HOOT OF A HORNBILL

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HOOT OF A HORNBILL                                               

A sultry haze settles over Kuching, capital city of Sarawak largest of the Malaysian states. Early morning hunger is sated by a bowl of mee noodles with chicken and chilies, just the thing to spice up the blood and allow the brain to focus on a forthcoming journey up the river in a dug out canoe.

Sipping the strong black coffee straight from the first class Hilton breakfast bar, Ginny’s gaze lingers across the Sarawak River to the ruins of the Brooke mansion. The history of a white Rajah featured in Joseph Conrad’s book, “Lord Jim”, held a fascination for a much younger Ginny. Here, in Kuching, she is able to experience a sense of place about this exotic tale. Also across the river is a golden domed building, Islamic in design. This is the new award-winning House of Parliament splendidly mirrored in the river.

Sawarak was a gift by the Sultan of Brunei to James Brooke of England in the 19^th Century. From a huddle of primitive huts, the village of Kuching rose to be a gentile city. Three generations of Brookes, white rajahs, ruled an independent Sarawak. They established law, banning headhunting, slavery and piracy. They also banned Christian missionaries and established schools where Malay and English were acceptable languages. The White Rajah abdicated in 1946 ceding Sawarak to Britain as a crown colony. In 1963 Sawarak joined the Federation of Malaysia.

Rumours of headhunters living in teak longhouses whetted Ginny’s appetite for a trip down the river.

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 When travelling alone in a strange land, she tries to stay at a good hotel aware that a hotel’s reputation depends on the safety of its guests. Her guide brings along two other guests of the Hilton, Dutch nationals who look like they have come straight from a physical training camp. They walk with a military swagger and display arrogance towards the locals that Ginny finds unpleasant.

Heading down the dusty road, they leave the city far behind. The guide relaxes as he drives them at a leisurely pace past a Malay fishing village where pole nets are set at the mouth of the river to catch fish on the incoming tide. He teaches them about his country’s culture. He is a river Iban, one of the five types of the Dayak indigenous people of Borneo and he is taking them to visit his wife’s relatives.

At a country market where barbers shave young men’s heads whilst they balance on stools in the dust, they purchase trussed up chickens, lollies and gardening implements as presents for their hosts up river.  Along the way they take a walk through a rainforest to find the world’s largest flower, the rare Rafflesia. Over a meter in diameter, it is in bloom.

Finally they arrive at a simple river jetty where a colourful, wooden canoe with its outboard motor is moored. Their guide advises “ Wait till you get to the river before you take off your shoes”. It is polite to take off your shoes when entering a Malaysian house, but a boat? What type of adventure was unfolding here?  

As the group glides up river in a leaky boat they are glad that their shoes remain dry. The guide, the boat owner, and the three travellers take turns ladling water out of the boat. Ginny sits on a life jacket because the boat seat is just bare board.

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The journey takes hours. She feels that she is moving through time in the jungle heat. Through the tropical rainforest where orangutans find sanctuary, she realizes that this is a rare experience.

If the rich palm oil planters have their way, then it is an experience that will vanish in the mists of time.

Round a bend in the river, the boat party arrives at a tiny cove where a rope ladder hangs down the bank. Children splash naked in the river. Their dark eyes and sparkling white teeth beam a warm welcome. They laugh to watch the visitors navigate the rope ladder up to their jungle home.

The longhouse is a whole village under one roof.  It is built up high, on poles, overlooking the river.  One climbs up a wooden ladder that is flanked by totemic wooden guardians. Once at the top to one side are flat wooden balconies where black peppercorns, spread out on rattan mats, dry in the sun. The other side opens onto a wooden verandah. This is called the ”spirit road”, the heart of the village. The eaves of this spirit road are decorated with shrunken black skulls.  Apartments for each family lead off from this general meeting place.  

The visitors are taken into some of these homes and are offered hospitality. “You may stay here for the night”, says a charming woman with a Kuching haircut and many gold necklaces.

