Down under with camels

ANATOLY SHIMANSKY



DOWN UNDER WITH CAMELS

The reasonable man adapts himself to the world.
All progress therefore, depends on the unreasonable man.
                George Bernard Shaw

FLIGHT DOWN AND AROUND

Finally I reached such a stage in the life that had no choice but to go from those circumstances and people who drove me crazy and miserable. I knew that everything - hell and heaven is inside of us, but I had to go away as far as possible and Australia fits my mind frame. All my life I've dreamt to see that Green Continent and thought that this is the time to go and appreciate everything from an opposite side of the world.  I decided to go first to Melbourne just because I had had very good relationships with police of Melbourne, Florida.  I happened to be there, when I cycled from New York City to Key West. Officer Vince Buonocore gave extra police badge and asked to hand it out to his colleagues in Australia as a token of friendship between two countries. So, I felt myself as a good will messenger.
From my previous flights, I knew that Russian travel agencies make the best fares abroad. And my platonic love, Lusia, made return ticket just for $1,300, booking for a flight with United Airlines from New York City to Melbourne.  I had to change an aeroplane in Los Angeles and stop in Auckland, New Zealand.
I always come to an airport as late as possible because I know that after passing a metal detector there is no opportunity to smoke my pipe. There is no place for smoking in the airport nowadays.  Ignoring the rights of smokers, the government banned smoking in public buildings and other establishments.  It pursued even private companies to ban smoking inside.  Just a few days before departure I visited my Russian church in New York and after the service I came out to puff my pipe.  The priest approached me with a warning that smoking on the pavement across the church is not allowed.  This dictate of the moral majority in America is called a democracy.
Being on the board, I opened the diary of my travels and showed it to flight attendant, asking her to show it to the crew of flight 27.  I wanted to get any comments about my travels by people with whom I happened to be in contact.
Captain C.  A.  Stockade wrote such an entree: "We are flying along the pink line of the map New York to Los Angeles 2,198 miles in 5 hours and 30 minutes. Altitude 35,000 feet, speed 492 knots, outside temperature -21 C.  The aeroplane weighs 360,000 lbs.  We will burn 10,000 gallons of fuel. Aircraft Boeing 767."
My diary is built from such kind of comments - thousands address and phone numbers of people who I met along the roads and I may contact with them any time.
Despite or because they banned smoking inside of the aeroplane, we were late in L.A. and missed the connecting flight to Melbourne.   Company's representatives were apologetic and suggested us an overnight accommodation in Crowne Plaza Hotel, with three meals, free of charge. But I was almost knocked out, when, as a moral and business compensation, the company clerk handed each of passengers a check for $400. Since then, I am happy to be late this way as much as possible.
After dropping my luggage in quite modest room of the hotel, I hurried up to a restaurant to enjoy a free meal.  It's amazing how such people like me are so frenzy to take something free, when they even don't need it, or this is harmful to them. I could not help but eating that abundant restaurant meal which I didn't enjoy. But even in that good restaurant it was not permitted to smoke inside. It drove me crazy but I had no choice but going to a lobby for puffing my pipe.
Over there I befriended with a crew of valets who parked guest's cars.  They were outfitted in a shiny-red uniform and mostly were idle because there were no so much guests to serve.  They were Mexican or Indian extraction and spoke English not better than me.  But I always have better contact with such people, than with people whom they serve to.  I never had money to buy such updated cars as guests of hotel have.  The most important for me always was finding the truth inside of me. I never had a proper family, own house, or any other property. After divorce I was in love many times, but those involvements didn't last long. I never was happy in love. After that I decided to substitute women with travels and found that it does help.
When the next day I came to airport, it was crowded with high-school students coming home after summer vacations.  Those Antipodes have summer vacations in January! It struck me, that I really going to see the different world.
Our plane was packed and I happened to be squeezed between two computer salesmen, Geoff and Blair. Geoff was working for a big computer company and in his travels used his  laptop computer.  It was my dream to have such a portable devise to write my books, while on the road, but I never had money to buy it. Geoff was very sympathetic and promised to talk with his boss about donating their old model to me. I was elated listening his words: whether I am coming to the country, where dreams could be changed to reality?
My enthusiasm about that future computer from Geoff got a bit wither after reading his well-wishing in my diary:
«Dear Anatoly, if you're extraordinary, then what does that make us?  Time I accepted that we are pretty ordinary I guess.  Good times to you."  Save grammar, this comment sounded a bit acrid and suspicious. After reading it, I had a feeling that I'll never get any computer from Geoff.
The response of plane crew after looking through my diary was more sympathetic. First officer, Jan Duck wrote:
"Anatomy, where is Vane and the wagon? We are presently next to the island of Tahiti in the South Pacific and will going over the Rakatonga islands (Shell islands. We are at 35,000 feet, speed 487 kts, and ground speed about 540 mph. Our speed at lift off was about 210 mph. Our weight at lift off was 874,000 lbs.  Enjoy your stay in New Zealand. It's a beautiful place."
Flight attendant, Carol McLacklen, was more romantic in her expression:  "Good luck in your adventures. This planet is awesome to behold. You are truly blessed to have a life pattern that allows you the opportunity to enjoy it."
Her mate, Alona Lucas, was a bit shorter in her expression:  "Enjoy every minute of your adventure. Happy you choose United to take you down under!"
These flight attendants created to us an environment of food consuming, rests, bathroom using, and food consuming again.  In meantime, our jumbo-jet was crossing meridians and parallels, flying from east to west, against globe rotation, such a way we were loosing one day of our life.  We departed from Los Angeles January 24 and were coming to Auckland on January 26.
Finally, we are flying above the green archipelago of New Zealand, with sprinkles of small islands covered with green forest.  There are not so many settlements on them; the country looks pristine and hospitable as I imagined in my dreams about it. Sometime I would like to go there.
Its Auckland airport, where they kept open smoker's room, expressed New Zealand's hospitality. Finally, I got an opportunity to puff my pipe.  My next-bench neighbour happened to be a journalist from Canada, who was on the way to Adelaide for meeting his fiancйe. He met her first time when she was visiting his small town and fell in love instantly.  Paul's love reached even deeper grounds when he found that her father was a big figure in meatpacking business.  Paul was thinking about changing his career and forgets about unprofitable work of journalist and try himself in the cattle business. I wished him good luck; we both were on the threshold of a new life.

MELBOURNE
         
             I  was coming to Australia with nobody to know and no one was  meeting  me  at  airport in Melbourne. I had nothing to declare  in  the customs' form and carried just hand luggage with  me,  so  I had nothing to concern about. Definitely, I was  a  bit  shocked when  the customs agent stopped me and, indicating  my  hat's  feather,  said  that it's  illegal to bring  in  Australia this piece of foreign fauna. After such an  unpleasant  overture, she directed me to a separate hall for customs inspection.
             Still  being not very much concerned and eager to see how customs  operates,  I  proceeded  to backroom where customs agents  rummaged  through  a  luggage  of unlucky passengers with  the  similar  problems as mine. I had just big bag and knapsack  to inspect. To my surprise, very soon one of those diggers  extracted  from  the  bag a ring of Polish kelbasa.  Only  this  time  I  realised that didn't mentioned it in my customs  declaration. I bought it in Polish shop in New York City  just  an hour before going to airport and forgot about it.  On  the  board, I had more than enough of food during a flight  and   no  need for kelbasa  as a supplement of daily diet.
             This  piece  of sausage, after three days in hot interior of  plane,  was  covered  with white filthy mould and smelled foul,  definitely  not  up  to  be  used  for  a  food.  The triumphant  and satisfied custom agent tried to hand me this piece  of evidence of my criminal attempt to contaminate his beloved country.
             Instinctively,  barely touching that sausage, I throve it down  on  the  white  tiled floor of customs room, in such a way  rejecting  anything  common  with this evidence. Now it was  laying  in  the  middle  of  a  room as coiled venomous rattlesnake  which  I  hated  as  much as this agent and had nothing common with it.The  same  time,  I  realised  that  I can't reject this evidence  even  saying  that  I  forgot  to mention it in my declaration  because  of  my  short-mindness and negligence, which  was  true.  My unorthodox outlook of cowboy and world traveller  was  not  very  much  helpful  in  this desperate situation.  I  was afraid that the customs could prohibit me for  coming  on  the land of my dream. I was furious in this desperation and hated my own sloppiness.
             In  his  turn,  the customs agent suggested to pay a fine of  110  Australian  dollars  or to get a court hearing in a few  days. Surely, knowing that judge will be on the side of government  agency,  I  choose to pay that fine. It was bad, very  bad  beginning of my adventure in this country of Down Under,  but what was good, that they forgot the reason of my derailing for the meticulous inspection - my hat feather.             Being  relieved  from  customs and wandering at bus stop, at  least  free,  I  lamented  about my mishap with a ticket agent.  This  first  unofficial  Australian happened to be a young  woman  about  30.  She soothed me saying that the bad beginning  of  my adventure doesn't justify the bad end. Our life  is as the Russian roller coaster: after coming down it supposed  to  go  up. I quite agreed with her characteristic of our life and thanked for a  moral support.
             For  five  dollars,  she  sold  me a ticket for a Spencer  Street  Station  in downtown Melbourne. Our bus was going at "wrong,"  left side of the highway with almost no traffic in both  directions.  It  surprised me because it was the middle of  Tuesday,  the  working  day,  and  I asked a bus driver, what's  going  on  in his town. Our moustached driver turned in  my  direction  and looked at me as at an idiot, meaning: don't you know that today is Australia Day.
             No,  I  didn't  know,  because  forgot  that on the way I missed  one day and came at 26-th of January instead of  25-th.  Just  by  chance, not planning in advance, I managed to come   at   this  celebrated  day  and  felt  privileged  to participate in it.
             The  bus  dropped  me  at Spencer Street Station terminal and  after placing my luggage in locker box I hurried myself up  to  join  the  celebration. Melbourne's downtown was not very  far from Spencer Station, just a few blocks of walking and  I  found  myself in centre of jubilant crowd. (I'd like to  stress  that  these  Aussies  are  ardent  followers  of British  spelling  of  word  centre  instead  of  democratic American   misspelling   -  center.  In  American  Webster's dictionary there is no such a word as centre.)
             Australians   celebrated   as   the   Nation's   Day  the anniversary  of landing at Port Jackson (the  site of future Sydney) of the First British Fleet under command of 50-year-old  Arthur  Phillip.  The  future  Governor of this British colony  was  half  German, his father, Jacob, was a language teacher  from Frankfurt. What is even more interesting, that the  idea  of  founding  of  penal  colony on this continent belonged  to  an  American-born diplomat, James Mario Matra, who  wrote  to  Lord Sydney following note: "Give them a few acres  of  ground  as  soon  as  they  arrive...in  absolute property,  with  what assistance they may want to till them.  Let  it  be  here  remarked  that  they  cannot fly from the country,  that  they  have  no temptation to theft, and that they must work or starve."
             I  also  proud  for  my county's role in outfitting those convicts.  On  the way to Australia, Captain Phillip's fleet stopped  in  Rio  de  Janeiro  for  a  resupply. Because the clothing  of  convicts  was already disintegrated, he bought 100  burlap  sacks,  which  "being  of strong Russia will be used  hereafter  in clothing the convicts, many of whom are nearly naked." 
           On  the  board  of  11  ships, Arthur Phillip brought 548 males  convicts  and  188  females  under supervision of the  marines.  Their average age was about 27 years, and for many of  them  this country was the country of new opportunities.  In  one of British newspapers was printed a ballad about the southern Arcadia, where those lucky felons were going: They go to an Island to take special charge, Much warmer than Britain, and ten times as large:         No customs-house duty, no freightage to pay, And tax-free they'll live when in Botany Bay.
             Their  descendants  were strolling along Flanders Street, which  was the main tram traffic road on weekdays. Along its passageway,  on  both sides, temporary kiosks or booths were selling  any  kind of souvenirs which resembled those in New York  City  or  London  and  were  made also in Hong Kong or China.   Even  those  famous  Australian  boomerangs  had  a trademark  of Taiwan. Foodstuff was mostly of American style except  definitely  English  meat pie. Even typical Greek or Lebanese  shish  kebab was not very much exotic, because now it  is  regular foodstuff at the streets of any American or European cities.
             Entertainment  pavilions  were also not so much different from  those  I  used to see, besides one, where people could be  snapshot  with  shackles,  handcuffs,  punishment-bands, balls,   chains  and  cats,  as  reminiscent  of  a  convict background  of  this  country.  Strolling  crowd  was  quite colourful  with  a  lot  Asian,  Chinese,  Indian, and Moslem recent  immigrants.  Not  even  one of them wanted to try on any  of  those  tools  of  convict's  torture. Perhaps, they didn't associate themselves with white criminals.
             Robert  Burke, former policeman and famous land explorer, looked  at this crowd from a pedestal of his monument with a great  surprise.  In  his  times  just whites inhabited this town,  named  after Lord Melbourne. Since his times a lot of changes  happened  with  this capital of Victoria state. Old stone  buildings  and  shopping  arcades  line  the streets, giving  Melbourne  an  appearance  of old cities in England.  From   1901   to  1927  it  was  the  seat  of  the  Federal Government,  and  since  then  Melbourne saved the glory and chick  of  the most important city of the country. Its rival and  constant  concurrent,  Sydney,  never  reached  such  a status, stolen by humble Canberra.
             Cafe  and  restaurants  of  the shopping mall along Yarra River  were  also  crowded  but  mostly  with  a  people  of European   appearance.   I  was  surprised  hearing  Russian conversation  of  six  people sipping coffee-expresso at the table  on  the street. I didn't miss the opportunity to talk with  them  about  the  life  in  this  country. These three married  couples  immigrated  to  Australia just a few years ago,  but  managed  to  make  a  good start, finding jobs in their   computer  and  engineering  trade.  Most  of  recent Russian  immigrants,  as  those I met, came from small towns of  former  Soviet  Union.  As  a  matter  of fact, they had degrees  in  engineering  and computer science, so they have no  problems  with  finding  jobs in Australia. But I didn't find  a  good rapport with these couples because they had no interest  in my plans to travel around Australia, especially with  my  intent  to go with camels. They looked on me as on somebody  insane  or  crazy.  Being  from  Russia,  we  were absolutely foreign to each other's.
             I  proceeded  farther  and  found  myself  in  a  maze of shopping  malls  where  strollers  were  skilfully  directed towards  the  main attraction of all this complex: the Crown Casino.  It  looked  like  that  city father decided to make Melbourne   the   Mecca  of  gambling  business,  Australian equivalent  of  Las  Vegas,  and  they  succeed.  As sheep's flocks,  tourists  were  filling  these  multiple  halls  of fools.  Across  entrance  to   casino,  it  was  erected the modern  monument  of  about  twenty toilet balls, stacked on top   of   each   other.  It  was  a  good  symbol  of  that establishment.
             I  decided  to  look at this great city later, because it was  the time of finding place to stay. I decided to enquire about  it in the hostel for homeless in northern part of the town.  It  was  called  Ozanam  House  and  belonged  to the Society   of  St.  Vincent  De  Paul,  the  biggest  charity organisation  in  Australia.  I  was  accepted as its tenant after  signing  a  document, that I agree to follow its Code of  Conduct.  Tenants may be 'timed out' of the House or may be evicted, for following no, no, nos:
       
