless, because there was no need to say anything, in fear of an unwanted display of emotion, he clasped his hand together and bowed as he accepted it with delight.

I bought a blangkon from a market place…. With renewed vigour, I inquired at the information centre in the adjacent supermarket. “Would I offend anybody if I was to wear this Blangkon at a function?” The information receptionist assured me that the local Indonesians would be honoured to see a seemingly westerner choose to wear a blangkon to an official function. She put it in a way which compared the wearing of an American NY baseball cap in a New York baseball game by a foreigner. Yes, in fact it would be more than just well received.

I asked permission of my partner Karen if she would allow me to wear it in public and would she accompany me to the H4H concluding function in Yogyakarta. Now this was a tall ask, wasn’t it?

That night, preparing for dinner, I placed the Blangkon on my head, fearfully glimpsed in the mirror and tentatively opened my door of the room where I was staying at the Royal Ambarrukmo Hotel Yogyakarta. I proceeded down the corridor to the lift where I encountered the first reaction. My heart skipped a beat. The figure in front of me joined his hands in a praying position bowed and uttered “Malam”, which translated, means “evening”.

I survived the first encounter, again I was feeling sorry for what my partner Karen had to experience alongside of me. The lift doors opened and exposed me to the Lobby where the entire H4H congregated…. no turning back now. I felt Karen’s hand placed firmly between my shoulder blades encouraging me forward and out of the lift to greet the first reaction from the team. First to step up was Elinor with tears in her eyes… I forgot exactly what she said, it was something like “you’ve come out”, but what ever it was, it was emotional for both of us, because she knew my story as did everyone else by now. May I say that she too has a story to tell and so dose Suze which we may be privileged to hear on another occasion.

The kind reception I received from all the Indonesians that night as their gaze fell on my Blangkon clad forehead was astounding and heart-warming.

If it is not obvious to you yet, this is how I accepted myself as being part Indonesian, and wearing the Blangkon to dinner on that final evening was a formal and public display of that. I guess that this is what our old time western culture intends to create in a debut. The whole event enabled me to feel good about myself, and I thank Elinor for her endearing first reaction, My partner Karen for holding my hand through this and the rest of the team for being receptive.

The opinion from the information receptionist was correct. The reactions that I received was no less than respectfully endearing.

Having been brought up by an Australian mother and an Indonesian father, it is now time for me to say that I am proud and comfortable to be an Indonesian too.

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A life changing “Habitats for Humanity” exchange.
A life changing “Habitats for Humanity” exchange. avatar

When I uttered my secret aloud, little did I know that it would lead to an exchange that would change my life forever.

Following a trip to Fiji with my partner Karen Green in May 2016, I let it be known that I found the visit not as bad as what I can remember during my early life as a youngster in Indonesia. Hiring a car and driving in a foreign third world country was disastrous, as I don’t understand the local mind set and I was not used to the opportunistic style of driving. On my return, I had lots of stories to share with my family about that and many other experiences that I held close to my chest, some of which, I will release soon, therapeutically, in a Word Press blog. (http://jindy.portaloz.tv/).

Sharing some of these stories with my sister on my return, she insisted that it’s time to visit the demons in my Indonesian closet by investing in the well timed charity – Habitat For Humanity – an over 40 year old program that creates funds for the building of houses for underprivileged people around the world. In particular there was a build poised to take place in Indonesia dubbed “Rock The House” and inspired and promoted by the well known Suze DeMarchi of the Australian rock group “The Baby Animals”.

whilst hiding my fears, I must admit, the adventurous side of me, was vaguely intrigued with the idea. When it was presented to me, I was against any such decision to return to a place that I fled from in the mid 1950s. The time is depicted in the well known movie “The Year of Living Dangerously“, starring a young Mel Gibson and Sigourney Weaver, during the overthrow of President Sukarno. Supported by the current demonstrations in Jakarta, the feelings and fear of those times have never left me.

Not having much time to decide and commit to the next build in Indonesia was, in hindsight, a good way to move forward. “Just do it” said Karen in harmony with my sister Catherine.

The fact that I had the opportunity to witness where the money goes was irresistible. The most intriguing unknown was the promise to build 25 houses in a week with 300 volunteers, requiring no skills at all. This was something to see to be believed. Like a magic act, this alone was enough to keep my interest and lead me to the submission of my sister’s suggestion. So I began to examine my intentions and investigate my options.

“what is in it for me?” I asked. Giving something that I can afford makes me feel good. So now if anybody asks why?… the answer would be… “it’s because I can”, and it is a paid-for guided tour while the program watches your back and keeps us all safe.

