Octopuses

Preludes to Nothing

“All right then,” said Raya. “I’ve got a question for you this time, Fat Guts.”

“That’s not how it works,” I replied evenly. “I ask the questions, you come up with funny answers, we split the cash.”

“In your world,” he continued, ignoring me as usual, “octopuses have eight legs, right?”

“Yep,” I said. “Unless one gets bitten off by some bastid shark or something.” 

“And octagons have eight sides, right?”

“Yes, they do,” I said, wondering how boring this could get. “Every single time. And Octo-Africans are eight too many Africans. So what?”

“Well, how come October is the tenth month then?” asked Raya.

Oh, I thought. I’d never even noticed that there was anything funny about that.

“Well,” I said carefully. “Maybe Octo doesn’t mean eight for that one. Maybe it’s named after some Emperor Octo of Axum or something.”

“Yeah I thought about that,” pressed Raya. “But then, December should be ten too, shouldn’t it? Decimal system? But it’s twelve. The twelfth month. So, a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think? Both exactly two months off?”   

We fell into silence. I could see he was right. Especially given that I know enough French to know September should be seven. Two off again.

“Nope,” I said, finally. “You’ve got me. That seems wrong. But I don’t know why.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “I’ll just add to my list of times you’ve been useless as breasts on a bull.”

At that, I laughed so suddenly I choked on a macadamia.

“What?” said Raya.

“Nothing,” I said, once I’d recovered slightly. “Too hard to explain.”

“Here,” he said, doubtfully. “Try this.” 

Raya had just finished roasting his next batch of coffee for us and was now shaking his little coffee pan from side to side like he was panning for gold. The hot coffee beans skittered like cats on a hot tin roof to the left and to the right. He held the pan about a foot in front of me and used his hand to gently waft smoke into my face.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Ah yes,” I breathed appreciatively. “Beautiful. Best yet. Where do these ones come from?”

“Coles,” he replied. “OK, thanks. I’ll add them to my list.”

Fat Guts Thredbo, 7 Oct 2020.

The same old Rastas

Preludes to Nothing

Right then. In the preface, I gave you my spin on how Raya ended up an Aussie. And at the end of the preface, I promised you that I would give you Raya’s spin on that. I’ll use this introduction to do that, starting with a recap on my own spin. 

Once upon a time, so my spin went, I grew bored with my leisurely existence here in Australia, and I took off overseas for a sea change. And in landlocked Ethiopia, of all places, …

… I met an ambitious and charming young man who, if you could tear him away from his work for a minute and get him around a barbecue, was in possession of an endless supply of interesting ways of looking at things.

An example before I continue. One of many I can choose from.

One night, as we sat around his barbecue, tediously, I brought up the subject of the 2016 election in the United States. As if that wasn’t being done to death by the entire planet already. And then I banged on about that for a full hour before, with a flourish, determining who would win. Clinton, of course.

“Well,” said the young man carefully, once he was sure I was finished. “My prediction is that the losers will go completely off their heads.”

“Oh,” I thought, as I slowly figured out what he meant by that. Because I’d got to know him by then, and I had learned that he always meant something by what he was saying. “How come I never come up with stuff like that?”

But, I don't. So, let’s continue.

And eventually, I came to decide that this young man’s talents were going to be wasted if he stayed in Ethiopia. Especially the way that country was going at that time. And that it would be better for all concerned if I brought those talents back with me to Australia.

And that was the end of my spin.

And then, suddenly, here he was, the same old Rastas, except now he was an Aussie. Well, he was well on the road to becoming one, anyway. Because if there’s two things I’m good at, as an ex public servant, it’s paperwork and lying without lying.

And the only thing that seemed to have changed was his name. Because by now, I was no longer calling him Rastas, as I did back in Raya. By now, I was calling him Raya. I'm a big one for making up names for the people I like. As is Raya, incidentally. He's got a few for me, too. 

And then, here was I, too. Once again dragging him away from his work. But this time here in my backyard here, instead of in his back there. And once again, there I was, banging on and on about not the 2016 election in the U.S. this time, but the 2020 election in the U.S.; same shite, different bucket. And once again, Raya was roasting his coffee and listening patiently.

“Well,” he said, once I’d finished. “This time, I predict no trouble at all.”