          1.  No threaten or verbally aggressive behaviour.
          2.  Illegal drugs and alcohol are not permitted on the premises.
          3.  Weapons are not permitted on the premises.
          4.  Gambling is not permitted on the premises.
          5.  Visitors are not permitted in the House.
          6.  No smoking in areas other then the two main lounges, one on each floor, or outside.
          7.  Ozanam House is unable to accommodate pets on the premises or within the grounds.
         
             The  service  fee  at  Ozanam  House was $10 a night, and most  of tenants had their separate rooms with own keys. All residents  had  to  abide  by  a  nightly  curfew;  Sunday - Thursday: 11.00 P.M., Friday - Saturday: 1.00 A.M. Residents  were fed three times a day and had additional meal  of fruits or cakes with coffee at 9 P.M. All residents had  their  monthly unemployment benefits of $640. Because I had  no  income, administration of the shelter allowed me to stay  free  of  charge,  but didn't give me a separate room, just a room with second tenant.
             Most  of  my  mates were in the productive age between 30 and  50-year-old, and, certainly, with a lot of problems and handicaps.  Many of them were just relieved from jails after serving  their  terms. Alcoholics and drag addicts also were trying  to  rehabilitate  here.  Mentally  unstable  or with limited  intellect  capacity men were admitted here as well.  They  weren't  in  mental  hospitals  being  just  'cranky', harmlessly mad.
             Felix  was  short,  fat  man  of fortieth. He was walking around  hallways  and  corridors  with  unzipped pants, from time  to tide displaying his penis or sitting in armchair in TV  room  and masturbating on pretty TV personalities. Once I overheard  his  crying  when it was a report about opening a new  oceanarium  in  Sydney.  I  asked,  what his misery was about,  he  said that was sorry about his passed away father who  wouldn't  get  opportunity  to see that new building in the Olympic City. Neither, I bet, poor Felix.
             Many  of  residents  had  their  mobile telephones handy, attached  to  belts,  but  nobody  was  calling them. Having mobile  telephones,  my  mates hoped to improve their public street  image.  Kevin  Whithead  was  one  of  them,  always sitting  at  the  same outdoor table with the same book, and the  same  calm  and  proud demeanour. He was in early 50-th, with  a  noble grey hairdo, always clean and in good temper.  He  never  raised  his  voice and attracted other tenants by his  aristocratic  appearance. Many times I tried to involve him  in any kind of discussion about his former life, family matters  or  philosophy  but Kevin always failed to respond.  Only  once  he  got exited, together with his mate Jim, when the  medical  emergency  helicopter roared above our shelter and  landed  in  backyard  of  Children Hospital, across the street.  They  both  jumped  up  and  stared  with foolish smiles  on  their  faces  at that copter. I was intrigued by their  behaviour  and asked - why? Kevin explained that while being  in  Vietnam,  they were stationed somewhere in jungle and  each  copter  coming  to their base meant an arrival of fresh  food  supply,  mail, and something new in their daily routine  of  combat.  Besides,  the smell of helicopter fuel was giving soldiers some excitement as a mild narcotic.
             The   most   sympathetic   of  all  my  mates  were  tall, moustached  and  very  soothing  chum,  named  Peter. He was quite  young, about 30, and in many occasions I observed him in  a company of other residents, listening them attentively and  with  soothing  soft smile. These desperate blokes were choosing  him  to  scare their grievances and other personal matters.  Peter  managed  to  help  them  just by listening, because  he  had  no  authority to help them by other way. I asked  him  why  he  didn't  apply for a job of some kind of social  worker  or  personal  consultant. Peter said that he didn't  have  enough education for such a job, but the worst of  all,  he  was  suffering  epilepsy and was on medication for  last  two  years. Peter was already in Ozanam House for three  months, waiting for a public housing in separate flat to live, being under medical supervision.
             Mark  was the worst example of human trash I've ever seen in  this country. He was muscular, athletic, and tall, with deep eyes hidden beneath a narrow forehead. His eyes were never calm,  observing  all  around, and their owner always wasn't calm,  even  while  sitting  or eating. His face appeared as somebody punched it and left deformed, with his jaw suspended     and  living  separately  from upper part. I have never heard any  good  word  from  him, he slurred people around him and always  asked additional meal after dinner. The time between meals  this  slob   was  spending  begging  cigarettes  from fellow  smokers, collecting cigarette butts on the street or emptying  out  tin  canes  which  served  as ashtrays in our Waldorf-Astoria.
             Tobacco  and  cigarettes  played  big role in the leisure time  of  our  colony  and  were valued high. Price for this commodity  is  very  high  in  Australia, three times higher than  in  the  USA. Most of Australian doesn't smoke, perhaps, for  reason of health but mostly because of cigarette price.  At  our  shelter  this  wasn't the case, and most of us were ardent  smokers.  Smoking  tobacco  was  much  cheaper  than cigarettes,  and  my  mates developed a good skill of making rollers   by  hands  or  using  more  sophisticated  rolling devices.  These  rollers were in constant demand and many of my  chums  refused to share their tobacco with such constant tobacco beggars as that Mark.
Before  my  coming  here,  Mark was already the tenant of Ozanam  House  for two months, and its administration wanted  to  rid  him off premises. As soon as Mark got this warning, he   begun  running  around   the  premises,  screaming  and jolting,  pushing  people  off  his  way and kicking garbage cans  on  the  way.  He was getting more and more hysterical until  reaching  such  a  stage  of  anger that with all his power  kicked  a  concrete  column  on  his  way.  All of us overheard  his  squeal  of pain and Mark fell down screaming and sobbing. Administration  called  an emergency and their car rushed  him  to   the  closest  hospital. In two hours he came back, with  a  right  leg  in cast. Mark  won his right to stay at this premises at least two months more.
             Surprisingly,  but  from  50  residents of our shelter it was  just about five active alcoholics, who consumed alcohol every  day.  Because  it  was  not  allowed  to  take  it on premises,  they  congregated across the street in the Albert Park.  I should admit that Australian police is very liberal with  homeless  people  and allow them to sleep in parks and on  the  streets,  not chasing them out as it happens in the U.S.A.
             Their  main  liqueur  of  choice  and  cheapest  one  was Methilated  Spirits,  the  liquid  for  household  cleaning, which  was sold in one-litre bottles, just for $2.95. It was very  flammable, so, my mates were careful about smoking and drinking  around  it.  As  matter of fact, they diluted this alcohol  by  water or coke, but the smell of this liquid was horrible.   Faces  of  alcoholics  were  bluish  because  of drinking of this particular product.
             In  Russia,  local  alcoholics  consume  a similar stuff, called  Denaturant,  artificially  coloured in blue. They are called  as  'synushnicks'  or  blues  -  persons of very low despondency.  These people placed themselves at bottom, even between  their  alcoholic  mates. Other ones, who managed to float  in higher layers of their dreadful drain, drunk cheap and  strong  Victoria Bitter beer or cheap wine sold in 2 or 4-liter  cardboard  casks,  which they were buying every day after  11  a.m.,  when liqueur stores open their doors. As a matter  of  fact,  each afternoon they were already in semi-conscious  conditions,  not  even  able to go for a lunch or dinner.  Their more sober mates used to bring them food from dinning hall of the shelter.
             The  most colourful of all alcoholics, was an Irish man of early  30-th,  with a very splendid name, Lachlan Turner. He was  skinny  and of very fragile constitution, ruined by his drinking  habit.  From  time to time, his body and face were griped by spasms, loosing its attractive demeanour.
             Despite  of  this, Lachlan liked to entertain surrounding audience  with  stories  of his ruined life, or showing some tricks  of  motley  fool.  After meal he used to seat at old disaccorded  piano  to  play  Elton John's song a "Candle in the  Wind,"  dedicated to perished beauty of Princess Diana.  Lachlan  was  playing  and sobbing. At such concerts he used to  declaim  the  William Shakespeare's sonnets or parts from Romeo and Juliet play.
             After  not  seeing  him for a few days, I asked his mates about  Lachlan's  whereabouts  and  they  told  me  that  he decided  to move out of shelter for living on the grounds of Albert  Park.  Such a way he could save daily $10 on lodging fees  for  supporting  his  alcoholic habit. I've never seen him  since  then,  and cherished his unusual well-wish in my diary: "Anatoly, I hope you keep holy God bless."
         