This is where I got a chance to give, not only money that Karen and I could afford, but to follow the money trail and be part of the experience of giving; seeing the benefit of our donation underpinned by our toil.

Choosing “Habitats for Humanity” gave us all a chance to immerse ourselves in a different and burdensome way of life, while, at the same time, being given a chance to reason why we are witnessing the inherent happiness of the locals, that is evidently nurtured in their society.

if Karen and I can return and submit a public report highlighting the value of all your donations, then we are closer to achieving a healthy exchange of awareness, allowing both cultures a chance to bare witness to a life changing experience.

Hence I have committed to writing about my exchange to be submitted for publication in the Snowy River Echo and Karen has been requested to delivering her own take of it in a presentation to the Jindabyne CWA (Country Woman’s Association) on our return.

“So what is in it for them?” I also asked. The average cost of each build in Yogyakarta is $3000au that is around 30.2 million Rupiah. Yes, one needs to be a millionaire over there to come close in comparison to what we can provide for ourselves here in Australia.

I went on to ask many more questions like; “what is a house?… what does a home mean to me or you?… That is, if we can afford one? I know that in the Indonesian lifestyle, it may be the feeling of belonging…. to a community… with some degree of confidence in humanity. It is where you interact with others that share your living space. It is a life long family possession, something physical that could be passed down to future generations along with attached memories, like an heirloom. Yes this could be a valuable possession which enables sustained emotions and attachments that could be a powerful influence on descendants and the state of ones being. All this is part of their family bonding nature which is followed through to the community cemetery. There is also their superstitions, which I will also leave for another time to enter on my blog.

I remember the bare feet, dirt floors, leaky roofs, poor sanitation, primitive methods with no electricity. How can you or I even contemplate life in these conditions? With all these questions that I could not satisfy then, maybe, by volunteering my personal labour that would support yours and my monetary donation, we will be able to create a win win and actually make a difference while searching for answers?

With the commitments set in motion it was time to study the facts:

The Build site was named Srunggo 1, located in Selopamioro village within the surrounds of South East Imogiri in Bantul District, 30 km out of Java’s’ central province YogYakarta, in the country of Indonesia.

Looking at it today, the regions historic position, in brief, is a society still settling from turmoil delivered by differing colonialists in separate passages of time and affected by its geographic location amongst volcanic activity and positioned along a historic world trade corridor. Not only enduring the gauntlet of historic events, this region is also influenced by staunch religions as a legacy from varying occupying societies and now renders a strict code of conduct and ethics.

Any society having to manage the legacy of such turbulence would surely be blessed with tolerance and prudence. This, essentially Javanese community, inherits unhindered ancient talents and attributes, which are simple and effective, brought about by the necessity to survive simply.

the-volunteers reotying-1 the-family

             The Team                                  The Build                  The Family

Reflecting on October this year, we were transported by minibus and arrived on site as part of the 11 person team allocated to commence our part of the project. The tasks were to demolish the existing building, dig the trenches, tie the reinforcements, lay the rocks as the foundations with the reinforcement, lay the preformed concrete brick walls and insert the architraves, and pour the concrete floor, render, then paint the walls. The procedure was illustrated on the side of the adjacent building.

On the average, we started working at 8:00 am, worked for 4 hours with one break before lunch. Lunch break was around 12:30pm and went for around an hour. We continued working for a further 2 hours, with one break in-between. Hmm… yes, after the first day It then became evident to me that completion in the allocated week was unachievable, especially when every afternoon, we encountered a monsoon storm. Consequently we were retuned, daily, like drowned rats, to where we were all staying in one of the finest hotels in the country. However, we were made to feel as though we achieved miracles, especially after pushing ourselves in that tropical heat.

It was an experience that will remain with me indelibly and with the affection toward all involved that brought this so cleverly about. How effective we were as labourers did not matter. It was the life changing exchange of interaction with people of our neighbouring culture, giving us a glimpse of life and the struggles in another world.

While reminding us how good we have it in our own country, with technology, opportunity and wealth, theirs is a simple existence that has no need for our trappings and struggle to maintain a happy way of living. it made me appreciate what I have and now I can see the allure of a simpler way of life. Where I was disenchanted with my earliest memories of Indonesia I have now rid my ghosts and eased my fear by seeing the possibility of having a safer existence there.

The little that we gave in monetary donations have gone a long way in this economic exchange, as labour is cheep while materials are unaffordable. We gave what we could afford and underpinned it with our labour and they gave us the unforgetable interaction which was worth a lot to us and the experience will stay with me forever.