A feast is prepared and everyone is invited to partake of this meal.  Freshly killed chickens are stuffed into bamboo stalks with field mushrooms and lemongrass. Grilled over an open fire, the chicken is accompanied by jungle ferns fried with

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garlic and the fried rice of the region, nasi goring. Suckling pig is served on a bed of stewed melons. Although this is a predominantly Muslim country, most Iban are Christian and enjoy pork.

Musicians play, dancers twirl. The tribe sings a haunting melody. Ginny sings and dances as custom dictates a return gesture. The Dutch lose their arrogance.  Despite their towering strength this may well be their cover for fear. They relax in the ambience of the night as the Iban shyly show off their wooden carvings and batik cloth.

The visitors present gifts to the tribe. The Headman brings forth the local firewater, tuak, distilled from rice and made on the premises and langkau, iban whisky, for the adults to sample. Ginny thinks of the brown water from the river and hopes that no ill will come of this sharing. To refuse would be insulting and the height of bad manners.  Rolled tobacco leaves straight from the jungle ‘supermarket’ produce a spat of coughing from the visitors and everyone joins in the merriment and laughter. A shaman, spiritual doctor, enters the spirit road. He has the utmost respect of the whole group. He sits down next to Ginny.  Barely five feet he has the eyes of Yoda, from Star Wars.  She wonders what visionary wisdom will he impart? He wears the distinctive tattoo between the thumb and forefinger of a headhunter.  He has one English sentence for Ginny, ‘Kiss me, baby”. She has only to answer, “Behave!” and all is well.

All visitors decide to stay in the guesthouse, a bamboo structure built over the pigpen closer to the new cement ablutions block.

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 Partitions of wax dyed batik cloth separate cubicles. Each cubicle has a mattress on a raised rattan platform covered by a mosquito net. Ginny makes sure that she has the middle cubicle. She has a fairly unsettling waking sleep.  Sighs and sounds are carried in the night wind.

A soulful hoot of a hornbill awakens the visitors. This mighty bird, the symbol of Sarawak, is the size of a swan. Once hunted for its brilliant tail feathers worn in war headdresses of the Iban, this bird represents a powerful omen. In an animistic world, a world where there is no separation between the spirit and material world, it is a call to be answered.  It is time to go into the jungle to pay respects to the spirits of the place.  It is time to learn to hunt and gather.

Separate to the longhouse, the bamboo guesthouse also has a spirit road.  On this bamboo road the visitors are instructed how to use a blowpipe. The pole is about 2 m long, the middle of which has been hollowed out by a sharp iron rod leaving a hole 10 mm across. The darts are splinters of palm wood, 20 cm long, fixed to the end of a piece of soft wood or pith. These fit exactly into the tube. Darts have notches on them so that the poisoned end will stick into the victim’s body when the pith portion breaks off. The poison comes from plants that make medicine for muscular relaxation. A target is set up at one end of the road. Gourds, made from carving out a dried large melon, carry the pith bits. These are brought up for the visitors to use with their blowpipes.  Before setting off into the jungle a blood sacrifice is offered to the spirits of the land. This is in the form of a cockfight. The owner of the winning cock has the right to choose the jungle leader.

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The Headman’s son is the chosen one.  His grandfather, the Yodic spirit doctor, presents him with a ceremonial jacket of Ikat fabric. These textiles are purposely made to be beautiful to attract the favour of the spirits. They are hand woven threads of gold and silver, laced with shamanic symbols for protection and are beaded with precious stones.  The young man is very pleased to be wearing it.

The young man tells Ginny that he wore his grandfather’s jacket once before. When it is time to gather the honeycomb from wild bees, a hunter is sent out. As soon as he locates an old tapang bee tree, he marks its trunk with a cross, and builds a simple hut beneath the tree. The honey is his to claim. On the night of the last day of the lunar month, or the first night of the new moon, he climbs the tree chanting the bee song, and collects the honeycomb. The young man collected much honeycomb wearing the jacket. This he shared with the members of the longhouse.