MITCH
         
             Mitch   arrived   in   our  place  about  week  after  my establishment  as an Ozanam House's veteran. He was 50-year-old   Serb  with  balding,  greying  head  and  quite  good sporting  figure.  He  was  outfitted  in black clothing and decorated  himself with a golden Orthodox cross suspending on silver  chain at his hairy chest. Very soon he realised that I  was  Russian  and  decided  to  befriend  me  calling  in Serbian: "bratko" which meant "brother".
             He  decided  to  tell me the truth or part of truth about his  last  few  years in Melbourne. Mitch came here about 30 years  ago,  after  serving  in Yugoslavian Army. He changed many  occupations  until  finding  an  electrician  job  and marriage  a  woman  20  years  younger than him. She was not very  educated either, working as a house cleaner. Soon they got  their  son  and she took care of him, and they had more time  to  stay together. It made their relations quite sour, because   they   had   nothing   in  common.  Being  typical Australian  woman  of  her  own  mind, Pat used to do and to speak  out  whatever  she decided was appropriate. Mitch was raised  in  a  small Yugoslavian village, where the power of authority  belonged  to men, and women had no right to speak out.
             He  was outraged by Pat sloppiness in management of their household,  her  inability of taking care of their son. Each evening  after  work  he  was  drinking Slivovitz brandy and castigated  his  wife.  Once  he  was  so  outraged  by  her behaviour  that  beat her up and police was called. Mitch was charged  for  domestic violence and got his term of one year in jail.
             He  was  not  very obedient inmate and tried to fight for his  human  rights  even in jail. Once Mitch was so outraged by  his  jailers  that  plugged  up the toilet bowl with his blanket  and let water to pour out flooding his cell and all the  second  floor  of his prison. He was punished by prison authority  with  placing  him in solitary consignment. After serving  his  term he came to our place to recuperate and to find what to do.
             Mitch  was  released from jail with the conditions of six months  probation. He had no right approaching to his wife's house  within  radius  of  one kilometre. He also should not make  any  calls  to  her,  and  any her call to police with complaints  about  Mitch  attempts to harass her by any way, could result in placing him back in jail.
             Mitch  wanted  my  assistance because of his inability to drive  his  car  around  the  town,  his  driver license was suspended for next six months, but I had even two licenses - British  and  American.  He wanted to bring his stuff from storage,  where  he putted his belongings being evicted from his house and relocated to jail.
             Mitche's  car  was  waiting  for  him  in  parking lot of Salvation  Army  and  started with no problem even after one year  of  idle  life  of  convict's  vehicle.  I was careful riding  it  because  I  wasn't used to drive on left side of the  road.  My  mate  warned  me that each road crossing was equipped   with   video cameras   matching   our  speed  and obedience to the traffic regulations.
             Listening  this  ex-prisoner, I was laughing inside about my  life  in  this country founded by convicts: I was living in  some  kind  of prison, and my first friend here happened to  be  an ex-convict either. He was concerned that each his movement  after  leaving  jail  was  monitored  by  the  law enforcement  officers.  Mitch  was  eager to see his son and negotiate  some terms of meeting with his ex-wife. She lived in  Trailers Park south of Melbourne, and we drove there along  the  coast.  In  area  of Brighton Beach I decided to stop  for  swimming  in waters of Tasman Sea. I used to swim at  Brighton  Beach,  south  of London. Living in the USA, I swam  at  Brighton  Beach in southern part of New York City, and  now  I  was swimming on Brighton Beach at opposite side of  the  globe.  Ironically, mostly the people of Russian extraction occupied this beach as similar in New York.  Close  by was small township of Balaclava, also occupied  by  Russians. This particular town was named after battle  near  Balaclava,  located on Crimea Peninsula, whereat  the  time  of  Crimean  War of 1854 joint English-French forces defeated Russians.
             Mitch  desperately  wanted to see his wife but was afraid that  cops  could  notice his whereabouts and arrest him for violation  of  his  parole  terms.  He  tried to be good not consuming   any   alcohol   and  castigating  his  own  past behaviour.  The  same time, he was bitter recalling his wife stupidity  and  sloppiness,  her wicket personality. I tried to  be  reasonable  saying  that  if he was on the bottom of social  structure,  it  was  hard  to  meet  there  the real princess  of  his  dream.  As  a  matter  of fact, our women reflect  our  own  image  and  state  of our mind. I advised Mitch   to   relax  for  a  while  and  find  some  kind  of reconciliation  with  himself. The same time, I felt that he was  not  telling me all the truth about himself, and he had much  more  criminal  past than he told me. Such people have no  friends but only accomplices. He wanted me until finding somebody  who  matched better for his state of mind. I doubt that  he  will  stay  free for a long time. In a few days he started  to drink alcohol and drove his truck without driver license.  He  managed  to  meet  his  wife  and negotiate to resume  their  relations. I don't think that they last for a long time. But  he  has good refuge, which supports him on the Earth.
          Mitch,  while  being  in  jail,  invented  the machine which could  work without any external influence, any fuel. Now he was  looking  for  a  financial  support to build a model of this  Perpetum  Mobile  and told me that one Chinese company already  expressed  its  interest  in this project. I wished him  a  good  luck  in  building  this  machine  of  eternal movement,  this dream helped many people to survive in harsh reality of every day's life.
         

RUSSIANS
         
             I  found  telephone  number and address of Russian Church of  The Protection of the Holy Virgin in Collingwood part of Melbourne  in  walking  distance from my place. I decided to go  for  a  Sunday  service there and enjoyed my way passing Exhibition  Pavilion  built  in  the  end  of  last century.  Actually,  most of Melbourne's landmark buildings were built in  Queen  Victoria  times  and  its  spacious streets evoke imperial  elegance.  City's  patriots believe that Melbourne has  more 19-th century buildings than any city in the world except  St.- Petersburg. Being myself from St. - Petersburg, I  was  impressed  by  the  elegance  of  the  old  Treasure building,  the  ornate  Flinders  Street  Railroad  Station, Museum  of  Queen  Victoria,  and other classic buildings. I felt comfortable, almost home, observing them.
             Service  in Russian Orthodox Church was close to end when I  came  inside. I don't like this Orthodox custom requiring parishioners  to  stand  all  the time of service, so I came usually  at  the end. I don't like also outrageous custom of passing  to  parishioners  the  trays for donations on which they  can  see how much any parishioner putted his money on.  I consider it as some kind of extortion.
             After  the  service,  I  met the Reverent of this church, Nicholas  Karipoff,  who  got  his degree in Theology in New York  City.  Father  Nicholas  was  happy to find that I was from  St.  - Petersburg where he met "matushka", his beloved wife, who was student of  Academy of Forest Technology.
             They  were  on the way to construction site of new church and  suggested  giving  me a lift there. Many parishioners congregated  there  for  bar-be-que party with beer and wine  for  special service dedicated to opening part of the church for  service.  Near  the  entrance  gates, three bearded men were  collecting  an  entrance  fee, but I was exempted from this  payment as an honorary guest. These men accepted me as their  new mate and handed a big bottle of beer, I wasn't so shy to reject because missed company of Russians.
             As  a  matter  of fact, Russians are more open in company and  drink  much  more  than Anglo-Saxons. Certainly, this is a matter   of   stereotype,   and  Russian  immigrants  behave differently  in  a  new country than they used to in Russia.  At  this gathering it was no vodka or other hard liquors and language  of  these Russians was a bit different than I used to  hear.  These people were descendants of those emigrants, who  left Russia after the Civil War when Bolsheviks won and White  Army  lost  its battle against that oppressive order.  Soldiers  of  white  Army  with  families  had no choice but emigrate  to  other  countries.  Those  who  used to live in Siberia,  emigrated  to  China  where they settled mostly in area  of  Kharbine and Shanghay, creating the great cultural diaspora.  Immigrants  prospered  there until communists got power  and decided to throw them out. Many Russians moved to South  and North America, some decided to live in Australia.  Despite  many  years  out of Russia, these people saved they culture  and  religion,  they  language  wasn't spoiled with soviet  newspeak.  I had a great pleasure talking with them.  Especially  I  was impressed that these people were building their  new  church,  coming  here  every weekend and working free, with no financial reward.
             Just  a  few  days  later, I had opportunity to meet with other  variety  of  immigrants who came here after World War II.  I was invited to participate in Russian program of ZZZ, Ethnic  Public Broadcasting, by Waldemar Adamson, who was in charge  of  the  program. At the time of war he was just 16, when  Germans  brought  him  to a labor camp, where he worked until  the  end of the war. He managed to escape deportation back  to  USSR,  which  wasn't  easy.  Most of Russians, who happened  to  work  or to stay in German concentration camps were  send  after  the  war in Soviet concentration camps or Gulags.  For  a  few years former Soviet citizens managed to escape  that  deportation  and  lived  in  part  of Germany, occupied  by  the Allies. Russians were kept in some kind of camps  and  called DP (Displaced Persons). They were waiting for  visas  for  emigration  to any country, which agreed to give  them  asylum. Finally, Australia gave Waldemar and his friends  a  conditional  asylum,  which  meant  that Russian immigrants  agreed for two years to work at any job assigned to them by Immigration Department.
             Waldemar  was  brought  here  with  thousands  of  former Soviet  Citizens  to  work  on  coalmines of Victoria. Only after  two  years, he had a choice to find other occupation, but  he decided to stay in mining business until retirement.  Now  he enjoyed working for Russian radio and consulting new coming immigrants in job finding.
              I  had  about  20 minutes to speak about my travels with horse  and  buggy across the USA,. and my plans to go around Australia   with   camels.  Because  I  was  a  newcomer  in Australia  and  had  no  knowledge  of this country, I asked Russian  audience  to call me and give any kind of advice or support.  The  same  evening  I got a call from one of radio listeners, who wanted to bring me to his home for dinner.
             Vadim  lived in his own house in the middle class area of Box  Hill, with his wife, grown son Boris, and baby boy born in  this  country. In Moscow, he was working as a tailor for a  big  government  cloth  factory, but after dismantling of Soviet  Union  his  factory was closed, and Vadim decided to emigrate.  He  managed to sell his flat in Moscow for a good price  and  after coming in Melbourne bought this house. His hopes  to  get  similar  job  in  clothing  business  didn't substantiated,  his wife didn't get good job either. Instead they  decided  to  make  a  new  child  to  get a Government support.   So,  now  they  live  on  unemployment  benefits, besides,  at weekends Vadim works for his relative, who owns car  repair shop. I found their house quite comfortable with two bedrooms and big backyard, where we cooked a good shish kebob.
             Vadim  invited  me  to explain the danger of going around Australia's  outback. Especially he warned me about venomous snakes  and  funnel  web  spiders, violent thunderstorms and floods,  about  danger staying under big trees, which broken branches  could kill you very easy. I asked Vadim whether he ever  travelled outback through bush or desert. He didn't go anywhere,  only  watching  these  horrors  on TV. But he was preparing  himself  for  such  an  outdoor  life  because he dreamed  about prospecting gold in northern part of Victori.  Vadim  even  bought  for  a  good  price an almost new metal detector.  I  asked  Vadim when he'd start prospecting, and he  assured that it would happen as soon as he raise his baby boy, in 15 years.
             He  was  collecting  literature about finding in Ballarat by  fossickers  of  gold  deposits, which ignited in 1851 the gold  rush.  People  from  around  the  world rushed in that area.  Many  Americans  forty-niners  from California joined the  mob,  bringing  with them the sense of free enterprise.
          In  his  book  "Robbery  Under Arms", Rolf Boldrewood wrote:
          "There  were  so many Americans there at first, and the were such  swells,  with  their  silk  slashes, bowie knives, and broad-leafed  full-share  hats,  that  lots  of young native fellows  took  a  pride  in  coping  them."  After them came American  technology  of  coaches,  locomotives,  elevators, transporters,  and  other  technology.  Ross  Terrill in his book  "The  Australians"  mentioned that gold miners enjoyed concerts  of  entertainers  from  New York and San Francisco and  learned to put ice in drinks. Hotel owners imported the ice  from  Boston. So, American influence on Australian life has  a  long  history  and  increasing  with  each  year.  I observed  it  every  day not only watching American programs on television.
             I  had  no  intention  to  search  for gold on the way because  it  would  interfere  with  my intention of finding good  values  in  Australians themselves. Besides, I was not lucky  finding  any  gold  on my way across America and lost any  interest  in  it.  But  I  assured Vadim that if by any chance  I  will  find  any  gold, I'll call him up. His wife looked   at  me  suspiciously,  she  kept  Vadim  under  the control,  which  didn't  prevent  us  to  finish a bottle of Absolute vodka.