And if anybody asks me “was it worth the investment?” I would tell them that I sincerely recommend donating, and even go so far as to recommend investing ones time to experience this life changing exchange.

Summing up, I will say “we came to help and we left with a whole lot more than we gave”.

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Change Of Plan – Design A new
Change Of Plan – Design A new avatar

The consequences of assuming and not verifying.
I had spent a number of weeks clearing a space in the bush behind the space where Bill now has his pad. The clearing was to gain access to retrieve a dead tree which i thought was perfect for this band stand structure seen below.

Bandstand-bush structure

The timber had very little signs of termite invasion and its integrity was evident. I had trimmed it to the exact length in readiness for transport. Alas…! My hopes were dashed today when i investigated the sound of an overworked chainsaw.

DSC01378

My heart sank to my boots when i saw what had happened to my chosen structural material. What more can i say??…  So i told Bill that i was going home to cry and consider a new design.

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How do you see me now?
How do you see me now? avatar

I was strong enough to survive the long journey to Terra Australis and arrived in 1788 with the first fleet. I have been here ever since. I was named after my owner, James Brumby. Initially a Redcoat, he became a free settler who allowed me to free range. At that time indigenous people called me Baroomby. Even before New South Wales became a state, my bloodlines were strengthened by brothers for their brains and brawn to endure the stresses of our lands harsh diverse conditions as a beast of burden. As the bank of NSW was established, my sons were then known as “Walers”. A specially cultivated breed identified throughout the world as originating from New South Wales and became a recognised and sought after breed. We were particularly suited as a military mount. Soldiers and bushrangers picked the best of us. To own me then, for my loyalty, versatility, strength and fearlessness was a status symbol. On the backs that our nation fought and relied upon, I represent the spirit of the advancing Australian freedom. You have the worlds best, why now, do you wish to destroy me? I should be seen on the Australian flag like a Ferrari, not branded as a pest.

Brumby Beast of Burden Light_horse_walers

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Reflections on Mothers Day
Reflections on Mothers Day avatar

Cold and windy in Jindabyne this morning for Mothers Day 2016. Looking
around me, there is not a family member in sight. Lou has left for Canberra
to play soccer. My son aka Mun is over past the next hollow to the north of
here and probably sleeping off a late night expended in the  kitchens as
chefs often do. Congratulations to him as he achieved his aspiration to the
position that he has been struggling toward as a recognised Rydges
executive. Unfortunately, as it often does, the position that he has
struggled so hard for, is not fully realised by others around him. The
achievement isn’t even important enough for us to acknowledge the road to,
and sacrifices to, achieve his understated goals. So he is forced to accept
our misgivings.

Somehow i hope he does not follow in my footsteps because he craves the need
to be amicable, amiable and affable. Yes all of those descriptive traits of
one who finds it difficult to burn bridges. Good for him too, for it is a
hard road to travel, being left with the responsibility of accepting
situations when enough is definitely enough.

Now in my late sixties, i fittingly reflect on past events that my mother
had endured in keeping me alive during my youth and finally arriving on this
day in 2016 surrounded by my, seldom mentioned, memories of the past in the
company of my dog “JOK“.

I will sidestep my intolerances of some of my mothers opinions and beliefs
but focus on her attributes for today. After all, as all mothers do, she did
try to bring me up the right way. I just chose to question some of those
controversial ways which branded me as the black sheep of the family and now
set in my ways.

I saw a photograph in the newspaper winch sent me back to a time in Indonesia
remembering when i was something just short of petrified. Hanging on to mum’s
skirt for comfort and security, i watched her carefully negotiate with a
very serious looking boy who was probably barely nineteen years old. he was
in khaki, helmeted, pointing a fixed bayoneted rifle at mums face. I
remember. This was “the year of living dangerously“. “kita Australian tidak
Dutch” was her repeated plee. It must have been very confusing for him but
detrimental for us, had he not searched his life’s limited experience for his
next move.

Jan Rose Kashmir - US Nat guard - 1967

Yes, not good to be white or Dutch that day. We were ushered away by a
superior officer and allowed to continue our journey on the bus that was
force-ably emptied of passengers for random interrogations. I looked out of
the window and saw that the Dutchman that was travelling with us had
perished by the very bayonet which, minuets ago, was pointed at mum.

It is a mothers nightmare to be placed in these situations and it would bare
a toll on her future standpoints. I will have you know that i did not
question any request that she put forward to me that day. There were many
similar incidents that i was still to encounter where mum was the heroin that saved the day.

For all that it is worth now….. Happy Mothers Day mum.

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