He does not bear the tattoo of the headhunter. “How can I claim the mantle of manhood without a head to nestle in the eaves of the longhouse?” he asks the visitors.

The Iban lands by the rivers are ancestral lands; their blood and flesh belong here. Everything needed to sustain life is available and is governed by the laws handed down in hereditary line from father to son. Spirit doctors hand down secret medicinal herbs and chanting sounds. Stories of lineage and history are sung and passed down in the oral traditional. Wrong doers who provoke the wrath of the spirits are required to pay a fine.

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In more serious cases, a blood sacrifice of pig or chicken is demanded by the tuai rumah, the longhouse Headman. 

The moon and stars signal time for planting rice, corn and sago. Omens also come with nature’s blooming. From childhood the Iban learn to read the landscape. Farmers stuff their ears with grass so they will not hear the omen bird come planting time so that the crop will be abundant.

Part of initiation into manhood is the ritual placing of a shrunken head into the eaves of the longhouse. A special mark is tattooed between the thumb and forefinger. The Headman and the spirit doctor both have these marks. They tell the visitors that the last time a head as gathered was in the border war in 1964 between Indonesia and Malaysia. Called Operation Claret, British and Australian troops fought in this secret war. Headhunting was a reprisal for a very serious offence against the people of a region, like the stealing of land. Who decides where to place a border on a map? This always opens a can of worms.

A sliver of light splashes across golden threads of the ikat jacket worn by the young Iban man. This bejeweled jacket, handed down from father to son, is his license to walk through the ancient jungle to the sacred burial grounds of his ancestors. It is his protection from the harmful spirits that lurk in the tropical rainforest along the riverbanks of Sarawak.

Iban belief is that if one lives in harmony with one’s neighbors and the earth, then one will find favor with the spirits. When one is mean, then one calls down upon oneself the wrath of the spirits. Misfortune may stalk the jungle path. Vines

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may trip the unwary visitor. Dangerous predators may lie in wait for the unprepared.

“Tread softy on this jungle soil,’” he tells the visitors, ’”we are going to pay our respects to the ancestors.” He stands facing the Dutch woman, who has been loudly singing a pop song. In his hand is a machete, its blade gleams in the sun.

Her silence is achieved and her spirit is awakened by the hoot of the hornbill.

There are many mysteries to be learned in the jungles of Sarawak. These are secret and are hidden from the uninitiated.

There will be a new skull to be placed under the eaves of the longhouse. The young man will receive his tattoo, the mantle of manhood. The world flutters and turns in the spirit road of time. Jungle breathes in its quiet memory.

Back from the jungle walk, the same leaky boat that had brought them to this village conveys Ginny and her guide downstream. Crocodiles laze on riverbanks and blink as they pass. They bail out the brown water at the bottom of the boat and this beats a rhythm that suits the journey.

It’s time to stay at an altogether different longhouse. They arrive at the shores of a wide lake. A ferry lies slumbering against a crumbling wooden jetty. A cheery fellow, who greets the guide with a hearty hug, captains this dainty yellow and red craft. They are cousins and swap news of family while lorry men load supplies from Kuching onto the ferry. With only a few people on board, the ferry starts up and heads for the only destination possible, Batang Ali Long.

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Deep jungle surrounds Ali Longhouse Resort. On the edge of the Indonesian border of Kalimantan, it is a Hilton Hotel of distinct quality. Constructed of teak, it is vogue sleek and often features in fashion magazines. Out of a dream, it sits in tranquility and splendid isolation.

This hotel boasts a Michelin Star French Chef, and one English book to read from its library, “Heart of Darkness”, by Joseph Conrad. Someone has a sense of humour.