AUSTRIA-AUSTRALIA
         
             Long  before  Captain's  James  Cook expedition landed on coast  of  Australia  this  continent attracted attention of European  geographers. They believed that somewhere south of equator  supposed  to  be  the  continent  which balance the continents   of   Northern   Hemisphere.  This  unknown  yet continent  they named in Latin as Terra Australia incognita.  But  with  this  name  happened  strange perversion. In 1606 Spanish  explorer  De  Quiros  discovered the islands of New Hebrides  and believing that these islands are part of great South   Continent   Terra   Australia,   named   it   a  bit differently:  "Austrialia  del  Esprito  Santo"  in honour of Philip  III,  King  of  Spain  and  a Prince of the House of Austria.  In  his  description  of this elusive continent he didn't  hesitate  to  write  about: ...all the region of the south  as  far  as  the Pole...the fourth part of the world, Austrialia  incognita." In his book published at Pamplona in 1610,  the  name  of Austrialia incognita was printed on the title page.  His  book was translated in England and France, but  its  translators  made,  from  their  point  of view, a proper  correction,  and  "Austrialia"  was passed to "Terra Australis"  and  "La  Terre  Australe."  Perhaps English and French  also didn't want to call that big continent in honour of their Austrian enemies.
             Long  before  James  Cook's  expedition Spanish and Dutch explorers  discovered distant parts of this continent and in 1626  a  world  map of this "Land Eendraht" was published in Amsterdam.  English  writer  Jonathan Swift had a book with this  map  and  decided  to  send  his hero Gulliver to that region.  Gulliver  found  there country of Lilliputia reigned by kings on islands of St. Pieter and St. Franco.
             Close  by,  at  Cape  Leenwin, Gulliver found the land of Houyhnms  where  intelligent  horses  were  masters of human tribe   called   Yahoo.   So,  looks  like  Jonathan  Svift  predicted   not   only   satellite   of  Venus,  but  future development  of  computer specialists with limited intellect who could communicate only in Yahoo slang.
             Ironically,  but the Admiralty ordered Captain Cook first of  all  to  go to South Pacific for observation the transit of  Venus across the Sun's face. Even then he didn't know as knew  Jonathan Svift, that Venus had own satellites. But he had  secret  order  to  be  in  front of French explorers in searching  of that continent, he had to find or to eliminate it. He  had  a  good  company  of  brilliant amateur botanist Joseph  Banks  who went on board of Cook's coallier Endeavour with  several  servants,  a  secretary, two hounds, and much more  educated  naturalist  Dr.  Daniel  Solander. Banks was real  adventurer  and  said  to his friend before departure:
          "Any  blockhead  can  go  to Italy. Mine shall be around the world."  I  quite  agree with Banks. This young man, just 25 years  old when he departed for Australia, after that travel was  honoured  to  be  the  President  of  Royal Geographical Society  in  London.  On  my  way  across  Australia  I  had pleasure  to  see  beautiful flowers of Banksia, named after that young man.
             After  observing  Venus,  Cook's  expedition  sailed  four months  exploring  north  and  south islands of New Zealand.  Banks,  observing  the habits of its bellicious inhabitants, Maory,  made  comparison  that  the Tahitians made love, but these  men  made  war.  "I suppose," Banks noted, "they live intirely on fish, dogs, and enemies."
             After  exploring  magnificent  green coast of New Zealand Cooks  expedition  arrived to flat and sandy coast of future Victoria   State.  Banks  was  a  bit  disappointed  by  its scenery,  writing:  "It resembled in my imagination the back of  lean  Cow,  covered  in  general  with  long  hair,  but nevertheless  where  her  scaggy  hip  bones  have stuck out further  than  they  ought  accidental rubbs and knocks have intirely  bar'd  them  of their share of covering." Perhaps, English was not Banks' forte.
             After  sailing along bays of Tahiti or New Zealand, where locals  had flocked out to greet their ship or threaten with showers  of  stones  as  did Maoris, Cook and his companions were  surprised  that  the  Australians  took  no  notice of newcomers.   They   expressed  neither  fear  nor  interest, proceeding  with  their  fishing.  The  ship  was  so  huge, complex,  and unfamiliar to these people, that it was out of their  comprehension,  and  they ignore it. I have a feeling that  even until now these Aborigines don't apprehend what's going on with them.
             Finally  on 30 April, 1770, Captain Cook with his fellows sprang  from  their  boat  and waded ashore, not paying much attention  on  the  blacks  waving  in distance their stone-tipped  spears. The last continent was open for colonisation by white men.
             It  required  18  years  until  the  First  British Fleet arrived  to  the  same  bay,  which Cook gave name Botany in appreciation  of  good job made by two naturalists Banks and Solander.  They  were  impressed  by  diversity of botanical samples  but  not so much by this land's hospitality. In his Journal  Joseph  Banks  wrote:  "Upon the whole New Holland, tho'  in every respect the most barren countrey I have seen, is  not  so bad that between the productions of sea and Land a  company of people who should have the misfortune of being shipwrecked   upon  it  might  support  themselves."  It  is surprising  that after such remarks Joseph Banks recommended to  his  Government  this site as the best for foundation of future colony of New South Wales.
             Captain  Arthur  Phillip, future Governor of this colony, found  this  site  not appropriate for landing from 11 ship's cargo  of  convicts and marines, guarding them. Land was too sandy,  water supply was not adequate and Botany Bay was not sheltered  from  strong  northern  gales.  Lieutenant  Ralph Clark  after  staying  a few days in Botany Bay wrote in his diary;  "If  we  are  obliged  (by  the Admiralty) to settle here,  there  will not a soul be alive in course of a year." Governor  Phillip was aware about and left with some marines to  explore  Port  Jackson,  a few miles to the north, which was named but not visited by Captain Cook in 1770.
             Arthur  Phillip  returned  with  good  news that he found there  a  harbour  of  paradise, and later wrote in letter to Lord  Sydney:  "We  ...had  the  satisfaction of finding the finest  harbour  in  the  world, in which a thousand sail of the line may ride with the most perfect of security."
             Definitely,  the  First  Fleet  came  to  Australia  in a proper  place  and  a  proper  time, because just a few days later  in  Botany  Bay came two French ships La Boussole and L'Astrolabe  under  commandment  of  famous  explorer  Jean-Francois  de  la  Perouse.  Despite  mutual suspicions about real   intentions  of  these  counterparts,  captains  paid mutual  visits  and  got cordial receptions. French were too late  to  make  any claim for this land and departed back to their  country  which  they  didn't reach being wrecked with the loss of all hands on Vanicoro in the New Hebrides.
             The  main  reason  of  founding  new colony on Australian land  was  creation  of  stronghold of British Empire in the "East  Indies".  It  was directed against France and Holland who  in  1785  signed treaty of defensive alliance to stop British  invasion  on  their  turf  in Far East. Besides, by such  a  way British government decided to solve a crisis in the  criminal  system  by  expelling  "criminal  classes" of England  to remote place "beyond the seas."  They learn some lessons  when  lost  13  colonies  in  Northern  America and decided  to  try new liberal approach in managing this newly acquired  land.  Most  of  836 convicts brought on boards of First  Fleet  were  petty  criminals, not hard core. British officials  hoped  that  after serving their terms, these ex-convicts   would  be  good  colonists.  Apart  from  English,  Scottish,  and  Irish, the main nationalities were black and white  Americans,  whom  British promised a free land. These English   loyalists   lost  their  possessions  in  Northern America  and  their  masters  finally  decided to compensate them  by  this rough land of opportunity. It was no hints in those  colonists'  minds  about who owned this land, and that about  800,000  Aborigines  lived  on it at the time of this invasion.
             Nowadays,  the  Federal Government in Canberra decided to say  sorry  for  all  abuses  committed  by  whites  towards Aborigines  for  more  than  200 years of conquest. But from the  beginning  of  the colonisation British authority tried to  implement  human approach to natives. It was greed and belligerent  approach  of  convicts  and free settlers, which eradicated  Aborigines from their native grounds. Those more than  80,000  of  convicts  who were brought to Australia by British  ships  behaved as criminals, not as devoted members of  the  Humane  Society  of London. As African black slaves brought  to  America,  these  white  slaves  were brought to Australia  without  their  consent.  But  difference between descendants  of  black and white slaves in their attitude to their  history:  blacks  denounce  it, but whites managed to make it as a matter of honour.
             City  of  Melbourne  was  founded  in 1835 by whalers and pasture  owners from Van Diemen's Land, now called Tasmania.  Sheep's  flock owner and land speculator John Batman managed some  kind  of 'treaty' purchasing for 200 pounds from local tribe  700,000  acres  of  the  shores  of  Port Phillip. He handed  out  trinkets and put a necklace on each member of a tribe.  As  his  counterparts  in  America,  he  distributed between  natives  the most "valuable" items, such as looking glasses,  tomahawks,  scissors,  knives,  beads,  flour, and blankets    This   sale   was   repudiated  by  the  British Authority,  however,  John  Batman  commenced farming within the  boundary  of  the  present  of  Melbourne,  named after British Prime Minister of that time.
             John  Pascoe Fawkner Batman and others farmers from Tasmania followed Batman, and challenged Batman's priority in  occupation  of  this land. Only in 1847 Melbourne was raised  to  the dignity of a city, and in 1851 became the capital of new  State  of Victoria. It was built according to new trend of   British  architecture  with  wide  streets,  impressive Government buildings and spacious parks.
             Melbourne  was grown on gold discovered a few weeks after Victoria  had  entered  upon  its  separate  existence and a  large  number of fossickers were attracted to mines from the neighbouring  colonies, Europe, and America. These money were  good  spend  on  building  of  this  beautiful  city,  which
          streets'  names  and  monuments  remind  the history of gold rush  and  conquest  for  exploration of this continent. Not very  far  from  Bourke  Street named after Governor Richard  Bourke,  there  is  a  monument  of the hero-explorer Robert Burke  and  his  mate  William Wills. It depicts in chiselled native  stone  impressive  standing  figure  of Robert Burke supporting  exhausted  younger  Wills. Burke's eyes directed somewhere  behind  horizon  to  unexplored  yet  lands. Real story  of  this  tragic  and  ill-fated  expedition  is less impressive.  Robert  Burke  was  former British Army officer  who  didn't  distinguished himself in wars of British Empire and  was  too late with his report to fight against Russians in  Crimean  campaign  of  1854-55.  He  ended up serving as chief  of  police  in a small town near Melbourne. That time he  fell  in  love  with  the leading soprano of local opera house  Julia  Matthews.  For  five  years  he  was trying to pursue  her  marry him, but they didn't match. She was young           and  famous  in  that colony, and he was much elder, obscure policeman.  But  fate  raised  him to stardom when the State Exploration  Committee  chooses  him as the Chief Explorer of organised  expedition  to  cross the continent from south to north,  from  Melbourne  to  Gulf  of  Carpentary.  State of Victoria  was  competing  with  State of South Australia for the  prize  and glory of crossing this continent and spent a lot   of   money  equipping  this  grandiose  expedition.  I especially  interested  all these details because first time exploration  committee  decided to buy 26 camels to use them for transportation of multiple goods and equipment Their  choice  of  Robert Burke as the chief explorer was absolutely  unexplainable,  because  he had no experience of travelling  through outback, beside arresting cattle thieves in  rural  areas.  And  for  Burke more important was to win heart  of  his  woman  than heart of continent. He was lucky doing  it  the  same time, even jeopardising lives of people who  he  was in charge. Despite of all obstacles he managed to  cross  the  continent  and  reach  his  target,  Golf of Carpentaria.  News  about  his achievement reached Melbourne by  telegraph  and  all  Victorians celebrated their and his achievement,  and  his  love  Julia Matthews was waiting him back.  But  Burke  exhausted  himself,  besides,  he  had to           suffer   because   of   his  own  bad  planning  and  sloppy management  of the expedition. After four months of absence, when  Burke  with  his  partners Wills and Ring came back to supply  depot,  the  support  group,  which supposed to wait him,  left  that site just a few hours before. They left for Burke  some  cache  of  food  stored in ditch under the tree with  note  about  their plans and direction to go if by any chance  Burke  managed  to  find  this supply. Burke and his mates  found it and after taking all that food, putted their note  describing  their  direction  back to civilised world, after  that  dug  it  back  to cache site and disguised that hole  against  Aboriginal  attempts to find anything at that site.
             After  Burke  with  Wills  and  King  left  that site for direction  other  that support group headed, that group came back  to  check  whether  Bourke's expedition returned. They didn't  find any traces of his visit of that site and didn't bother  themselves  to dig out that cache site where Burke's note  was  placed.  It  was  bad  luck or evil curse for all these people. Burke  lost all his strength and leadership, allowing his mates  to  survive by their own. Although there were fish in the  streams, birds, desert rats and kangaroos to be trapped and  eaten,  seeds of nardoo were plentiful, Burke and Wills gave  up of hope to survive in this harsh environment. Burke was  afraid  of  Aborigines and when they came and brought a gift   of  fish,  he  attacked  them  with  his  sabre.  His tormented  life  came  to the end 28 June, 1861, his younger friend  Wills  died  about  the  same  date,  alone  with no support from his friend.
             When  after  few  months  rescue  party came to find what happened  with  this  ill-fated party, they found John King, skinny,  exhausted  but  alive,  camping with local tribe of blacks.  While  his  mates  gave up and decided to die, King decided  to fight for his life and managed to live on scarce food  , which   was  normal  food  for  Aborigines.  Rescuers recompensed  Aborigines with good supply of food and brought King  back  home  to  testify  about last days of that human despair.  His  testimony  got sour reception from members of the   committee  responsible  for  that  expedition  because disclosed  many  omissions  made  by  its  members. King was rewarded  by  personal  watches  with  monogram  and sent to obscurity  to  drink  his beer and talk with his mates about his  heroic  past.  But  city fathers decided to make heroes from  two  desperate  men  perished  because they lost their spirit.  Great tragedies make sometimes better impression on people  than success stories and dead heroes more attractive to  people and Government than living heroes who could spoil the  legend. For this reason Victoria Government erected the monument  to  Burke and Wills on main road of Melbourne, but there  is  no  data what happened with John King. Alive hero was a nuisance.
         
