Music and fruit

Would it be untoward of me to say that I really love it here? After all, nobody loves their jobs – or at least nobody says they do. It wouldn’t be called work if it was play.

Perhaps love is too strong a word. With the length of the swings and The Tiredness and the hopeless camp maintenance department who still haven’t fixed my room, there are certainly things to get you down. But I am liking it here a hell of a lot. I don’t know why I find that so surprising.

It helps that I don’t have to worry about what to wear each morning (“Ooooh, I think I’ll wear orange today”) and nobody gives a damn if your hair is sticking up and you are covered in sweat and dust - because they are too. I also love not having to cook. This means I don’t have to shop – hooray! I hate shopping.

And, of course, it’s all in the people. I love that there are so many different people here and from so many different places. They are all worldly, smart and funny– and just a little bit mad. I have also been here long enough that most of them know me now. I no longer skulk into the dining hall, hair over my face, scurrying to the corner with a plate of peas all by myself; I can walk in like I own the place, high-fiving as I go. I also don’t feel like I need an invite to go to the ‘wetty’. I can turn up solo and people will make space for me at their table. It’s a nice feeling.

A few weeks ago I was out on a job with one of the sparkies (let’s call him Wayne, because that is his name) and was singing along to a song on the radio. “You’ve got a nice voice,” he said. Trust me on this, I don’t; it was just that that song only had about three notes in it and so was hard to get wrong. Notwithstanding he invited me to come over to his room one day for a bit of a laugh and a sing-along (he plays the guitar) and last night I grabbed a few takeaways from the wetty and did just that.

It was such fun sitting out in the humid night air making up lyrics and carrying on. It was great to be doing something different and, as the evening wore on, other neighbours came out to join the scene. Then who should saunter down the row, cool as a cucumber, guitar in hand? – Son of Family Guy.

You know, I was doing really well there for a while. I was calmly going about my life, enjoying my work and the banter with the crew, my stupid little crush properly subsided, practically forgotten. BAM! Now it’s back. Stupid SOFG getting all soulful on the guitar. Shite. Must remember: TOO YOUNG. Way way too young.

Now, lesson: one should always remember during times of smooth sailing to keep an eye out for the curve ball. In my case, just when I am all settled in here, doing a good job and having a good time, a grapefruit-sized curve ball in the form of a tumour. Thankfully it is benign (*phew*), but it is pressing on things in my belly and so has to come out. I am extremely thankful that it is nothing more sinister, but it means I have to take at least five weeks off work from mid-March to go under the knife. I am not amused.

Telling my bosses was a scary thing. You see, because there has been a takeover and the scope of the work I am doing is changing, I have been trying to fly a little bit under the radar in case they suddenly realise that they don’t need me after all. Asking for five+ weeks off after only being here three months (and only having a six month contract) could have been just the trigger they needed to say “Sorry Nic, we meant to tell you, your contract won’t be renewed, you may as well go now” and put me on a window seat home.

But I am humbled and grateful to report that they were both really understanding and really good. They encouraged me to take all the time I need – even suggesting that if I need more than five weeks (and am well enough) I could work a few hours from home on metropolitan rates. They also hinted that there will be plenty more work for me after the contract end date and that there is every chance I will be able to stay on. I confess, if I hadn’t had my ‘professional employee’ persona well and truly pasted on, I would have cried.

And on that note, I had best go and do some work. I don’t want them to change their mind. What would I blog about then?

Copping a Heidi-ing

The day before I was due to go home last swing, I weed on a frog.

It was an accident, of course - urinating on harmless amphibians is not a hobby of mine – but I still felt quite bad. Fortunately, as you do around here, I had drunk lots of water that day so it was at least... er... diluted.

The Kermit in question must have made his way ‘to the light’ of my loo via the Spinifex camp sewerage system and, upon (too late) discovering him there, I wondered what to do. My first thought was to try and catch him and let him go outside; but for the last two weeks it had been super dry and dusty with a daily temp of at least 45C and I couldn’t think of a single frog friendly place to put him. He would have fried in seconds.

So I said “God speed, little froggie” and flushed him back from whence he came.

“I found a frog in my bed once,” nodded one of the guys on the bus when I later confessed my crime. “You do sometimes get them around here.”

Well, that was an understatement. Fast forward to this swing (now 4 days old) and a seemingly unstoppable deluge has been unleashed on the Pilbara courtesy of Cyclone Heidi. In other words - and with a nod to the  experience of my flushed froggie friend -  it has been PISSING down. Conditions were so bad on my return that they had to close the airport, divert our plane to Newman and slowly bus us all in through the storm and tempest. Why they didn’t just tell us to stay in Perth until the cyclone was over, I’ll never know.