“Seriously?” I replied, incredulous. “It seems even worse over there this time, to me!’

And at that, he laughed so hard he nearly fell off his chair. And I felt embarrassed. So, I picked up a cut of raw beef that was sitting by my chair and hurled it at him as hard as I could. Which was not all that hard, because I was sunk fat, deep and awkwardly in my camping chair. 

“Thanks,” he grinned, catching it neatly, without flinching. And immediately starting to chop it up.

 

“Here,” he said, offering me a slice on the end of his knife.

“Yeah feck you very much, feck features” I grumbled.

But I took it. And it was nice, too. A lovely cut indeed.

And soon enough, I was back to myself, blood dripping down my chin and rabbiting on happily about something else. Me, this time. And I was giving a magnificent speech about what a king of immigration I am. Who knows what’s best, when it comes to deciding who should be allowed to come into this country and who bloody shouldn’t.

And then, as I finally finished my oration, well pleased with myself as I tend to be after distributing largesse, and as I leaned even further back into my chair and burped a full stop, of sorts, if you catch my drift, Raya finally gave me his spin on the circumstances of his coming to Australia.

“Yeah, that’s right Fat Guts. That’s how it happened!” he laughed.

“Sorry?” I said, caught off guard.

“Well, are you sure it wasn’t me who lined you up?” asked Raya, laughing. “I mean, think about it. Back where I come from, when whopping great white whales like you come heaving into town, you stand out like Fat Elvis!”

“Oh,” I said.

“Ah, just winding you up!” he soothed, smiling. “That doesn’t mean you weren’t lining me up too. And don’t worry, I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.”

And bang, he’d done it again.

***

All right then. Let's slow this down. Done what. I need to think about that.

Well, it’s a fairly minor example of Raya and what he does, on this occasion. But I think it's a good one, all the same. You see, he’d caught me off guard once again. But this time, thinking in a wrong way. In an either/or way, if I can put it like that. And he’d got me reflecting that yes, it’s true. More and more, as I get older, and grumpier, I’m falling into that trap of thinking everything’s either one way or another.

And this wasn’t the first time Raya had pulled me up on this one, either. I remember another time, not long ago, having gone on and on and on about how Ethiopia was going even worse now than when I was over there. What with this new Spawn of Satan prime minister they’d brought in. And once again, Raya had surprised me.

“It wasn’t necessarily a bad bet, bringing Abiy in,” he'd said. “I mean, for better or worse, foreigners feel they can do business with him. And that's been getting some capital going. And back when I was there, that’s what I needed. My quarry would’ve pulled through, if I could’ve got a loan. I’m seriously thinking of going back, you know. If what he’s trying to do doesn’t explode in his face. I’m thinking of expanding what I’ve got going here back there.”

“You’re actually amazing,” I'd said, genuinely impressed.

“Thanks,” he'd replied. “I know.”

And that’s what I love about Raya. Because he knows no such thing.     

   

All right then. I think that’s enough for an introduction. But before I go, I’ll leave you now with a couple of travelogue-style pictures. One of a new railway China has been getting going in Ethiopia as part of its silk road into Africa, and one of Ethiopia’s controversial new Grand Renaissance Dam. This while we are still so firmly on the subject of Ethiopia.

“Off which,” as Churchill would joke, “we will soon get.”

 

Fat Guts Thredbo, 26 Sep 2020.

From Raya to Sunshine

Preludes to Nothing

Jerry Seinfeld seems to have had no shortage for that show of his back in the day.

My best guess is that this might have been because he had his eyes and ears open to ordinary people all around him being funny. On top of the fact that he knew how to tell a joke himself.

Which yes, all right, I agree, is not exactly the most dangerous bet anyone in history has ever laid.

But I mention this because as I start to put pen to paper on this book, which is going to be all about a bloke I’ve smuggled into Australia from Africa, by the way, I already I know that just like Jerry Seinfeld, I am not going to have any shortage of material.

