Jo Squire Writes

Action Fiction Africa Female

#environment #conservation #author #novel #elephants

Boots and All

by

As camping spots for the Jatbula hike in the Northern Territory were booked out within an hour of their release, we felt fortunate to get a last spot, despite it being the end of season September heat. On the day before we left, our reconnaissance paddle in kayaks along the Katherine Gorge in 40 degrees centigrade had us concerned about how we’d manage the 5-day hike.

Advice about not hiking in the hottest part of the day and that we should consume a lot of electrolytes came thick and fast. Only the temptation of swimming holes and waterfalls near camp sites kept us motivated. It didn’t take long before Jen developed a boots-and-all approach to swimming holes along the way. To be honest, many of them were merely water puddles. Jen concluded they weren’t worth the effort of undressing for.

However, the campsites were gorgeous. Our first night above Biddlecombe Cascades won the award for scenic beauty with crystal clear ponds at the top and a cool, deep rock pool between the high and low sections of the waterfall.

It was amazing how fast even those of us who are not early risers adapted to packing up camp in the dark to avoid hiking in blistering afternoon temperatures. Each morning, at daybreak, our 6 humpbacked silhouettes climbed away from the relative cool of the water source. Any murky pond along the way was invitation us to dip our shirts, hats, or bodies into it. Without them we’d have been sad vegemites; with them, we were chirpy hikers on a mission. Our destination campsites were along water-holey sections of the Edith river, lined with lily pads and lotus flowers.

On our third evening, a gorgeous gang of red-tailed black cockatoos kept us company, their melodious calls filling the air and drowning out the cawing of the crows, who waited patiently for opportunities to raid the campsite. None of us lost any food, but Darcy’s gear gained a few extra holes.

We must have swum with freshwater crocodiles, although none of us were lucky enough to see one. The rangers assured us that their scarier saltwater relatives were absent from all but one waterhole along the way, where we’d been warned not to swim. Strangely enough, none of us had any inclination to do so. Etched in my mind is the memory of a news article, where a Kakadu tour guide took 2 of his female travellers for a swim across a lily-pond lagoon. The girl at the back felt the water displacement below her before the crocodile surfaced just ahead to pull her friend under. I’ve always thought it’d have been fairer had the croc chosen the guide instead.

There was no stopping our intrepid crew on our last day of the hike, when temperatures dropped to an icy 36 degrees centigrade for the hike past Sweetwater to Edith falls. I was sad to return to the concrete carpark for our pickup to take us to Katherine’s city-lights. Anyone who has been there will understand my meaning.

PNG Remote Church

by

As the MV Chertan pulls up at the Kwato Island jetty, a group of curious kids jostle for the best view of our back deck. The deck contains rows of wetsuits and tanks, an underwater camera table, and ten divers from the Nautilus Scuba Club whose chatter is noisier than that of the kids.

The open, innocent faces of the curly mopped kids watch our every movement. Later they dive-bomb off the jetty, a favourite activity for children in remote PNG coastal communities.

After our first critter filled dive, we tuck into yet another hearty breakfast. To occupy the surface interval between dives, my dive buddy and I take a walk through the small settlement toward the church. Our grassy track ascends between old jacarandas and giant fig trees to a high point overlooking the village. Along the way, we catch glimpses of a sunlit ocean through gaps in the canopy. A five-corner tree and the enormous figs remind me of the vegetation back home in tropical Queensland, but everything seems grander here. So many of our ancient trees have been quietly felled by local councils in Australia, one by one, the not so slow attrition of nature as we hurtle toward our cemented cityscapes. 

The A framed church looks modern, but the plaque says missionaries built it in 1941.

“They were keen to get this built during the war,” says Pete.

But they did, and it looks as new and polished as it probably was on the day they finished it. Sensibly, the sides are open and partly louvred so that the worshippers can gaze across expansive ocean views and luxuriant forest canopies — a reminder of the beauty laid out by God. Its high blue roof and hand-built stone walls seem at odds with the wooden thatch-roofed houses on the beachfront some way below us, but it’s gorgeous never-the-less.