Anyway, with everything now flooded – the ubiquitous orange dust replaced by ubiquitous orange mud – there are frogs everywhere! Big frogs, little frogs, frogs that go “WAAARK” and frogs that wail like a siren. Where do they all come from? It’s hard to believe that they can survive buried in all that heat and dust until times such as these. At night the ground is alive with them.

Two nights ago, at around midnight and while it was still howling outside, I stretched out in bed in a semi-conscious dream. My foot hit something cold. Waking in a fright, I sat up and threw off the covers expecting to find another frog. Instead, a cascade of orange water poured on my head. Niagara Falls had entered through the ceiling light fitting and the end of my bed (and now me) was soaked. Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do other than spend the night attempting to catch it in my little waste paper bin. It filled to the brim every half an hour, so not much sleep there.

Various maintenance reports and buggerising around later, I have been temporarily moved to a new and thankfully dry donga. I hope they can fix my old one though. It’s all location, location, location, dah-lingks, and I like it much better.

These pics don't do it justice, but this is outside my (original) room before and after Cyclone Heidi.

I've got river views! 

In other news – and cross my heart I kid you not! - a contractor has arrived who, for those who know him, looks exactly like the KingofAnkh! His name is Arnold – or at least that is what I call him. That is because he is a big beefy Austrian version of the King who speaks exactly like Arnold Schwartzenegger. It has been hilarious having him around – especially because of the ribbing he gets. The banter is priceless. If you have heard that Luke Million mix of Arnold Schwartzenegger doing a fitness video you will understand. With Arnold in da house it is currently a popular tune.

“Dowwwn. Up. Dowwwn. Up. Come on. More energy.”  -  I think there's something in that for all of us, don’t you? :D

Catching my breath

Now that I have been here for three swings (i.e. three lots of 14 working days), I can empirically say that it is on Day 9 that The Tiredness kicks in. Oh you are tired all the time with the heat and long hours and everything; but Day 9 is a real killer. Instead of the 4.30am starts getting easier as the swing progresses, for some reason you wake up on Day 9 feeling groggy and awful and like you’ve never had a day off in your life. Following, the five remaining days until your weeks break take FOREVER.

I thought The Tiredness might be because my internal clock has had a lifetime of being conditioned to a weekend off after every five working days, and that 14 days in a row has thrown that out of whack. But, no, that’s not it. I mentioned the phenomenon to a couple of other people who do 2/1 swings – and have been doing them for years - and they all agree. On Day 9 you crawl along the ground with your teeth.

Today is Day 12 for me – and New Years Day to boot. Being post Day 9, I’ve started 2012 with a good dose of The Tiredness, but am also in a pretty good mood. Although it hasn’t been a traditional festive season, I have had a few good laughs – mostly at myself – and it’s a good way to kick off this next planetary trip round the sun.

For example, why – oh why! – on Christmas night did I think it a good idea to join in a drinking game involving gravity, probability and bottle tops with the Mechanical boys from the bus? I went down to the ‘wetty’ to meet a friend and have a few quiet ones, got there first so sat with the boys while I waited - and the next thing I knew I was really quite drunk and talking to Fundy on the phone in a faux Indian accent! There had been a huge dust storm that afternoon and it was still 43 degrees at 8pm, so the icey beers were going down pretty well – and the fact that I kept losing at bottle tops meant I was swigging the amber goodness at a double the usual rate, while additionally providing great entertainment for all in the vicinity. Merry Christmas indeed!

Action at the ‘wetty’. Note Jude Law.

The next morning paranoia set it. We had been told we would all be breathalysed on the bus and you have to blow 0.000 to be allowed on site. Even though the beer here is only mid-strength, I wondered exactly how many I had consumed during the bottle top shenanigans and if I might be over. Dragging myself out of bed, I ventured into the still starry morning to use the self-breath-tester in the laundry.

But the tester was out for servicing. So was the one at the next laundry. And the one after that. And the more I searched, the more paranoid I got and the greater became the likelihood that, zero or not, I would be late for work. Also, the more orange-shirted zombies I bumped into experiencing exactly the same thing. Eventually we found a functional breathalyser miles away over the other side of camp and I did blow zero – but not before I had to get one of the guys to give me a leg up because they had mounted the infernal thing too high on the wall for my Royal Shortness.

“Saw you going for a breatho,” Jude Law winked knowingly when I eventually took my seat on the bus. “Only because you were, too,” I replied, and everyone laughed. The joke was on him.

Unfortunately one of the guys on the bus did blow over that morning. He couldn’t find a breathalyser to self test and so risked it. He blew 0.002 and like a criminal they made him get out and stand on the kerb. He wasn’t allowed to work that day. “He could have farted and he would have been under,” one of the boys shook his head as we left him there and drove away.