But at this point, Seinfeld and I part ways. Mainly because I’m not Jewish, and I’m not living in the middle of what must be the most hilarious community on Earth, surely? Save, perhaps, the Hindus? But also, because I’m not funny, either. I mean, I’m not even accidentally funny. Case in point, I happen to have a turnip-shaped birthmark on my forehead. Not good, but there it is. Just like good old Gorby had one of those. Except his looked like a pigeon shat on him and mine kind of looks like I’m back at boarding school getting dacked. Well, that should get me a laugh, don't you think? Well, it doesn’t.

No, the reason I am going to have no trouble coming up with ideas for this book is to do with something else.

And that something else has got nothing to do with me being some sort of ideas man, either. Because I’m not. I can’t even come up with things to even think about, let alone write about. Most of the time, when I am down here at the bottom of the garden wedged into in my fat fold-up camping chair, I’m just sitting here staring blankly at some chickens I’ve got down here making eggs for me. Hour after hour I’m sitting here, as the blossom tree above my shed hums softly with the buzz of a thousand bees being useful. Which as relaxing as that most certainly is, a rip-roaring read it does not make.

No, the thing that is going to make this book something a little bit something else has nothing to do with me whatsoever. It has something to do with something else. And that something else is that bloke from Africa I mentioned. Who goes by the name of … Sunshine..

***

Now Sunshine’s real name, as it turns out, is Hailemekele Raszenawi. That’s an Ethiopian name. Because he’s an Ethiopian. (He’s not even an African, actually, he tells me, let alone an Ethiopian. And by that, he says, I’m not an Ethiopian, fat guts. But more about what the hell he means by that another day.) And he’s got the sort of face you want to punch, on a bad day. A real smart arse. But on a good day, he’s gold. And even on a bad day, he’d give you a kidney.

But anyway, when he finally landed here in Australia—and far out, was that a whole saga!—and came strolling out of customs so relaxed and laconic-like that I couldn’t help laughing, the first thing I said to him was that something had to be done about that name of his:

“You’re in Australia now, Sunshine,” I said. “And over here, Hailebury College Razzamatazz is considered a mouthful.”

And without me even meaning to, I had already come up with his Aussie name.

“Sunshine!” he said. “That sounds nice!”

“Well!” I replied, caught off guard. “All right then. Well, I’m glad you think that way. Because Sunshine’s where you’re going, China. Footscray’s full as a goog just at the minute and the flats in Flemington are in lockdown with cops and bloody do-gooders crawling all over them. So, I’ve got you a flat in Sunshine. Let’s go get your bags. I need to get you settled in. The footy’s on tonight.”

“From Raya to Sunshine,” he grinned. “This is the greatest day of my life, fat guts! Thank you.”

“Yeah yeah,” I replied, as I used my rather large frame to carve out a path out for my friend though the crowd pushing and shoving in the direction of baggage collection. “Save it for your wife. She’s coming in tomorrow.”

All right then. So now you know how Sunshine got his name. Or, I should say, his names. Because before too long, Sunshine became Raya. As in, Raya Sunshine.

But let me now slow all this down a bit, for a minute. Because I want to take you back to how I met Raya in the first place. And then I’ll swing back around and wrap this little preface up with what I think Raya is going to bring to this book.

I first met Raya about three years ago in Ethiopia. I was over there by chance. I had been sitting in my backyard bored, as usual. And I had glued a map of the world to my dartboard down here on the fence next to the chook shed, closed my eyes, and pinged a dart at it. And the dart had found Adelaide. So, I took a second dart. And this time, it found Ethiopia. And on closer inspection, I discovered that the dart had gone right through the middle of some town called Mekoni in some province of some sort called Raya.

So, I booked a flight. And from the minute I landed, Rastas, … ah, yes, of course … all right then, yes. I should have mentioned.

Right, the first thing you learn when you rock up in Ethiopia is that they give you a new name. Just like we do here in Australia. Or just like we used to, anyway. These days, if your name is Hailemekele Raszenawi, we call you Hailemekele Raszenawi. Just to make absolutely sure that you know we respect you. And that we don’t want to get to know you.

But all that aside, when I first met him over there back in Mekoni, Which was the town I was staying in, Ras, as everyone in the town called him, looked me straight in the eye, and told me he was Irish.

Well! The funny thing is that for a few years by then, people had been opening up the top of my head and shovelling all sorts of bullshit into it at a rate of knots, and when he introduced himself to me as a red-haired freckle-faced Mick, I didn’t doubt it. Not even in my own mind. Which, obviously, left me wide open.