Crisp white sheets on a king size soft bed are a far cry from sleeping on home made batik covers stretched over rattan floor mattresses. Cool breezes blow through the windows. Weird jungle noises echo through the modern spirit road and there is a hush of expectation in the outdoor dining area. Vivid white of the chef’s tall hat stands out in contrast to an ultramarine dusk.  A thousand jungle eyes watch as barbeque flames leap up and dance with the crescent moon.

There are no skulls lurking in the eaves of this teak longhouse, but there is a feeling of deep respect for the custodians of this land. The indigenous architecture is honored by this new structure. So too, any who seek to know the Iban would appreciate both modern and ancient ways. This rite of travel can expand life’s reality and is truly a gift enhanced by contrasting experiences                                                                                                                       

Virginia Gow

20/06/12

ONCE UPON MT WILSON

ONCE UPON MT WILSON                                                            Virginia Gow 29/05/12

Sunlight splits the dew from yellow leaves and draws forth a brilliant day out of folds of fog. Silver suburban train whistles a Sunday holy hello as it rumbles over the railway crossing at Blackheath. It’s on its way to Sydney town filled with happy holidaymakers. Bellbirds chime in the morning as Ginny and The Visitors climb into a large, black four-wheeler and head off to explore Mt Wilson. It is a fine day for an autumn picnic.

The Visitors are intrepid travellers and have explored the heritage garden village before. ‘Autumn is the vey best time to visit Mt Wilson’, they say. ‘There is no town water supply. People are requested to bring their own drinking water. The residents gather their household needs from water tanks.  Gardens are fed from dams and streams.’  They know to bring their own food, water and wine because there are no shops in Mt Wilson’s village.

Fresh buns from the Blackheath Bakery still carry their early morning ‘hot out of the oven ‘ smell. Sliced ham ‘off the bone’ from the butcher’s, smoked salmon from the fishmonger’s lie between slivers of white paper. Fresh iceberg lettuce and roma tomatoes have just been gathered from the greengrocer’s. Homemade chutney, stuffed olives, soft Brie and tasty hard cheddar from the deli now nestle down in the picnic basket on the back seat. A thermos of hot water for tea or coffee holds its own basket, with mugs, on the floor. Ginny brings a bottle of local Mudgee wine, along with water and milk, in a cooling bag as her contribution.

Up the airy mountain they ride with gaiety and song. As the basalt-capped peaks on the northern edge of the Blue Mountains come into view, the road is a carpet of orange, yellow, red and brown leaves. Autumn tresses of the weeping cherry and liquid ambers are magnificent in their hues having fed off the rich volcanic soil of this cool temperate rainforest. These deciduous trees delight in shedding their treasures, warning of winter’s chill.

The land is sprinkled with world famous gardens. Charles Moore, a Director of the Royal Botanic Gardens in Sydney, created one garden in 1877. This colonial garden, set on 20 acres, surrounds a classic old colonial sandstone homestead. Bronzed ‘ bird of paradise’ fountain leads to a leafy avenue. Purple Sycamore weeps in splendor. There is an ‘old man’ cork tree peeping out at the waterlillies. Imagine standing in a grove created by the one giant redwood and feeling the hush of a sacred space. This giant Sequoia is over a hundred years old and in its branches a boy’s midnight dreamings are protected. Walk down to a sculpture garden where bronze nymphs hide in a waterfall glen. Shift along a high stonewall to discover an elaborate 15^th Century Spanish doorway leading to a secret garden. ‘Peek through the ancient Spanish iron barred window at a walled world of verdant green grass, a wisteria arbour, a thriving herbaceous border’, says the mistress of the house. ‘Catch a sunbeam dancing on the handsome ornamental pond’. The owner of this splendid heritage garden attends life-drawing classes with Ginny. This elegant lady escorts them around her beloved garden then invites them for tea. Thus an extra layer is added to the enjoyment of Mt Wilson as The Visitors sip warm sweet tea inside the solid sandstone walls, warmed by the kitchen hearth.