For New Years Eve (i.e. last night) I again found myself down at the ‘wetty’. There has been a shift change since Christmas so those pesky Mechanical boys and their bottle tops are back in Perth and I was safe; but I still had a good laugh. General consensus was that, because we were all too knackered to stay up until midnight, we celebrate New Year on eastern states time (i.e. 9pm here). So that’s what we did. I was home in bed by ten, no fear of the breathalyser, my Christmas lesson learned.

Not so good for some others today though. *wink*

New Year at the 'wetty'.

Watching the fireworks at 'midnight'.

Happy 2012 everyone! So far so good and may it be your best year yet. :D XXXXX

Christmas tree

A few years ago, while doing some field work near Port Hedland, I came across a Coolabah tree on the side of a dusty track with three pairs of work boots hanging from its branches. I was fascinated by this tree and took loads of photos, later learning that the dangling footwear was most likely the handiwork of happy long-term contractors finally finishing up and leaving site.

It seems that this Boot Tree was no isolated incident. Since being at Yandi I have seen three of them, each with varying degrees of sole. But by far my favourite is the one on the way out to the airport. It is also obviously beloved by departing staff and, having finally been granted a permit to drive on site (oh the freedom!), I’ve at last had a chance to take a picture of it. Indeed, with its heavy decoration glinting in the sun, it has become my unofficial Christmas tree:

This year's unofficial Christmas Tree

Actually, I should apologise. I started this blog imagining that I would soon fill it with all sorts of photos of amazing desert skies and crazy outback surrounds; but even though I did go so far as to buy myself a little ‘tough’ snappy camera (so I don’t ruin my 50D with red dust), I have been a bit slack. I’ll rectify that now with a few that I have on hand:

Just outside camp 

Me in the long shadow of a late afternoon stroll 

The most amazing double rainbow. It stretched right over the whole of Spinifex camp and was so big I couldn't fit it in one photo. It looks like the pot of gold is at the squash courts.

Some dodgy mining character wandering aimlessly...

Merry Christmas, everyone! I hope you have a marvellous festive season and I’ll be cracking a cool tube for you all at the wet mess later on tonight (I'll need it after todays temp of 45C). *big sloppy Christmas smooches all round* :D XXXXX

Boys will be boys

“Ah ya beeeeping beeeeps. Ya beeeeeping beep beeeeeps! Don’t tell me I’m beeeeeeping stuck with you beeeeping beeeps again!” ZZ Top’s long white beard shook as he took the driver’s seat.

“Ya beeeeps!” he reiterated as he turned the ignition. It was 5.30am.

“Beeeeeeep you, ZZ,” came a voice from the back of the bus, followed by a chorus of more of the same. “You old beeeeeepedy beeeeep beeeep beeeep!”

So began another day at the male-dominated mines.

The funny thing about this day, though, was that ZZ hadn’t noticed I was on the bus – and the boys didn’t tell him. He had just returned from holidays and was in fine form. Driving to site he gave the lads a mighty serve. The insults and expletives amplified beyond anything I have ever heard as we bumped along and thus I could tell he was a much revered character amongst the crew. Laughing and pushing we all eventually piled off and went to work.

About two hours later there was a quiet knock at my office door.

“I’m so, so sorry,” ZZ slunk in, hardhat in hand, eyes wide. “If I had known you were on the bus this morning I never would have spoken like that. I thought it was just the boys, you know. I’m so embarrassed. Can you forgive me?” He looked like a big-eyed Puss in Boots crossed with Bad Santa.

“Don’t worry about it, baby,” I soothed, taking the opportunity to introduce myself. “You know I’m used to it working around here."

“We boys should watch ourselves though,” he continued to implore. “It’s not right.”

“You boys are fine,” I countered. “You made me laugh. Besides, I’m sure I’ve heard much worse”. (I hadn’t).

ZZ looked relieved. “Thank you,” he said, flashing a sheepish smile amongst his lengthy locks. “I’ll do better next time”.

This is not the first time this sort of thing has happened since I arrived here. I’ll be sitting around with the crew and the conversation will turn a little unsavoury or sexist (or both if someone has just returned from Thailand) and all the boys will laugh and carry on – and then remember I am there. This sparks a brief horrified silence before they all look at the wall or the ground, mumbling sorry, sorry, sorry. It’s hilarious! In fact, sometimes I purposely stay quiet in order to further my education.

Nevertheless, to be honest, I have been surprised and a little bit shocked by some of the stuff they come up with. The way they talk about the pretty young admin girls is a bit of a worry – though I know they do it more to one up each other in their own pecking order than to be truly derogatory. It also makes me realise how old I am that, at 41, I have enough worldly wisdom to be able to just chuckle along and let it wash over me. I know that out of feminine earshot men have carried on like this since the dawn of time and will continue to do so no matter what women do or say. Very occasionally I will counteract with a pithy male putdown, but mostly I just shrewdly smile and shake my head. They know that I know that at home their wives rule the roost.

