NOTES FROM CHRISTMAS ISLAND. CHAPTER 5

Image: Manta Ray passing directly underneath catamaran. Was standing at the front of the catamaran, holding camera, when it unexpectedly appeared.

Just enough time to point and shoot, no chance to focus or adjust anything. Probably a metre under the surface. Wonderful experience.

 

Below is the fifth and final in a series of five monthly reports I sent back to friends in 2007.

Should you be interested, recommend that they be read in order, to get the best out of them.

 

Notes from Christmas Island

Chapter 5

NOVEMBER 2007

 

November is our last month on Christmas Island, this time.

 

It is also a month of other significances, namely the eleventh month of the year home, to Remembrance Day.

November also represents the letter “N” as used in radio communication.

November is derived from Old English, derived from Latin, derived from “Novem” being “Nine” being originally the ninth month of the Roman year.

While not related to any of this, I once had a cat called Nine.

That was in Broome, Western Australia. The cat, Nine, was black and I liked him.

He was a good cat and he was slinky.

 

Back to November, it is also the month of Movember, where the male of the species can grow, with a reduced fear of ridicule, a moustache for the purpose of raising funds for charity.

While not strictly following this rule I have for a few days been cultivating a goatee.

 

In fact it is not such much an effort to comply with Movember’s movement but a convenient excuse to not shave prior to work.

 

Only today was I questioned, if I was getting paid for growing it.

Nope, doing it for free.

Jody reckons I am going grey around the muzzle and if I was a dog, I would be Blue Heeler or Cattle Dog.

Funny, I was kinda thinking of a Husky or Snow Dog.

I also like eating meals out of a bowl.

 

We met another pair of yachties recently at the outdoor cinema one pleasant Saturday night while their awesome Catamaran lay sweetly at anchor in the Cove.

 

Having set sail from Western Australia’s timeless Kimberley coast six days before, Christmas Island’s Jurassic topography and safe anchorage beckoned them, same as Sirens did to Ancient Mariners in Greek Mythology.

 

They were cruising gracefully from Queensland bound for a three month stay on Cocos (Keeling) Islands.

Cocos, by the way is some nine hundred kilometres further Westward in that general African direction, so Christmas Island was planned as a three day re-provision stopover.

This allocated time was also a chance to fully inspect the condition of the hulls, sails, rigging and chocolate.

Weeks later they are still shaking their heads in disbelief of how their first hours on the island panned out.

 

With Customs and Quarantine legalities complete they engaged in conversation with one of our locals, a fellow Hash House Harriers runner, who was due to fly off the island for three months.

 

A welcoming dockside chat soon became an offer to use his completely desirable 4WD Landcruiser for the length of their stay.

And by the way, the tank has just been filled.

 

With this astonishing introduction to island life under their belt, thoughts turned to exploring the island, meeting and understanding the people if things like this happen.

 

The next evening was our meeting at the outdoor cinema.

Long after the credits had rolled, the crowd disbursed and all copyright payments ignored, the four of us were still leaning against our respective borrowed cars as we passed along our accumulated information on the rhythms of island life.

 

A primary piece of advice I gave, and continue to stick to, was to get the answer to the same question from multiple sources.

As no singular person is the holder of all island information.

Unless asking directions.

 

Being good yachties, as opposed to the deadbeat, dirt-bag, dread-locked, free-loading, feral yachties, they have been welcomed into circles that we frequent as great additions to the island even if temporary, although I suspect their temporary / temporary status may well become permanently / temporary and way out here that is as much as you can ask from a first time visitor.

 

To become permanent here, there is always a need to head back to the mainland to calculate numbers, to attend to business then organise a return.

 

The catamaran, “Southern Comfort” is a complete scorcher.

At 12 metres in length and ninety percent owner built, designed to be sailed solo if necessary and is a sweet ride of fibreglass, fancy composites, carbon fibre and swoopy design.

Port hull holds Queens size bedroom, clothes storage, sailing equipment storage, bathroom and toilet of spaciousness and class.

Starboard hull holds Queens sized bedroom, another smaller bedroom, fully competent galley, sailing equipment storage.

Preventing Port and Starboard hulls from sailing off in different directions is the central cockpit and general mission control.

This centre deck houses a lounge / day sleeper and communications and electronics area.

The whole thing is magnificent.

 

We have sat on, snorkelled to and from and taken in vistas of the rugged and resolute features of the CI coast at dusk from the swanky poop deck.

 

At last count their three day stopover is running at around forty.

 

A visitor we took onto Southern Comfort, a couple of weeks ago, was a journalist, Zi, on assignment from Singapore’s colossal Changi Airport.

An airport vast enough for it’s own dedicated magazine.

Her brief was to find out about the islands natural features and summarise the character of the people.

I hope I made a sufficiently good impression on behalf of the island as Zi spent more time with me than anyone else, so if the island comes off looking a bit crazy I’ve got no one else to blame and no where to hide.