Mt Wilson is where, as a boy, Patrick White kicks a stone along the road. Hands in pockets, he is already storytelling. Follies sit in splendor, a wedding couple gambols over lawn, and a photographer arranges his child model on an old wooden fence.  Film stars shoot the latest Gatsby movie in a summerhouse. It is all about the dapple of the leaves.

At a fork in the road a wooden picnic table stands with its attendant benches ready to receive a cloth, picnic baskets, cooling bag, The Visitors and Ginny. A gentle wind plays a melody with the fallen leaves. They dine in a manner rather refined, and bask in the rays of the noonday sun. Laughter and chatter mingle with bird song. Time allows the shadows to lengthen and friendship deepens with them.

The journey over, Ginny waves farewell to The Visitors. She settles down in the cosy cottage at Blackheath and plays a video of Mt Wilson inside her mind. She fiddles in the melody of leaves with wind over the layers of graceful images and reminds herself to press the save button.

ONCE UPON A MOTHERS' DAY

ONCE UPON A MOTHERS’ DAY

A shaft of light draws the onlooker towards the glowing circle on the gallery floor where colourful patterns slowly merge and change. 

“Art like this inspires others to expand their horizons”, said the woman to her son on Mothers’ Day. 

His gift to her is a trip to Manly Art Gallery to view the exhibition Markers for the Journey.

The subtle use of sound and light blend with the artist’s brilliant photographic imagery and carries the viewer into timeless places.

A ‘toran’, the traditional welcome banner of India, leads the viewer into the darkened projection area but in this case, the artist has cleverly created her own toran. 

Using found materials, she has stitched stories that ‘mark’ the key people and events in her journey.

This remarkable exhibition by Manly artist, Carole Douglas is an account of her personal experiences in remote Kachchh in North Western India where, for the past 15 years, she has recorded the lives of pastoral communities. 

The result, a collection of sound, images and textiles, offers a unique perspective on India.

“Wait till you get to the river before you take off your shoes” could well apply to this exhibition. 

THE COUSINS' LUNCH AT DARLING HARBOUR

THE COUSINS’ LUNCH AT DARLING HARBOUR                        Virginia Gow 06/05/12

Early morning birdsong greets the voyager stepping out of the cosy cottage. She moves lightly up a meandering path hidden by weeping cherry trees. Bright, crisp wisps of mountain air gambol with autumn leaves around her.  Down the well-worn dirt track, carried along by sturdy walking boots, Ginny heads for the railway station. She is off to meet with her cousins for a day of celebration.

Someone else is walking in this sunshine landscape. They have a chat and he asks a peculiar question “Do your cousins know of Fermat’s Last Theorem?” I’ll bring it up in conversation,” she replies.

Blackheath Railway Station is one of the remarkable features of this mountain town.   The trees that frame the station are of a superior kind, residing in stately composure. The station proper is blessed with a delightful mural depicting a man on horseback leaping over the edge of a mountain precipice. Govett’s Leap is the local myth portrayed in this piece of railway art. It is skillfully rendered for commuters to enjoy as they flow on their way.

Blackheath Railway Station also is the proud possessor of a library in its waiting room. The honour system that operates here allows one to pick up a book, leave a book, read a book. Take a book on the train to Penrith, Sydney or Lithgow.

There is a railway crossing with an automatic drop down gate. Red lights flash, boom gates close, traffic halts, and cargo carriages rumble past. Some of these trains have over fifty freight cars. Enormous engines toot as they chug their way down the mountainside to the seaport of Sydney. Haulage of fine black coal is in demand and affords Australia a comfortable lifestyle.

After a blissful two and a half hour trip down the Blue Mountains, Ginny arrives at Central Railway Station. Here is Sydney, all hustle and bustle, aglow with its brilliant climate. A quick trip to Darling Harbour by metro light rail delivers her into the delightful company of The Cousins.