 POLICE
         
             Before  coming  to  Australia  I made a good trip cycling from  New York City to Key West, southern tip of Florida. On the   way  I  stopped  in  small  town  of  Melbourne  where befriended  Sgt.  Vince  Bouncore.  When  he  found about my plans  to  go  around  Australia,  Vince asked me to be some kind  of  messenger  of his police station and to stop by at police  station  in Australian Melbourne to hand them police badge  of  his  station.  I  was  ardent  collector  of such badges,  stitching  them  to my jacket and knew that in many police  stations  of  the U.S.A. they collect such badges as tokens of International Brotherhood of Policemen.
             When  I  arrived  to  police  headquarter of Melbourne to hand  out  that  badge,  it was nobody around to accept that generous  gift.  They  kept  me in reception area calling to superiors,   chiefs  of  departments,  spokesmen,  community liaisons  and  other  officials,  but  nobody was up to take from  that  gift  of their mates in America. Finally I asked them  to  call  to Mounted Police Unit, which counterpart in the  USA  used  to help me with accommodation of my horse on the  way across that country. After long negotiations person in  charge  of  that  unit  agreed  to meet me in his office located south of Yarra River.
             Stables  and office of Mounted Police were hiding between derelict  building in Kilda area of Melbourne and it took me long  time  to find it because most of locals were newcomers who  moved  recently to new apartment buildings. Mostly they were   of   Chinese  descent,  not  speaking  understandable English.  Perhaps,  they  were  rich refugees from Hong Kong whom  Australian  government  attracted giving them citizens provided  they had banking account not less than $300,000. I already  met  such  refugees  in Vancouver, Canada, and over there   they   also   lived   in   separate   enclaves,  not communicating with white neighbours.
             I   found  that  police  unit  by  the  smell  of  horses emanating  from  their outdated stables. After long inquires through  Intercom  I  was allowed to come inside for meeting  with  Senior  Sergeant Williams. After such a long search of  his  unit  I  was  curious  why there is no police plaque is attached  to  his  headquarters. Sergeant explained that his unit  is responsible for maintaining order on streets of the city,   especially  when  any  kind  of  demonstrations  and  political  rallies  which  sometimes  resulted with clashes.  Police  concern  of  any  retaliation from young extremists and prefer not disclosing stables' location.
             Officer  Williams expressed no interest of accepting from me  that police badge of his colleges in Melbourne, Florida, stressing  that  it  should  be done by assigned official. I hide  that  badge  in  my  pocked and asked him to assist me  with  finding  of horse or camel lovers who could be helpful with  information about location of the farm where I can buy  camels  for  my  trip  around  Australia.  I didn't find any enthusiasm   in   his  response,  and  after  few  calls  he apologised   for  his  inability  to  find  any  appropriate contact  for  me.  Sergeant wasn't up to show his horses and conditions  of their maintenance, even didn't suggest cup of coffee  or cold drink to soothe my boiling brains. He wanted me  to  get  out  as  soon  as possible, it was shocking and painful  especially  after  having so much of friendship and generosity from police in the United States of America.
             I  decided  to calm myself down in Botanical Garden, which was  just  across  St.  Kilda Road on southern bank of Yarra River.  Those  colonial  authorities of Victorian times were good  founding  Botanical  gardens and Zoos all around their Empire,  making  their new surrounding more comfortable with introducing  from mother-country familiar plants, trees, and animals.  It  was  customary that any dignitary or member of Royal  Family  used  to  plant  trees and after that plaques were attached to those celebrity trees.
             I  was  walking  in  peace  under crown of big pine, oak, maple,  and  other  familiar trees until bumped in something unusual,  gigantic,  never  seen  before,  it  was sprawling Moreton  Bay fig tree which represented absolutely different world  of  flora  which  you  could  not  find  in  European gardens.  Bottleneck trees looked absolutely ridiculous as in  gigantic  bowling  alley.  But  these  trees  belong  to tropical  parts  of  Australia.  Typical  Australian are gum tree,  which Charles Darwin described as 'miserable-looking' and   'presented   appearance   of  being  actually  dead,." however,  it  support  variety  of  animals and birds in its crowns.  But  this  continent is profoundly transformed, and  flora  and  fauna,  introduced  from  other continents, made Australia  more  diversified than it used to be. In his book 'The  Australians',  Ross  Terrill  described  perception of this  land  by  early  settlers:  "Here  were rivers without water,  trees  that  gave no shade, flowers without perfume, and birds such as emu that could not fly."
             Since  then  this continent was transformed dramatically. Because  of  dam's  construction,  the  fearsome floods were regulated  and  many rivers are filled with water, gum trees still  give  no shade but other transplanted trees do, there are   many   sweet-smelling  flowers  grow  in  gardens  and  in wilderness,   emu  still  wander  around  this  country  but farmers  prefer  breeding  ostrich. There are ten times more sheep  live  on  this land than people are and they happen to be part  of  its  landscape,  as well as cattle. People changed this  formerly  inhospitable  land for own good, this is the man-made land.
             Wandering  on  south  bank  of  Yarra River, I approached high-rise buildings Herald Sun publishing company and sat in its  shade  when  from  rotating doors of that building came out  a  man  about  40  and  approached  me with a smile and question:  "Hello,  my  name  is Murray Johnston, journalist for  Sunday  Herald  Sun.  Who  are  you,  and where are you from?"  It  was normal, that people approached to me because of  my  unorthodox  outfit:  jacket  was  covered with about  hundred   badges,   cowboy  hat  was  decorated  with  eagle feather,   and   cowboy  boots  were  over  jeans'  legs.  I explained,  that  came to Australia for going around it with camels  and  was  looking for any contacts. Murray was happy to  talk  with me and asked to join him for lunch. I was not hungry  but  happy  to  drink  bottle of beer, which he paid for.   Murray  used  to  work  in  ecology  department,  but recently  was  assigned  to travel section of the newspaper.  He  was  so  impressed  with  my outfit that decided to make report   about  my  travels.  Definitely,  I  was  happy  to describe  my  travels across the USA and some problems, which I have to solve before departure.
             In  his  turn,  Murray  told  me  about  his friend David Wilson  who  made  research  about  environmentally friendly  coffins  made  now  in Tasmania. Use of reinforced cardboard would  cut  the  average price of coffin from $1200 to about $200.  They  are  getting popular in Victoria, and the State Government  is  planning  to  change  burial  laws  to allow cardboard  coffins  to  be  used  as well as wooden or metal caskets.  I  was amazed reading David Wilson's article about proponents  of  this  new  trend.  Ms. Yulumara, 65 believe that  it  is  "human and stylish" to have a cardboard coffin decorated  with  personal  paintings,  sketches and family's photos.  "It  is  about  saving  trees too, too, which saves flora  and  fauna,"  she  was  saying. I was a bit surprised that  she  wanted  to  be cremated in that cardboard casket, because  she wanted a tree planted over her burial place. It would  be  more  nutrition from her body, than just from her ashes   for  a  tree  to  grow.  She  expressed  hope  that:
          "Children  could  climb  in the tree and build a cubby house in  it.  That  would  give  me  everlasting peace." This Ms.  Yulumara  wanted  to serve her country even after her death.  But  the  same  time  I  was sorry and upset by those future naughty  and pervert boys who decided to built a cubby house and  play in the tree growing in middle of a cemetery. Being in her place, I would rather shake them out of my tree.
             We  spent  with  Murray  about  an hour talking about our lives  and  my expedition. He just recently bought yacht and planned  to sail around Australia, being in some way my soul mate.  After  our  interview he published good article about my  expedition  and  sent  E-mail  to  history  editor Randy Rieland  from  Discovery  Channel in the U.S.A. in hope that Randy  will help us to cover my expedition. We newer got any response  from  Discovery  despite  my multiple requests for this coverage.
             Having  free  access  to  Internet  in  State  Library, I applied  for  sponsorship  to  quite a few telecommunication and   mining   companies,  even  The  Australian  Geographic magazine,  requesting  just  mobile  telephone  and  lap top computer,  but  result was zero. I had to find my own way to proceed  further.  I  still  had my Visa credit card, which I could  use to finance my expedition, but I had no idea where to  find  camels.  I  decided  to  use them for going around Australia  because  they  better  than  horses  survive high temperatures  and  water  shortages.  When  I was travelling with  my  horse  across  America,  I had constant problem of finding  a  good  farrier,  because I had no skills to do it myself.  But  camels  didn't require to be shod because they had  soft  feet , which  rough  sole  regenerated  very fast.  Camels  used  to be used successfully in exploration of this country.  Originally  they  were imported in this country in the  middle  of last century from India. They served well in disastrous  expedition of Richard Bourke, and he met his end partially because he killed this beast of burden for food.
             Camels  helped  to build telegraph lines across Australia and   were   used   for   placing  railroad  tracks.  Before development  of  automobile  transport  camels were used for transportation  of  wool  from sheep stations. But in recent years  they  are  used just for pleasure riding of tourists.  About  30000  wild  camels wander now around desert parts of this  country, the biggest herd of wild camels in the world.  I  had  no  knowledge  how  to  catch  them  and had to find domesticated beasts.