“How about that,” I said. “Me too. You never know. We might be brothers.”

Holy snapping ducks’ bums! Twenty years ago, I would never have been caught out like that! We Aussies used to dish it out! And now here we were on the receiving end. Courtesy of a pack of bastids who seemed to be pretty good at it too. Suffice it to say, for the rest of my time in Mekoni, the children were coming up to me chanting “look at me, look at me, I’m Irish, I’m Irish!”

“Get out of here y’little bastids,” I took to growling, bending down as if to pick up a rock or a stone. And off they’d run, laughing. With me left standing there knowing I’d been got. “Never again,” I swore, “will I trust that bastid Rastas."

So, all right, yes, I had a different name for old Sunshine-features back then in Raya. Rastas. And he had a name for me, too: ስብሒ. Fat Guts. Which was a fair call. But all that aside, from the minute I landed in Raya, Rastas and me, well, we hit it off like a house on fire. And this, as it turns out, is how Raya’s ended up an Aussie. And I’ll tell you that little story and call it a day on this preface.

Back there in Raya, Rastas had a little quarry. Pretty entrepreneurial, I thought. I like that sort of thing. I like it a lot. But by the time I got there, he was in seven shades of shit. There was a whole lot of crap going on over in Ethiopia. Some marathon runner had chosen that moment in time to be a hero. And now, Rastas was going broke.

“Couldn’t agree with that Oromo bastid more,” Rastas said to me, more than once. “But he’s killing me!”

And I ended up asking him a whole lot of questions about what he meant by that and then one thing led to another and eventually, I had made my decision. And before you could say “visa” I’d got him married off to his sister and had got all the paperwork together and told all the public servants back here in Australia that both the beautiful Rastas and his lovely wife were about to get put up against a wall and shot.

Well, here’s the thing. I’m an old public servant myself, back here in Australia. Going back a long way. So, I know which buttons to press. Nobody in there wants to end up on the front page of The Age. And neither does the secretary or the minister or anybody at all, in fact, going up the tree. In Australia, it’s not who you know, it’s what you know. So, all you have to do is trigger a ministerial, and then …

Bang! Here he was coming out of customs at Tulla grinning that good old Raya grin and hugging me like a brother. Old Rastas-features himself. And I have to say, although at the time I made sure he didn’t pick up on this, I had a lump in my throat. Because I’d known for a long time by then that if anyone deserved this chance, Rastas did.

All right then. So that was all that. But getting back to the purposes of this book now, yes, Raya really is something else.

And it’s not only because he’s got so much talent (he's been in Australia for only a year and already he's got a little operation called Sunshine Sand and Gravel up and running and a few of the young blokes in his community off the streets doing some hard yakka), it’s also to do with when he's with me down here at the bottom of my back yard for a barbecue, chatting away about all sorts of things I would never have come up with myself.

To illustrate, imagine Charles Darwin never existed. And Raya is sitting with me right now slicing up some raw beef and roasting a few coffee beans. Which he can’t do, just at the minute, incidentally. Because I’ve banned him from bringing me that shit for a while. Back in March he landed me in hospital with a lethal dose of salmonella. But that aside, picture us sitting here anyway. And here’s what would be happening. Raya would be slicing up his beef and roasting up his coffee, and he'd be thinking about the chooks over there in the chook house, and then suddenly he’d be coming up with evolution:

“I reckon it’s not silkies you’ve got down here for company, fat guts,” he’d say. “It’s pterodactyls."

“Bloody what!?” I would have exclaimed. “That’s gold, Sunshine. I need to start writing this stuff down!”

All right then. That's the preface done. Coming up next, as I launch into the book proper, is Raya’s spin on all this stuff I’ve just told you. You know, about how it came to pass that Raya ended up an Aussie with a gravel business going great guns here in Sunshine instead of a quarry going to the dogs in Ethiopia. Because the way he sees it, it wasn’t me that lined him up for a one-way ticket here to Australia. It was him that lined me up!

And when he told me all about that, I laughed my head off. And loved him just that little bit more, that sneaky son of a bitch.

Fat Guts Thredbo, 16 Sep 2020.