Off they escalate to ‘Cinta Ria,’ the Temple of Love Malaysian restaurant, to feast in the shade of a giant Buddha. Bohemian in its texture, this restaurant bustles with efficiency. Service is refined. Exotic dishes are served on colourful plates. Dipping into a palette of hugs and smiles, the cousins politely voice their news and opinions. There is no sign here of emotional vampirism found in so many female gatherings. The air is light and conversation flows in tune with the water and the wine.

Of course, Fermat’s Last Theorem is discussed and dismissed. The Cousins know but do not care about 17^th Century physics.  Photos are shared. Triumphs on the golf course are greeted with applause. Whisperings of family histories share pride of place. Tales of fairy dells and gypsies in Ireland herald new delights. The World Championship Irish Dancing in Ireland and Pink Shopping Trolley goes dancing at Ivy’s Night Club amuse and stimulate the group. Cousins who missed out on this gathering are remembered with loving-kindness. One is in a hospice, and plans are made for a visit. One is making coffee in a café and more plans are made for a connection.   One is lost on a sea of sorrow and bemoans the fact that she has no family. Bobbing up and down like a cork in the ocean, eventually she will find the shores of Darling Harbour. The Cousins are persistent.

As sunset shafts the City with rosy orange-yellow hues, the train trip back up the mountains is snuggly inviting in its silence. Ginny hugs her day to her as if it is a warm duffle coat.

Darkness muffles the rattling coal train as it scuttles along the railway track heading for Lithgow. Its empty coal bins eagerly await their feed of black gold. Ginny ambles alongside the railway track.  She is far from empty.  The tasty memory of the Cousins’ lunch at Darling Harbour is her nighttime snack.

Softly singing an Irish ditty she is soon home in the cosy cottage. She will message the cousins who missed out and pass on good wishes. At last she wonders about Fermat and why a triangle would ever want to be a square.

ONCE UPON A GLACIER

ONCE UPON A GLACIER                                                        Virginia Gow        29/04/12

Confucius may well have said,  “Every journey starts with the first step” and this wise saying may have traveled around the world on wind, paper, text and song but when one is standing looking up at a near perpendicular wall of ice with steps being freshly carved into its sheer sides by a smiling New Zealand mountain goat of a ranger, then the wisdom of the first step is questionable.

Having dreams of scaling mountain heights was not on Ginny’s list of 100 things to do before leaving Gaia.  However, in a mountain lodge where she was painting a mural of mountains a ranger responded to her request to take her to walk upon a glacier.  She wished to experience an epic ice adventure and allow the grand mountain vista to seep into her bones. It was in her mind that she would just step out onto a river of ice and allow her feet to wander over the top of this snow crisp landscape.

Now before her, stretching up over four storeys was the terminal face of a glacier, the biggest in New Zealand. It is the twin to Franz Joseph Glacier and it s name is Fox.This mighty glacier is fed by four alpine glaciers and is 300 metres deep. The Fox River emerges from its base and flows on to the township of Fox.

Having donned on the ice boots, stick in hand, Ginny gazed up in awe at the alpine ice walls. No top rope, no harness held this small group of adventurers as they started their ice climb.

Stepping up lively, adrenaline pumping through ice veins, the intrepid party responded well to the challenge. Towards the top, a rush of dizziness caused Ginny to stop and call to the ranger. He pick axed his way effortlessly to where she was, face frozen, pressed into the ice.

“Would you like to go back down?”  He smiled, “We’re almost at the top. It’s flat up there”. Ginny ‘s head reeled in horror at the thought of climbing down those nearly four storeys of ice steps, backwards. “Oh, no” she said, ”I’ll reach the top”.

With a mighty effort she forced her feet to move on upwards and reached the top. Now here she would happily walk on the glacier and appreciate its stunning majesty.