          SOUTH CROSS
         
             Albert Park was  just  across Flemington Road where our Ozanam  House  located  and  every morning I was going there for  a short exercise and jogging. Unfortunately, I was very lazy   runner,   making   just  about  hundred  meters,  but barefoot.  I  was preparing myself to walk across Australian outback  in  general  it's  called  a  bush  -  landscape of sparsely  grown  trees,  bushes  and  grass. Albert Park was good   place  for  exercise  and  meditation  especially  by evenings  when sun was setting behind distant hills and long shadows  crossed  green  lawns  and still unknown birds were chirping  in  crowns  of  trees  and  invisible cicadas buzz non-stop  in  grass.  West side of sky was changing its colour from  yellow  to  red and sunrays radiated through feathery clouds  making  sky  as  gigantic art picture of unknown art genius.  Sitting  and  meditating on this eternal alteration of  colours  and  shapes  I  feel  more connected with God or Universe  than in any men-made cathedral or church. Perhaps, I  might  consider  myself  as  an  atheist  because  to  me Universe  and  God  are  similar  and I don't believe in His Mighty  influence  on  our  everyday's  life. Plutarch said:  "God  is  the brave man's hope and coward's excuse." God and Devil  exist  not somewhere outside, but inside of our soul, if it exist and not our mental creation, per se.
             These   skies  of  Southern  Hemisphere  aren't  easy  to percept  because  in  daytime sun goes across firmament not through  southern  part of sky but through northern one, and in  noon  it  is  shining  from north, not from south. I was confused  many  times  going across streets of Melbourne and trying to find a shade at wrong side of buildings. Moon  also  here  is up side down, matching with northern part  of  our  globe.  The most shaking to me was absence of familiar  stars  in  night  sky,  because  I  used to orient myself  by  position of Polar Star, which here is way behind horizon.  The  main and much respected constellation here is South  Cross  and  I was surprised that many people know its location.  Perhaps  it's  easy  because  two bright stars or "Pointers" show its location on horizon.
             All  the  life  since teenage times I was dreaming to cross  romantic  sounding Tropic of Capricorn and to see the South  Cross,  and  finally, here I am. Other constellations around  southern  part  of  the  sky sounds unfamiliar to me because  ancient  Greeks  didn't know them and most of these stars are named by French and English astronomers.
             This  Cross  is  depicted on flag of Australia as well as seven-pointed  star,  symbolising  six  states  and  capitol territory,   higher   of   it  is  depicted  Union  Jack  as remembrance  of  English  who  discovered and populated this land.   As  flag  of  the  United  States,  Australian  flag symbolise  the  history of this country but American gave up of  British  Union  Jack  because they used to fight against bearers  of  this  flag.  Both countries have common mother country but different attitude to it.
             American  pilgrims  came  on  November,  1620 to "Plymouth Rock"  in  Massachusetts  by  their  own  will  as religious dissenter  in  search of freedom. But 736 convicts and their guards  who  landed  26  January,  1788 came by the order of British  Government,  they were not free from the beginning.  American  culture  was grown on idealism, individualism, and puritan   work   ethic,   but   Australian  development  was carefully  regulated  from  London.  After  mismanagement of their  North  American  colony  British  knew  how  much  of freedom  they  could allow Australian to enjoy. No "taxation without  representation"  was  repeated and in January, 1901 Federal  Government  of Australia opened new page in history of this country.
             From  the  beginning of this century the founders of this country  accepted  American  structure  of  Government  with House  of  Representatives and Senate, but State Governments still  save  British style House of Commons. This country is in  process  of finding its identity, even its flag is under attack  of  new  generation of politicians who would like to forget  about  British motherhood of this country and remove Union  Jack  from the flag. Traditionalists fight for saving it  intact.  I  found  quite  interesting poem, dedicated to this controversy:
         
             OUR FLAG
       
Our flag bears the stars
That blaze at night, in our southern skies of blue.
And the little old flag in the corner.
It's part of our heritage too.
It's for the English, the Scots and the Irish
Who were sent to the ends of the earth,
The rogues, the schemers, the doers and dreamers,
Who gave modern Australia birth.
And you, who are shouting to change it
You don't seem to understand,
It's the flag of our law and our language,
Not the flag of our faraway land.
There are plenty of people who'll tell you,
How when Europe was plunged into night,
That little old flag in the corner,
Was their symbol of freedom and fight.
It doesn't mean we owe allegiance, to forgotten imperial dream.
We've the stars to show where we're going/
And the old flag to show where we've been.
       
     The  Australian  national anthem "Advance Australia Fair" was  composed  by  Peter Dodds McCormick, who actually as a Scot.  Before  1984  a virtual national anthem was "Waltzing Matilda."  The most respected national poet Banjo Paterson wrote its text.  Amazingly,  and expression "waltzing  matilda" stands for "carrying a swag." Banjo poem in  bush  jargon glorified a swagman who stole a ship from a squatter.  Being caught, swagman prefers to commit a suicide, drowning  himself  in  the  river. This buoyant song about a petty  criminal  has  been  touching Australian hearts for a century.
             Australian   likes   their  heroes,  like  explorers,  but   especially   the   bushrangers  who  were  fighting  against  Government  authority.  They respect the famous criminal Ned Kelly  who  was  robbing people on the roads of Victoria. He liked   also  to  cut  down  telegraph  poles  and  tore  up railways.  But  he was courageous and inventive. In his last shut  out  with police he survived because managed to put on some  kind  of  bulletproof  vest of own invention. Ned was transported  to  a  new  jail in Melbourne and Justice Barry sentenced  him  'to  be  hanged  by  the neck, until you are dead,  and  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on your soul.' That menacing  criminal  had no regrets and responded: "I will go  little  further  than  that  and say: 'I will meet you there where   I   go."   Ned  Kelly  was  hanged  November,  1880, lamenting:  "Such  is  life." Justice Barry joined him in 12 days,  being  dead  after  short  illness. Nobody knows what happened between them after meeting.
             Matching  with  quantity  of  American  outlaws, cowboys, rangers,  Mafiosi,  other  heroes and anti-heroes, Australia is  quite  boring  country.  Even the most colourful times of gold   rush  in  this  country  didn't  produce  appropriate literature  or  colourful  heroes.  Just one spark of freedom  happened  in gold mining town of Eureka in 1854 when diggers opposed  the  British  Government  tyranny  of  imposing its rules  and  taxes on Australian subjects. None of Government officials  believed in democracy and decided to impose taxes using the goldfield police, which were ex-convicts.
             Miners  invented  the  symbol of their struggle, the flag with  white  cross  and  five   stars  on  a blue background symbolising  the  Southern  Cross. Under this flag more than 500  diggers  knelt  and  said  "Amen" to their leader Peter Lalor  wording:  "We  swear  by  the Southern Cross to stand truly  by  each  other,  and  fight to defend our rights and liberties."
             To  defend  themselves,  the  rebels  built  a  bark-slab stockade.  In a very short time the diggers created a social democracy  of  their  own  and they wanted political rights.  They  wanted  to be represented in the legislature declaring that  "the  people  are  the  only  legitimate source of all political  power." Miners with arms fought for their freedom and  more  than 30 died 3 December of 1854 defending Eureka, their  fortress of freedom, outnumbered by more than two-to-one by police and troops.
             After  their  defeat,  13  miners were put on trial where they  defended  their  right  to  withstand the Government's tyranny.  All  Australia was watching this hearing. The main result  was  a  conviction  that  unless  closely watched by regular  people, all governments naturally prone to tyranny, and  freedom  is  more process than result. All 13 disciples of freedom were acquired.
             But  most  of the time Australian workers are law-abiding and  depend  on  their  powerful  unions which through legal means  make  their  life quite comfortable. Australia is the first  country  in  the  world, which accepted 8-hour working day.   For   example,  brick-layers  of  Melbourne  in  1856 achieved  agreement  with  employers about living pattern: 8 hours  of   work,  8  hours of rest, 8 sleeping hours, and 8 shillings  of  daily  salary. Union fraternity was developed among  the  gold  diggers  and  the workers on the sheep and cattle  stations.  The  term "mate" suggested a collectivity of  workers fighting against hostile nature's odds and their employers.  Australian struggle for better, leisure life and human  rights  served as example for development of American workers' movement.
         
