Book of the Dead

Had an afternoon of Gods, mummies and Books of the Dead at the Perth Museum today. It’s the only place in Australia to host the British Museums ‘Secrets of the Afterlife’ exhibition. And once again the little Sony NEX didn’t let us down, 50mm f1.8 lens, auto ISO and Aperture priority.

 

Private Paradise

It would have been criminal not to take advantage of such a stunning afternoon, so as the sun headed for the horizon I headed for Penguin Island.

The last ferry of the day had departed and the island was deserted.

It was just me, the sunset and 2 million screeching seagulls

 

 

 

Close Encounter at Hamlin Bay

The large black wing of the stingray gentle brushed against my leg as it passed. At first I thought it was indifference, that it just couldn’t be bothered going around me, but then it brushed me again on its next pass. All doubt was removed when a short time later another ray drifted up against my leg and momentarily settled on my foot.

We were standing knee deep in the clear waters of Hamlin Bay, about 30klms south of Margaret River in the South West of WA. To our right the wide sweep of white sand, named after the French explorer Jacques Hamelin, curved around the bay where it morphed into a rugged headland far in the distance, in front of us stood the last few remaining timber pylons of the old jetty and unseen further out in the bay lay numerous shipwrecks, testament to the bays notorious weather. But what we had come to see was right at our feet, literally.

Over the years the stingrays of Hamlin Bay have become a popular tourist attraction as they frequented the beach to the delight of locals and tourist alike. Several years ago we had come to see them but the weather conspired against us. But not today, today they were here in abundance.

As we stood and watched them glide through the clear shallow water it became obvious that they were just as curious about us and we them. They slid effortlessly between the legs of the spectators, frequently bestowing a brief caress as they passed. At other times they would ride a wave up onto the beach as if to get a better look and then catch the next one back out again. They had kilometres of beach available to them yet they were content to cruise the 50 metres or so of the ‘tourist’ strip in front of the old jetty.

There is always something special about seeing animals in the wild, but so often you are merely tolerated, an observer. But to have a wild thing accept you and voluntarily interact with you with no fear or malice and no expectation of reward, that to me that is the most magical of experiences.

Did they just keep walking?

Standing alone on the verandah I stare up at the tufts of clouds hanging motionless in a pale blue sky. High above a whistling kite glides effortlessly on a thermal but down here there is nothing, nothing but heat, flies and a pervading sense of desperation.

Across the dirt lies the chicken coop, long abandoned, its rusting wire lying tangled in the weeds. A line of rotted wooden stakes and few tortured vines hint at the existence of a once well-loved vegetable garden.

My gaze is drawn along the dirt road to the shearing shed, its torn iron sheets hanging listless in the midday heat. The stalls, silent and empty, will never again witness the frenzy of the shearing season or the laughter and cursing of the shearers.

Alone in the silence, surrounded by ghosts, I try to imagine that final day. I see a day much like this one, hot, still. On the verandah I see a couple, their faces creased and wearied from the years of battling to scratch a living from this dry land.  Their eyes are dull and devoid of hope stare out at the familiar visa.  No words are spoken, each absorbed by their own anguish, each recalling their lives here.

His father had worked this land, as had his father before him and his father before that. He had grown up here. He’d played in the chicken coop and tended that vegetable garden. It was here that he learned to ride, to shear, to muster. It was here he had learned right from wrong, about the importance of family, to be a man. Oh, he had left for a while, he had needed to spread his wings, to experience the bright city lights but this dirt, this red dirt ran in his veins and it drew him back, him and his new wife.

Their children were born here, one lies here still, in the family plot on the small rise a mile or so behind the house. This was their home, this was their life and they would hand it down to their children as their forefathers had done before them.

Or at least that was how it was supposed to be. But this is an unforgiving land. The rains didn’t come, stock suffered, prices fell and only thing that grew was their level of debt. They economised, they diversified, they worked harder and each day they prayed for rain. But the prices didn’t rise and the rains didn’t come. Insidiously their despair grew and day by day, week by week it consumed all hope and ate at their souls.

Brushing a fly from my face I wondered what had killed that last flicker of hope. Was there some definitive moment, some final straw that had snuffed it out or had it just faded and died, beaten down by time and circumstance?

Try as I might I couldn’t begin to conceive how heartbreaking it must be to walk away from all you’d worked for, from all your forefathers had worked for, from all your hopes and dreams, to walk away from all you have ever known and loved.  And I wonder, as they walked through that homestead gate on that final day, did they stop and turn around for one final look, or did they just keep walking.

Coogee Beach Sunset

If I’d blinked……

It really had the makings of an ugly morning. Rather than a golden glow creeping up from the horizon to herald the approaching dawn there was nothing but the steely grey gloom of an overcast sky. It had been my intention to call into the old Corona mine on my way to work and photograph some of the ruins at sunrise but it hardly seemed worth the effort today. In fact I very nearly just kept driving, nearly but not quite.

Being the eternal optimist I pulled off the road and grabbed my camera and tripod. If the truth be told, I estimated the chances of getting wet by far outweighed the likelihood of getting a photo.

Standing in the half-light I had pretty much decided that my first instinct about this not being worth the effort was spot on and I turned to start heading back to work. I never finished the turn. The smallest gap appeared between the clouds and the horizon allowing the rays of the yet to rise sun through to wash over the clouds. In a matter of seconds the most amazing light vanquished the gloom and the world was bathed in gold.

Then for the briefest moment the sun crested the horizon and gave direction to the light before the clouds closed ranks and the world was once again plunged into a heavy gloom.

This whole amazing light show came and went in just over 60 seconds and I only managed to shoot off 7 frames.  But how easy would it have been to have kept going and missed the whole thing.

Home is where the heart is.

I thought I’d share a couple of photos of our home for the last few weeks.

It’ll never make better Homes and Gardens magazine, but on a clear night with a good fire and a fine bottle of port I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.