But wait; stretching out before her was a crack about a metre and a half wide in the ice. Peering over the edge of this crevasse she could not see any bottom.  “Jump!’ said the ranger, and she did. The roof of the glacier held over a dozen crevasses. Everybody just jumped over them. It’s amazing what fear mixed with adrenaline can do.

The party scrambled down another way to reach the little township of Fox. Ginny finished her mural and vowed never again to desire glacial adventures. Once was definitely enough and her bones agreed.

SOLITARY CONFINEMENT

SOLITARY CONFINEMENT.                                                             VGow  20/04/12

Catch the train from Florence to Certaldo. In just under an hour this pleasant ride meanders through the pencil pined countryside of Italy. The symbol of the town is the onion. Onion shields present themselves on the walls of all the major buildings of the town. There is a handsome onion symbol at the entrance of the station. Out from that bleak station where morbidity hangs in the air, walk on and find a funicular. This cable car will take you up to the hilltop where the old, walled, medieval Tuscany town stands testimony to the vicissitudes of time.  Take care to search for a story.

Famous for growing the best purple onions in Italy this town was the home of Giovanni Boccaccio, the 14^th Century author of the Decameron. This is an epic story of 100 tales told in the vernacular to amuse the Florentines of the Renaissance period. The Decameron tells of ten people staying in a villa to escape the plague. Over ten days they tell ten stories based on certain themes, love lost, trickery, intrigue, some are the retelling of oral traditions. Most read like some back street gossip to stir up trouble or to give rise to scandal. The many layers of story are like peeling the onion.

Long ago Etruscans hid coins from ancient Lydia in the folds of the stone foundations of this place. The land between the Arno and the Tiber River held their stone temples and statues. Here they practised irrigation and their kings were perhaps the first Kings of Rome.700 years Before the Common Era. They also held storytelling sessions around campfires. Their seers read the future in dismembered entrails of sacrificial animals. The entrails were a powerful source of omens. Seers could tell a story of good fortune or bring down a curse that would smother the land and its people for years to come. It all depended on the rings that formed when the entrails were swished around and let settle in shape of sliced onion rings.

Romans mixed marriage with those of the elder race, languages blurred and time layered the land with a Common Era.  Florence became a Princely state and man decreed a Baron to rule over the onion lands. Hunts took place in the hills surrounding the hilltop town A great castle overlooked the forests. Barons grew rich on copper and iron trade. Agriculture was ample and the people well fed. The mighty purple onion spread its rings over the general population. Stories were told in praise of its magnificent onion soup.

Some say that Boccaccio danced with ancient seers on moonlit nights in the woods. Some say this is where he found his muse. Certainly, Boccaccio made fun of nobles and church in his tales, but he was protected by high birth from despoilment. However, his cohorts would be punished instead. Boccaccio would lose his muse. He could be made solitary by taking away the people who reveled in his playmaking and he would be confined to his own company. Humble seers were rounded up and deposited underground in dank dungeons in the castle on top of the hill town.  They were placed in solitary confinement, where they could not alter the success of the town.

Imprisoned by the Baron, who was the butt of one of Boccaccio’s tales, was a beautiful girl of fifteen. Her father was an onion grower of a quiet nature. The Baron desired her but she was promised to another.  She was of the elder race, and her eyes had a seer quality. The Baron did not stand for any refusal. Summonsing her father and mother, he drew his sword and quickly dispatched them.  The Baron then made short work of the promised youth, too. He threw the girl into solitary confinement.

Being below ground she crawled around in her cell, until her hand found a chink in the crumbling stonewall. Something was embedded into the wall. It was an old coin from Lydia. Often the story had been told around the fires at night of the power of a wish one would have on the finding of such a coin.  She rubbed the coin and it glowed.

Catch the train from Florence to Certaldo, ride the funicular up to the hilltop castle. Slip a lira into the hands of the caretaker. He will undo the lock, allow you to go down, under the ground where the cells for solitary confinement stand mute in their walled misery. There find the old storyteller fingering an ancient coin attached to a dulled gold chain around her throat.  Ask her to reveal the aonions grow over these hillsides of Tuscany.