When we return, the kids have relocated to seats on top of a world-war engine that’s half rusted-away by the waterfront. Old and overtaken by nature, it’s become part of the landscape. Two of the children hold paddles as if they plan to paddle their craft across the deep green ocean only metres away. I wonder if the kids ever swim down to the motor sitting on the seafloor by their jetty, only partly disguised by coral and sponges.

We do another incredible dive, this time under and along from the jetty: ornate ghost pipefish, stonefish, and my first toadfish. Also, a range of cute blennies – from tiny ones with their faces stuck out of holes to fat rockhoppers that munch seaweed off rocks. Naturally, we’re delighted. Akiko gives the dive two stars, her highest rating. Heaps of other stuff too, and so many critters we lose track. It would take all day to try and classify them all.

Muck Dives

by

For those of you not yet initiated, muck diving involves swimming exceptionally slowly along the ocean floor. Spectacular fans, gorgeous corals and brightly coloured fish are not an integral part of the scenery.

Having said that, our muck dive at Lawadi, North Milne Bay this morning ended with a long swim back around an underwater headland over acres of pristine coral, as the boat was parked on Deakins Reef around the corner.

The first half hour was a familiar Muck Dive, a brown rubble-strewn slope, apparently devoid of life. That’s until my focus came down to the really small stuff. Not far along the slope, Alex is shouting underwater, not an easy feat, but he practises a lot and is an expert. Several divers respond instantly and swim toward the nondescript patch of slope in front of his large camera. With a metal pointer, he indicates a minuscule dot in the mud, our first nudibranch. With my brand-new bifocal mask, I can actually see it for once. I make a mental note to ask to see the massively enlarged image on his computer screen later, so I can truly appreciate what I saw.

One by one the divers disperse away from the nudibranch. We spread ourselves out, so five of us hang parallel to the slope, faces a few cms above the rubble. Alex is the nearest to me, his wetsuit encompassing a hood, giving him the appearance of being in underwater stealth mode. His country of birth gives us leeway to rib him about being a Russian spy.

We are lucky enough to eventually discover a seahorse, drifting across the slope, moving like a piece of floating debris, so as to not draw attention to itself, a common ploy of critters found in muck sites. After a while, as often happens on these dives, I spot dead leaves mimicking leafy scorpionfish, halameda seaweed posing as halameda ghost pipefish and numerous other shapes protruding from the slope pretending to be something interesting.

To break such excitement, I’m lucky enough to discover a mimic octopus on the hunt. I watch it sitting on the spot with the ends of its tentacles probing invisible channels in the sand. It moves along a few cms and tries again, its body rearranged into the head and a surrounding shirt. This octopus when threatened will flee, its tentacles re-shaped to resemble a flounder.

The muck dive deteriorates into pristine reef for the swim back, though the water is murky from run-off and the visibility is poor. The reef scenery unfolds, emerging out of the inky water, like mountain scenery on a misty day. I’m not joking when I say – it’s stunning.   

Boat Vendors

by

Boat vendors often peddle their wares on lakes or rivers in busy places. Bangkok floating markets for instance, or in Srinagar, Kashmir, where I stayed on Dal Lake in an old-style houseboat for a week. Our boat came with traditionally carved furniture and Indian rugs. It was 1989 and we got a special deal because the unrest in Kashmir had scared sensible tourists away. We were too young to know better and survived our stupidity splendidly.  Local visitors paddled their boats over, loaded with food or local art, and we’d hang over the railings and bargain our hardest.   

Because of the apparent remoteness of many PNG dive sites, I never expected to see so many similar boats paddled across to us. Their industrious owners were determined to make contact. Sometimes they’re just curious villagers from near-by islands. But there are vendors almost everywhere the MV Chertan pulls up anywhere near to land, and occasionally way out to sea.

Before the first dive, there rarely a person in sight, just miles of rainforest clad coastline down to shoreline.  The location seems amazing and remote, a true wilderness perhaps. An hour or so later, as we swim back along the underside of the boat to the ladder, there are wooden canoe undersides, babies to the MV Chertan, huddled behind the dive deck. Paddles dip below the surface as they jostle for position and silhouettes of people lean over to watch us on our safety stop.