 

She was taken to just about every place on land and sea that could be done in a week.

In Poon Saan we dropped in on a baby Golden Bosun chick that I have been keeping tabs on over the last few months.

The chick has grown from a freshly hatched chick cutely covered in the softest and fluffiest white fur to a small dove sized bird whose feathers are just starting to show.

 

In a few months she will be the most beautiful adolescent bird with pure golden shoulders and wings.

The two gold streamer feathers stretching half a metre beyond her flight feathers will scintillate in the light as she circulates above Flying Fish Cove.

 

Her mother has nested on the ground at the base of old tree two metres off the road.

Long term locals advise that the mother has been nesting in the same spot for over ten years, dutifully raising her young in such a public location. When the Casino was running, this site was an accommodation block for Casino staff and by all reports a solid party area however the Golden Bosun continued to nest here.

 

In a feathery miracle, while the mother is out looking for food, the chick nests defencelessly on the ground but none of the Goshawks, Kestrels or feral cats who are capable of taking the chick away as a snack seem to bother.

 

As island emblem and elegant fliers Golden Bosuns are so admired that all island residents will care and protect them.

Any in found in distress are quickly gathered and taken to Parks Australia for security and rehabilitation.

 

You know, I never really took much notice of birds on the mainland, sure I like magpies and crows and always loved the sound of kookaburras but never really got into anything beyond that.

 

If you are thinking:

“Would you knock it off with the bird stories.”

Well here they are really something to admire and preserve.

 

New subject.

Christmas Island is anchored to the Australian continental plate five kilometres below around which the warm Indian Ocean swirls.

 

During March to November weather patterns are dominated by South Easterly winds, that is coming from the Perth / Fremantle / Western Australian direction.

Propelled by these winds the strong currents generate waves that lash against our Eastern and Southern coastlines.

 

For the other three months: December, January and February the weather swings around and comes from the North and that is when the action happens.

 

The rains come, the waves get so big in the Cove that ships can no longer dock, thunderstorms crack, whalesharks numbers increase and the crabs migrate.

It is a great, if wet time, the humidity cranks up though, especially if there has been rain and through a break in the cloud the sun beats down on the surface.

That is, when the rains come.

 

Keep that point in mind while I explain other stuff for a while.

 

That week was also my scheduled turn to set the weekly Hash Run.

My plan was a run through the central upper plateau.

Start at the Central Area Workshop run along the road for a kilometre.

Turn into the jungle then follow an old baseline track last properly cleared about five years before.

Along for a kilometre or so turn right along a perpendicular baseline track and out onto the road and back along a permanent track to the start.

Midway a deviation was incorporated to give the runners extra distance to cover.

This all sounds pretty simple except the fact that all of it had to be cleared of overhanging branches, thorned vines, sharp edged pandanus palms and be run while in waist high bushes, fallen logs and strewn boulders.

 

To provide directional clues six hours of cutting by parang or machete and the tagging of trees with tape was undertaken.

 

My first session was on the Sunday that laid the outline of the track excluding the extra runners component.

 

Monday I invited Zi to see what setting a Hash run, CI style was like for her story.

After two hours on what was supposed to be a straight line with an intent to exit on the permanent vehicle track some 1500 metres along, we emerged from the bush, scratched and dusty 100 metres from where we went in!

 

Somewhere, somehow within the rainforest I had changed direction and almost doubled back on our track.

It actually made the run better than planned but confused the hell out me.

 

The crab migration was also what her journalistic assignment was to cover.

After six of the seven allocated days behind us, the only crabs lurking were in the waterfall and permanent natural springs areas.

It had been too hot for the crabs to move.

By Thursday’s midday deadline the article could only reflect that of an island with 40 million crabs barely five individual ones had been seen on the move. We could have given them names!

 

Thursday 2pm and shortly before the flight back to Singapore was land the rains had arrived and the crabs were starting to come out.

 

I was not going to let her leave without the story she needed, I drove down to where Zi was staying and we raced up the top of the island and saw that the migration was about to start.

It was great the rains had proven that we were telling the truth all along.

 

After returning her back to the hotel, Jody and I went back up to the run location to put the last few tags up, then deposit drinks for the drink stop located where the trails busted out of the rainforest onto the permanent tracks.

Everything was working to plan except the crabs were out in their thousands.

 

To cover the distance of three kilometres on the permanent track by vehicle, a passage that should have taken five minutes max, was transformed into an unorthodox sight of Jody driving the one tonne ute in first gear while I ran in front holding an esky lid gently flicking hundreds of crabs off the track to safety.

 

By the time we got to the start of the run, a full house was there, barely patiently awaiting instructions ready to go.

 

As I was concerned that people might get lost if they were too tardy and become stranded in the rainforest after dark, I ducked off to wait in the jungle at the tricky bits.