LAUGHTER

LAUGHTER                                          Virginia Gow 10/04/12

Sydney, Australia, is blessed with a temperate climate all year round. This allows its citizens to work and play in wonderful weather. In the winter month of June the city hosts a Vivid Festival of urban light design, music and drama. Amazing light shows of moving visions shimmer across the city’s iconic buildings. All of these treats play out along the foreshores of a harbour of sparkling beauty. They beckon the traveler from near and far to come and enjoy this feast of colour.

Opera House sails soar with multi-coloured transparent draperies of artistic patterns beamed from laser projectiles. Stately churches light moving film frescos of waterfalls whilst people skate on a man made rink below. The Sydney Town Hall is endowed with moving creations of angels whilst office blocks at Circular Quay play host to paisley prints.  

Amid the programs of interest is a workshop on Laughter. A cosmic comic musician, Laaragi, offers two hours of “Meditation and Laughter”. He is reported to be a global musician of ambient music and as such a welcomed addition to the Vivid Festival.  Traveling around the world, this Afro American spends his life laughing.

Ginny receives a gift in the mail from her friend, Ulli. It is a ticket to attend the Laughter workshop by Laaragi. Ulli informs her that she met up with Laaragi at Venice Beach, California, years ago. Ulli requested that Ginny introduce herself to him after the workshop. With a lightness of heart, Ginny embarks on her laughter journey.

Nearly 40 years ago Jorn Utzon’s schematic design was chosen over 200 other international designs as the concept for the building of the Sydney Opera House. The geometrics for its curved sails caused great worry, not laughter, when this building was constructed. Utzon was dismissed as architect and left Australia’s shores vowing never to return. This was no laughing matter. Years later he was honoured with an architectural award for his design of the Sydney Opera House.

The Utzon Room is the venue for the Laughter and Meditation workshop. Massive concrete structural beams reflect the window light from floor to ceiling. An easterly view of Sydney Harbour allows for wonder. Natural timbers warm to the sounds of laughter as around one hundred people sit or stand around a figure on a raised platform.

Laaragi is dressed in bright orange corduroy trousers. His feet are encased in orange sneakers with lime green laces. Over an orange shirt he wears a waistcoat of sequenced purple satin. The golden sequences reflect and dazzle the eyes as they catch the light beaming in from outside. He rings a bell, strikes a gong, and plays on a jaw harp. He dances and twirls for his audience. Throwing his head back, he roars with laughter.

Different sounds of laughter are presented to the group. From the soft chuckle, the silly giggle, the madman lilt, the joyful sound, the polite ‘time to laugh in chorus’, the hunter’s sneering cackle, the knowing HA HA, the smiling laugh, the spontaneous rattle, to the full belly roll thunder, Laaragi gives each type of laugh a name and a number. He calls upon his converts to answer when a number is called and the room is alive with laughter sounds until tears run from eyes and some people run for the door. A litany of sound assails the ears and all reason is reduced to tatters. Time is immaterial. Faces display clown features, the plain is made beautiful and the room echoes to a cacophony of voices. People light up from within; hug the stranger next to them and laughter rolls on and ripples out to titivate harbour waves.

As black is to white, laughter is to tears, and through all the joy there is sorrow. Conjure up a laugh and awaken the tears, positive to negative and back again. There is pain in laughter for it triggers the memory and thoughts sneak in when the guard is down. Always there is a price to pay for happiness.

Laaagi is please to meet a friend of Ulli. He wishes her well and tells her he is off to Israel to teach laughter to the conscripts in the Army. Giggling his way through to Germany, Spain will next be open to silliness.

On he travels in his gypsy clothes, to laugh around the world. In his wake, laughter clubs are springing up. If there is one near you, lift your spirits, have a laugh.