Anyone nearby with anything to sell has mobilised. An old man with jewellery arranged across a wooden railing and nautilus shells grins as I surface next to him. His untraditional cap says BOY. Bobbing a couple of metres behind him are 2 kids, possibly brother and younger sister with only their curiosity on board. Later when I’m dry and dressed, the old man is still waiting, his goods perfectly balanced considering the swell. It’s hard to believe they haven’t slid into the ocean. He gives me a thumbs up and I do the same, but he has nothing I want to buy.  

The MV Chertan has parked at Michelle’s dive site for the first time in ages, and she’s casually tied up to a tree. There’s been a fight between a couple of local tribes over who really owns this beach. For a while, both tribes demanded money to anchor here. A man, dressed in shorts and stand-out, bright yellow shirt gesticulates wildly at our canoe vendors. I wish I understood their sign language, as then I’d know whether he’s saying – this is our territory, leave before I cut your head off, or – hey grand-dad, I’ve not seen you for ages and you just missed New Years celebrations.

Diving with Pete

by

I’m incredibly grateful to Pete, my reliable and fantastic dive buddy for 15 years. He can be militant at times, as I can be, especially when we’re keen to get into the water.

“Get a move on, it’s not as if we have all day,” one of us will say, knowing perfectly well that we do. That’s one of many upsides of diving holidays, you do usually have all day to dive, and if, you’re really keen there’s the option of a night dive as well. Neither Pete nor I are keen on night dives, which would make many categorise us as not hard-core. Even when the water temperature is 29 degrees centigrade, it still seems cold and dark, and therefore a horribly miserable idea to struggle into wet gear at night.

Five weeks before a dive trip to Bali, Pete broke his leg. Not one to be discouraged, he insisted it was business as usual. Each morning he took his crutches right to the water’s edge where the rustic Indonesian boat waited for us. Despite my concerns, all went well. Pete and his wife, Merilyn, visited me just before this trip, and he managed to trip up my steps, landing with arms, legs and crutches sticking out at strange angles ahead of us.

“I did ask him how I’m supposed to help when the waves smash against the boat at the dive-site,” I say to Merilyn as Pete struggles to right himself.

“Just put your hand on his head and hold him under for a very long time!” replies Merilyn, her sharp wit instantly in play.

I wouldn’t have made nearly as many dive trips without the familiar phone calls that start off along the lines of: Have you read such and such an article on a dive destination; google it and I’ll call you tonight to discuss. The best piece was about diving with whale sharks in Irian Jaya. The magazine made it look amazing, and the reality was even better. Which makes me eternally grateful to have an instigator for such trips.

We can both be grumpy, but because we’re not a couple, we sort of respect each other and don’t argue as partners are inclined to do. So, the trips generally go smoothly and without drama and upset. It works really well, and we’re able to squabble like an old married couple without either one taking it too personally.

Pete saved my skin when I ran out of air at 30 metres, my own fault for failing to check my gauge. The Indonesian boatmen had forgotten to fill my tank for the dive. I exhausted the reserve twenty minutes into the dive, and as I took the next breath was alarmed to find my supposedly new tank empty. Luckily, Pete was close as we were converged on a leafy scorpionfish pointed out to us by another diver. I grabbed Pete’s arm, gave him an out-of-air signal and indicated I’d do an emergency ascent. My main thought should have been – my god I could die. It was in fact – my god, my sinuses will explode on the way up.

Pete expressed complete disbelief until I showed him air gauge with the needle at the bottom of the red. No need for panic – like a well-trained dive-master, Pete grabbed his mouthpiece and shoved it at me, and then retrieved his octopus-piece for himself. We completed the dive, arm in arm to keep close so I could breathe his air supply, and because we’re both economical on air, had almost as long a dive as everyone else.  When we surfaced, he told me that If I wanted to hold hands, I only had to ask!