CAMELS
         
             I  was  walking  along  wide  streets  of  Melbourne  and unavoidable  bumped  in  Queen Victoria Market built in last century  in  classical  style  of London's Victoria railroad station.  To  my  surprise,  I  found that most of merchants weren't   Anglo-Saxons   but   Italian,   Greeks,  Lebanese, Chinese,  and even Russians. These were selling cheep jeans, footwear,  electronics,  etc.,  but  the  quality and prices were  worst  than in New York City. I had nothing to sell or to  buy and came to socialise with my compatriots. Very soon I  found  nothing  common  between us, even Russian language was  different  because  they  immigrated  to Australia from small  towns  of  Belarus and Ukraine where they speak local slang,  different  than  St.- Petersburg.. But it was useful encounter  because  one  of  them  told  me about arrival in  Melbourne  of Russian ambassador from Canberra. He came here
for  meeting  with  local Russian businessmen and immigrants to  return  decorations  and  medals  of World War II, taken from  veterans of that war by Government officials when they  emigrated  from  Russia. I was given his telephone number in hotel  Ibis,  not  far from the market. I wanted to meet the Ambassador  in  a hope that he would help me to contact with Russian  companies  which should help me with sponsorship of my  expedition.  I  phoned  the  same  evening  and  got  an invitation  to  meet  next afternoon the ambassador in lobby  of  his  hotel.  It  was  not  difficult  to distinguish His Excellency  Rashit  L. Khamidulin, Ambassador of the RussianFederation  from  other people in the lobby of that not very expensive   hotel.  We,  Russians,  always  don't  pay  much attention   to  our  outfit,  and  His  Excellency  was  not  exception  in this respect. Because of his last name, I knew that  Mr.  Khamidulin supposed to look as Tartar,  and he did with  narrow,  oriental  eyes  and  swarthy skin. Ambassador looked   like  middle  level  communist  official,  whom  he probably used to be in the times of Soviet Union existence The  worst  thing  in  conversation  with  ambassador was obligatory     pronunciation    of    his    middle    name: Luphtullovitch,  but  soon  he granted me permission to call him  just by first name. Rashit didn't know even one Russian company   which  would  give  my  expedition  any  financial support,   notwithstanding,   he  advised  to  contact  with Australian  companies.  I knew already about this option and asked  at  least  to  give  me  the  flag of Russia to carry across  Australia  with the slogan From Russia with Love and Peace.  He  had no spare flag in embassy and also complained that  his  staff  has had no salary for three months. These days my mother country is in complete disarray.
             Passing  again the Queen Victoria market, I almost jumped up  seeing  outside of vegetable pavilion two camels sitting on  their  knees.  Their owner was staying close by, leaning on  street  light  pole. It was no shade around, but his hat with  wide  brims.  He was a seasoned man of 60-th with good decorative  wrinkles  on tanned face. With his demeanour, the man  looked foreign in this hustle and bustle surrounding of the  market. His camels also belonged to other world of open spaces  and  wilderness.  I  approached  to him with a great respect  and  introduced  myself  in a hope that he will not reject  my  request  to  touch his beasts. Kevin Handley was generous  granting  me  permission  to  communicate with his camels,  and first time in my life I was petting the animals, which  I  would  like to go around Australia. They looked at me  with  some kind of contempt but let to touch their hardy bodies and didn't spit on me, which was a good beginning.
             Kevin  Handley  happened  to  be the Federal President of Australian  Camel  Racing  Association , which  was under the patronage  of  His  Highness  Sheikh  Zayed  of  United Arab Emirates.  Just  recently  I was talking with His Excellency the  Ambassador and now I am meeting with the representative of  His Highness. Isn't it funny? But I kept my own demeanour and  asked about opportunity to rent or buy such camels from Kevin  or  his  associates.  Kevin  explained  that he has a camel  farm  in  suburbs  of  Melbourne  and each weekend he comes  to  this  market  for  giving  rides  to children and adults,  three  dollars  each  ride. Weekdays he's been busy with  organising  camel  racing contests around Victoria and other  states  of  the Commonwealth. His Association applied for  permission  to  make  possible on-course betting on all camel  races.  It  was  big and promising business involving not  only  races but also camels' trade. Arab Sheikhs like sturdy Australian camels and buy them to improve their stock.
             In  suburbs of Sydney the Association had a racing camels farm  where  I  could  buy two camels. I was a bit surprised why  I  should  buy  not one but two camels. Kevin explained that   these   animals   used   to  be  in  herds  and  very uncomfortable  being  separated  from  their mates. To avoid any  misbehaviour  you  supposed  to  have at least couple of camels.  He could sell camels for $1200 each and saddles for $800, when I come to that farm near Sydney.
             In  meantime,  Kevin  showed me how to command camels for standing  them  up  and sitting them down. I assisted him in guiding  camels around assigned for this rides circle with  people on their back. I found myself quite comfortable handling  these  proud  and  quiet  animals  and  decided to depart for Sydney as soon as possible.
             After  closing  the  market I helped Kevin to load camels on  his  cattle truck and he gave me ride to my animal farm, my  shelter.  When  I  was  coming out, my mates congregated around  the  truck  and  wanted to touch the beasts, most of them were city dwellers and never seen camels before.
             Finally  I  got  something real - contacts and plans what to  do.  Before that I was just idling around in a hope that somebody  would  in  burst of philanthropy decide to give me money.  It  is  over,  at  least  in  this  town. My hope to publish  my  book "America as seen through Russian's eyes or horse  sweat  in my face," also vanished. It was the tome to go,  but I had to check my E-mail and say farewell to people whom I met in this hospitable town.
             After  Mitch,  my  Serbian  accomplice,  returned  to his lazy,  protected from him by court order, wife, I befriended David.  He  was  about  30, carpenter by trade, but with big desire  to  be  a  writer. David was born in western part of Victoria  in  family  of building contractor. He was helping his  father  until  his  family  decided to live in England.  David  even  tried to live there himself but soon found that English  style of life was not for him. Crowded streets were filled  with  people who rubbed each other's shoulder, those English  looked  to  him as underdeveloped humanoids who had no  guts  for  any  adventure  and  had  no desire to change anything  in  their  consumer life. His parents liked it but David  decided  to  return back to his mother country and to find  himself  in  Australia. I met him, when David was just laid  off  from  construction company and he decided to take some  rest  in  our  shelter  for writing his book about his short  life  in  England.  Each  evening I was exercising in gym,  lifting  some weights, but David was non-stop writing.  He  showed  me  a  few  pages  of his manuscript and I paid  attention  on misspelling and inadequate grammar, which might be  forgivable  in  my  writing but not in his. David didn't care  because  he  has  heard  about  a new computer program, which  allows  writer  to dictate his manuscript and print it with  all  necessary  corrections. I would like to have such also  but  have  no  computer  to  use it, my computer is 13 years old and no new programs are applicable to it.
             My  new roommate is about 19, with lunatic unsteady, eyes looking  at  something  behind  you.  His  head is shaved on sides  and  greasy pony-tale is hanging from deformed skull.  This  guy  didn't  have  any  shoes or boots, but used lover ends  of  his  jeans  as makeshift shoes.  He called himself Nick  and  came  here from Adelaide after his parents kicked him  out  of  home  because  of drug addiction. I don't know why,  but Nick asked whether I could give him any job. I would like  to  find  any  job  for  myself  but  my  tourist visa precluded  any kind of employment. He went to bed in all his clothing,  but  when  I woke up the next morning, he already gone.  Together  with  my  cowboy  boots, hat, and supply of tobacco  which  I  bought  recently  and cheap in Vietnamese tobacco  shop.  I  was so happy yesterday after saving money on that discount stuff.
             That  creep  didn't  steal  my wallet because for nighttime  I  put it in pillowcase under my head, and thank God, that  he  didn't  touch  my  diary and decorated jacket. The same  morning  I  made  a  police report, but nobody came to make  any investigation. Ozanam House's stuff didn't express any  sympathy  or  sorry for my lost, perhaps, it was normal here  not  paying  any  attention  on such minor accident in this  huddle.  But  I  was  rewarded by camel man Kevin, who after  listening  about  that  unpleasant  experience  in  a shelter,  brought  to  me  a new hat of Tomas Cook brand and commented:  "This  is  to  you,  Anatoly, in a hope that you would  not  think  that  all  Australians are crooks." I was very far from such a conclusion.
         
SYDNEY
         
             I  still  had return ticket to New York with an option to fly  through  Sydney,  and  I left Melbourne ion last day of its  expiration.  It  was  short  flight  of about two hours along  mountains of the Great Dividing Range, which separates coastal  area  of  eastern Australia from its arid part west of  the mountains. This southern part of mountains is called the  Australian Alps, but the highest point, Mount Kosciusko is just 7,305 feet above sea level.
             Using  the  same  pattern of staying in hostels, I called in  advance  to  Matthew  Talbot Hostel which was run by St.  Vincent  de Paul Society and its stuff agreed to accommodate me  for  a  reasonable  time  of  two or three weeks. It was located  very  close to downtown and Hyde Park. Walking down Burke  Street,  I  had no problem finding that place because it  was a dinner time and hostel's guests and other homeless people  of  this  area were going towards there to queue for receiving  their  free meal. Many of them were already drunk or  feeling  themselves  with  cheap  wine  on the corner of Burke and Talbot streets.
             After  checking  in  and  receiving permission of staying overnight  I  was  given a rosy card of instructions, how to behave in that place:
            
             1. No liquor allowed on the premises.
             2. Inebriated guests admitted to Proclaimed Place only.
             3. Mealtimes: breakfast 7.15 am, dinner, 12.30 p.m., evening meal, 5.00 p.m.
             4. Guests must shower daily.
             5. Guests to be appropriately dressed in the Hostel at all times.
             6. Smoking in building STRICTLY FORBIDDEN.
             7. Disruptive behavior physical or verbal, will not be tolerated.
             8. No responsibility taken for loss, damage or theft of guest's belongings.
             9. Unclaimed luggage will be disposed of after 1 months.
         