Still, thank goodness none of them knows of my inappropriate crush, or I would be mincemeat.

Site and sound

Well stop the train and all change. Just when I was settling in to my new world, everyone has upped sticks and gone.

Not literally of course, it's just that the BHP takeover has brought new offices and workshops - in fact, a whole new Ore Handling Plant - to Yandi and by the time I returned from my break, everyone but myself and the Sparkies had packed up and moved. However, despite the schmick new building at the schmick new plant (and the schmick new coffee machines and office chairs within), it is apparently horrible there. Reports filtering back from those in the know describe it as a prison. In fact it has already been secretly nicknamed: Alcatraz.

The problem, it seems, is there are all sorts of stupid new rules. Not just stuff like you can't play loud music (I can understand that in an open plan office); but, for example, you are not allowed to have your jacket on the back of your chair, not allowed to eat at your desk and not allowed to put your sunglasses on your head. WTF! I really feel for the guys who are over there and have noticed that morale among the crew has gone right down. They are used to a lot of humour and mess and freedom and, as long as the work is safely done, the mood has always been good. Alcatraz is quite a change. Hopefully it is just a matter of everyone settling in and feelings will lighten again soon. I have heard rumours that we will also be moving over there once the Sparkies' new workshop is ready, but fortunately not just yet.

Having said that, it's a bit lonely in the office now on my own. 'Carl Guy' and his back-to-back colleague ('Son Of Family Guy') have also moved to the new site and so now it's just me. Of course I used the opportunity to quickly commandeer their desk to get away from the mud spitting air-conditioner, but it's a small consolation. It was fun having them alternately in the room as they tag-teamed their shifts. We all had the same taste in music and, with the help of a most excellent speaker system, it was great listening to the radio while we worked along. Mostly it was my favourite station (Triple J), but sometimes we would switch to "South Africa FM" (from where SOFG hails). This gave me a blast from the past feeling, reminding me of when I used to live there and causing me to attempt long-ago learned Afrikaans phrases (which I stuffed up completely).

When he left, SOFG gave me his good speakers. "I won't need them in Alcatraz," he said. To my surprise, this random act of kindness sparked a small crush on him, even though he is only 25 if he's a day. And he looks like the son from Family Guy. I wish it would hurry up and go away. It's annoying me. Completely ridiculous.

Anyway, so I should be listening to awesome sounding tunes through high fidelity speakers right now. Should be. In fact I would be but some bastard from Night Shift stole them from the desk before I had the chance to set up. A search party was, of course, immediately dispatched, but to no avail. I would ask around some more, but it is December now and even if someone did give me a name, I wouldn't know them. With all the moustaches suddenly shaved and faces baby smooth, I can't recognise anybody any more!

For Lively Nye

I never was a great fan of The Smiths, but in about 2004, while I was living in Newcastle, Morrissey released a song that struck a chord. It was called ‘First of the Gang to Die’.  Although it had nothing to do with what the song was really about, every time I heard it I found myself considering my much loved group of local friends.  Which of us it would be, I wondered. It might even be me. After all, I tortured myself, we all have to go sometime. Who would be the first of the gang to die?

Nye, my wonderful, playful Novocastrian friend, my partner in so many crimes, I can’t believe it was you.  I can’t believe you are gone. My heart is with your beautiful wife and son and all your family and friends as we slowly come to terms with the news.

I’m not going to even try and write a eulogy here. There are too many stories and, still overflowing with sorrow, I can’t do any of them justice. There are no words. Still, it makes me smile to think that I once considered you a quiet, maybe even shy type.  How quickly that changed around our table at the Beaches Hotel.  You were in a particularly spirited mood one day and I commented on it. “You’re extra lively this afternoon, Nye,” I said, poking fun at your antics. “‘Lively Nye’”.

"That’s me,” you laughed – and I've called you Lively Nye ever since.

From finding you asleep on our couch most weekend mornings  to becoming flatmates ourselves, your friendship and sense of fun enhanced my life and Newcastle would not have been the same without you.  You saw me at my best and at my worst and you were still my friend. Although we all eventually moved on, I am so glad we stayed in touch  - it added an extra dimension that we could continue our antics in the UK and Dubai. The latter is where I last saw you. ‘Lively Nye in Dubai’ – your number is still in my phone.

I will always remember you when I see Sally Spectra. I will always remember you when I get chicken stuck in my teeth. I will always remember you when I drink cold beer on newly mown grass. I will just always remember you.  

And until the time comes when I see you again, thank you so much for so many great times. I hope you know that I love you and will keep your old secrets – and your hundred bucks.

Rest in peace, my friend.

 ‘Lively Nye’ Chaplin         19/8/1971 – 23/11/2011