 

Where everyone should have broken free from floralistic clutches of jungle tendrils, everyone did.

Except two.

 

With fifteen minutes of daylight left, Bigfoot, one of the stooges from Chapter 4, stated that his girlfriend, Foot Fetish was one of those unaccounted for.

 

Together we impetuously plunged back into the dense and tangled vegetation to find her and anyone else.

 

We tracked back along the tags until it was so dark that we could see naff in front of us. This was a good time to get out.

 

Dark in there, is dark and black and dark.

 

Confident in the knowledge, if I could feel ferns against my body and face while walking, then we were still on the baseline track since ferns are the predominant foliage that grows in previously graded areas.

 

It worked and we came out precisely at our entry point in pure darkness.

When setting the run my navigation had been pretty bad but in retracing the path and finding salvation under pressure it had been very precise and I was pretty happy the way things sorted themselves out.

 

Foot Fetish had turned around long before and was never lost and was waiting at the BBQ for us to return.

 

The rains that came started the migration in earnest the very next day, Friday morning.

There were tens of thousand of them on the go.

Roads were closed as they rustled their way across dry fallen leaves but the follow up rains did not come so it has pretty much stalled at this point this year.

When the rains do come again, shortly, I suspect it will restart but am not sure if we will catch it.

With three days left to go......can’t say.

 

But the first of the Whalesharks have arrived and that is great news.

 

By the way, that goatee lasted three days before I got rid of it. Didn't like it.

 

Looking back, within the first month of being here we applied along with about thirty others for some employment to cover living expenses.

This wasn’t the tour guiding employment but a second form of commercial remuneration to keep some fiscal equilibrium.

The interview process was island style… Casual.

Just like the hours offered.

We thought, for the interview our best avenue was to dress in a manner similar to that of the mainland.

In my case, nice-ish pants and ironed long sleeve shirt, with a collar and shoes.

Proceeding this had to locate the iron as it had been a while since such an instrument had been needed.

At the group interview we might as well been in a tuxedo and ball dress for how over dressed we felt.

One guy turned up in his West Coast Eagles football jumper, basketball shorts and scored a position as well.

First impressions were not a critical as we thought.

 

And now for some indiscriminate observations:

 

The notion of keeping up with the neighbours does not really exist here.

Predominantly and pleasantly you are judged on your personal merits.

Suburb, house, car, boat, job title or general financial situation does not define your persona.

If you are a complete clown, no amount of fake tan, botox or big screen TV will hide it here.

 

I’ve got this theory, which I think stands up to reasonable scrutiny and peer review.

That is, most people are good natured souls who crave safety, security, honesty and community.

And when given the opportunity, due to isolation, to belong in an environment where those facets are standard, people revel in such an existence.

It’s not that people here are better, they are not, it’s just that when they get here individuals can truly be who they want to be and should be.

 

And that is one of the reasons that make this place so great.

 

As mentioned in previous Notes’ from Christmas Island, we have a block of land in Silver City acquired last year.

Soon after our arrival we had it cleared of scrappy weeds and took the opportunity to understand what we had.

At the moment we have 30º of ocean views in a general westerly direction.

That’s not bad.

 

At some yet undetermined date if we build at the back of the block, on the high portion, a house that is up off the ground at bit, say on poles, then, we have first class 120º ocean views above my neighbouring houses to the Cove and North Western Coast and to the horizon.

That’s even better.

 

“Southern Comfort” went for a shake down run before the ocean crossing to Cocos and doubled up as a chance to do some Whale Shark spotting.

We scored an invitation [nice work] and spent four hours cruising gently past the coast from anchorage out almost to North West Point.

No Whale Sharks for us, although we heard they were out there that day.

In some maritime compensation we saw a manta ray glide under the boat and had a largish pod of dolphins hang around for a couple of hours.

These Spinner dolphins play all day.

Jumping out of the ocean Spinners rotate vigorously like a corkscrew and land at obtuse angles with a massive splash any chance they get.

One image captures a Spinner mid air, upside down and on the way to an undignified splashdown. It was wonderful.

 

Today, our last full day here, attended to my final tour, did a filmed interview with video journalists, completed unscathed our last Hash run, gave away our kitchen contents and began the forlorn task of packing suitcases.

 

And after five months we are leaving, with:

Many new friends,

Heaps of rewarding experiences,

A plan to come back,

Days of invigorating jungle exploration,

Plenty of photos,

A positive influence within the community,

An apparent good reputation,

Quite a number of people who are legitimately sad to see us leave,

Quite a few who genuinely want to see us return,

No criminal convictions,

No known enemies,

No tropical diseases,

No non-tropical diseases,

Total of 74 CI Hash runs now under my belt [21 to Jody]

And no outstanding debts.

 

Have loved it here.

 

That’s it, must go, gotta plane to catch!

 

Keith (and Jody who is by the door, waiting for me to lift the suitcases into the car)

 

 

Done