             Definitely,  it was not Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, but prices for  lodging were a bit less: just $10 overnight. Its guests did   not  belong  to  the  opulent,  show  off  society  of   "conspicuous   consumption"   which   flourished   in   this magnificent  city  of  Olympic  Games  2000. Most tenants of this  hostel  even  didn't  hear  about  such  a  games  and consumed whatever it was given to them by government.
             Hostel  was a square, three store building with penthouse on  the  roof  where  guests  could  smoulder their cigarette rollies.  In lobby hostel stuff was monitoring the behaviour of  about 200 guests on multiple screens. Video cameras were installed  all  around  the  building,  which didn't prevent guests  from  inebriating. Thanks to hostel, I acquired this sophisticated  term  describing  just  regular intoxication.  Guests  were  allowed  to  sleep  in four dormitories for 50 people  each,  beds  were placed in cubicles, separated from each  other by two walls. Hostel guests were allowed to stay in  dormitory  from  6  p.m.  to 8 am, and bedding was changed every  night.  It  was  storage room on each floor, which was open  morning and evening time. Dining hall was on the first floor  and  anybody from the street was allowed to eat there three times a day.
             I  left  my  bag  in locker room and vent outside to look around  and to find what's up in this town. The area where I am  going  through is impressively called Wooloomooloo. When Mark  Twain  travelled here in 1895-96, he also mentioned it in  his  makeshift poem, where he used the most ridiculously sounding Aborigines names of Australian towns:
      
    A SWELTERING DAY IN AUSTRALIA

The Bombola faints in the hot Bowral tree,
Wherte fierce Mullengudgery's smothering fires
Far from the breezes of Coolgardie
Burn ghastly and blue as the day expires;
And Murriwillumba complaints in song
For the gardened bowers of Wooloomooloo,
And balarat Fly and the lone Wollongong
They dream of the gardens of Jameroo;
The wallabi sighs for the Murrubidgee,
For the velvety sod of Munno Parah,
Where the waters of healing from Mulloowurtie
From dim in the gloaming by Yaranyackah.  Etc.
         
It's  a  long poem which I don't intent quote completely, and  Mark  Twain lamented about it: "Perhaps a poet laureate could  do  better,  but a poet laureate gets wages, and that is  different.  When  I write poetry I do not get any wages, often  I  loose money by it. The best word in that list, and the  most musical and gurgly, is Wooloomooloo. It is a place near  Sydney, and favourite pleasure-resort. It has eight O's in  it."  Perhaps, Mark Twain never visited this part of the town  because  that  time  Wooloomooloo was already seaport and  was  populated  by  sailors and prostitutes, as it does now.  Sydneysiders considered it as place of sin and depravity, counterpart of fashionable sea resort Vaucluse.  From  its  piers  Australian  soldiers  were  departing  for battles  in  Europe  at  the times of World War I, singing a quite  awkward  parody  of  Irish  marching song about their native Tippererry. Aussies song was about Wooloomooloo:
         
It's long way to Wooloomooloo
It's long way to go
It's long way to Wooloomooloo
And lots good girls we know.
Good by, bully beefo
Hooray old cobbler's square
It's a long way to Wooloomooloo
But we're going back there.
         
             There  are  so many war memorials around Sydney, that you could  get  impression  that Australia was fighting non stop all  its  history.  But  the main object of my curiosity was famous  Opera House, which I've heard so much about. To reach there,  I  walked  along  an  alley of Hyde Park bordered by gigantic  gum  trees decorated by millions of electric bulbs, which  illuminated this park at nighttime. At daytime it was resonating   with   songs   of  thousands  white  cockatoos, brilliantly  coloured parrots, magpies, and kookaburras. This park  had  nothing  common  with  its  namesake  in  London.  Sydney's  park was vibrating with colourful, hullabaloo life, and  that  in  London was filled with memories of the vanity Empire.  British Empire gave birth to such mighty offsprings as  the  USA,  Canada,  Australia, New Zealand, South Africa and  all  around  the  world  it created Hyde Parks, not bad memory of the mother country.
             The  site of contemporary Royal Botanical Gardens was the landing  ground  of  the  First Fleet. Many song and ballads mention  Botany  Bay  as  the  place  where  first  convicts disembarked.  In reality they were brought to Botany Bay but Governor  Phillip  didn't  land that shore and hastily moved his  ships  to  Port  Jackson, north of Botany Bay. His main concern  was  to  prevent  ships  of  French  explorer Jean-Francois  de  la  Perouse from landing and taking possession of suitable harbour of Port Jackson.
             As  the  Governor,  Captain  Phillip had from the British Government  an instruction to treat Australian Aborigines as the  Noble  Savages.  They  had  by  the  law the full legal status  as  British subjects which was higher than such of convicts.  The  convicts  resented  this and being on lowest level  of  social  strata, they needed to believe in a class lower  to  themselves  and Aborigines perfectly matched this image.   Convicts   were  shocked  when  after  their  first skirmish  with  blacks Phillip refused to retaliate but even flogged   with   150   lashes   each   that   convicts  who participated in attack on the Iora tribe.
             Governor  even  befriended  on  of  the "Indians" for his versatility  and made him some kind example of possible good relationships  between  colonists  and  natives.  He ordered convicts  to  build  a hut to his black friend Bennelong, on that  site  later  Sydney  Opera  House  was constructed. In company  of  other  tribe member, Yemmerawannie, he was even presented  to  the King's Court and was treated as the Noble Savage  and  the  British  subject. He died after alcoholism being back to his native land. Originally  Governor  Phillip  wanted  to  call the first city  of  colony  New South Wales after ancient name of his country "Albion," but perhaps in his mind prevailed an ideaof   respect   and  subordination  to  his  boss,  the  Home Secretary,  Lord  Sydney.  Ironically, but this name has two roots:  habitation  name  from Sidney in Shire of Surrey, so called  from Old English sid - wide and eg - island, also it can  be  translated  as dry land. But I like another theory that  this  name  could  be traced from a place in Normandy, called  Saint-Denis,  which  was dedicated to St. Dionisius. In  its turn, that saint's name came after Greek God of wine and  enjoyment  of  life.  Sydneysiders  should be proud and happy with such a good symbolic name of their city. The  most  respected  Governor  after  Arthur Phillip was Lachlan   Macquire  (1810-1821)  who  managed  to  turn  the hodgepodge  of  this colonial fort into a Georgian city with churches,  schoolhouses  and  administrative  buildings. His more  sophisticated  wife  Elizabeth had brought with her an album  of European architecture, where she found appropriate examples  of  building  and  town  designs.  With  her help, Macquarie  wrote codes that specified the heights of houses, width  of  streets  and  he  laid  out  the  central grid of Sydney.  The British Government objected his "extravagances" of  his  project  and  even  refused  to  send  Macquarie an architect.  But  he  found  a  convict  of  that profession:
          Francis  Hovard  Greenway who was put in charge of designing and    building    all   government   projects.   Greenway's masterpiece,  the  Hyde Park Barracks, still exist in north-east  corner  of  the  Park  and now serves as the museum of convict  past  of  the  city.  I  visited  that museum after dropping  by  to  the  Sheriff  office  in  Gate House where Sheriff  Reg  Kruit gifted me his badge. In the museum I was calm,  paying  respect  to  those  unfortunate people whom I considered  as  my predecessors - I believe in reincarnation and  in  one  of my previous lives I was sent from Europe to Australia.  This  is  why  I  decided  to come again in this country.
              To  memory  of  that  Governor  dedicated  wide Macquire Street   going  north  of  Hyde  Park  and  less  wide  Mrs.  Macquires  Road  brought  me  to Mrs. Macquires Point on the shore  where  Governor's  wife  used  to  rest and gaze over majestic  view  of Sydney Cove and Port Jackson Strait. This poor  woman  suffered  after  miscarriages  and multitude of other  feminine  diseases, perhaps PMS. No remedies for this existed  in  her  times,  as now also, for my knowledge. She couldn't  predict  that  150  years  later, near by, World's Wander,  the Sydney Opera House, will be erected. But second landmark  of  this  country,  the  Sydney Harbour Bridge, was forecasted  long  before  it  was  built.  In  1790, Erasmus Darwin,  grandfather  of  Charles, wrote about the future of Sydney:
 
Where Sydney Cove her lucid bosom swells,
Courts her young navies, and the storm repels,
There shall broad streets their stately walls extend
The circus widen, and the crescent bend;
There, ray'd from cities o'er the cultured land,
Shall bright canals, and solid roads expand.
There the proud Arch, Colossus-like, bestride
Yon glittering streams, and bound the chafing tide-..."
         
 Withholding   breath,  I  approached  along  Farm  Cove's embankment   to   the   Opera  House,  brainchild  of  Dutch architect  Jorn  Utzon.  Its  futuristic  white  sails  were propelled  by  dreams  for  better  future  of this country. Perhaps   this  analogy  won  minds  and  hearts  of  people assigned   for   the  Royal  Appropriation  Committee  which considered  hundreds  of construction projects sent for the open  concurs. As any unorthodox project, it attracted a lot of  criticism, jealousy, and envy. Utzon was accused in many sins,   including   mismanagement  and  misappropriation  of money.  He  had  to  resign  from the Chairman's post of the  Construction  Committee  and  promised never to come and see  his   project,   which   was  altered  a  lot,  despite  his bjections.  But  it  happen  to  be  the great trademark of Sydney  despite  cynical  jokes  that  its roof resemble the headdress  of  Catholic nuns, or, even worst, pile of potato chips.

FESTIVITY
         
             The  next  morning  I decided to move for better place to live,  it  was  called  Edward  Eager Lodge and located near Taylor  Square,  where  Sydney's homosexuals congregated and flourished.   My   hostel  was  occupying  abandoned  church building  whose  congregation  was  pushed out by aggressive growth  of gays community which members were not churchgoers at  all.  The  hostel was filled with derelicts who couldn't support  themselves  in  this  modern  world:  drug addicts, alcoholics,  mentally  and  physically  impair  persons,  or lesbians  with  no hope to find any partner to support them.  I  was accepted as a temporary guest and got a separate room with three meals a day.
             I   was   busy   with   calls  to  various  companies  or  organizations  which  could  be helpful in sponsorship of my expedition.  As in Melbourne, all these calls happened to be good  for  nothing,  but  I  was  trying  again and again. I couldn't  believe  that  The  Australian Geographic magazine had   no   interest   in  my  expedition  across  Australia. Organization  Committee  of  Olympic Games, 2000 didn't want to  accept  my  gift  of  uniform  in  which Soviet team was marching   at   Moscow   Olympic   Games,  1980.  Australian bureaucracy  was  even  worst  than  American  one,  but was better with giving futile promises.
             In  a  meantime,  Sydney  was  busy  with preparation for Mardi  Gras  or  Fat  Tuesday  which  originally  in  France celebrated   pre-Lenten   period.   In  New  Orleans  it  is celebrated  with  parades  and  festivities  by  variety  of people,  but  Sydney's Mardi Gras is holiday of homosexuals.  They  choose  this  day  to match New York gays and lesbians who  each  year  demonstrate  they  identity and power at 31 October, the Halloween Day.
             All  area around Hyde Park was packed with flatbed trucks decorated   with   flowers,   balloons,   flags,  and  other paraphernalia  of  political parades. There were delegations of  gays  from  Melbourne, Brisbane, Adelaide, and other big cities  of  Australia.  Male  and  female transvestites made their  own  column,  after  whom marched their proud parents and  senior  citizens  with perverted minds. In front of all them  roared  rows  of  motorbikers  decorated  with leather outfits  and cowboy boots. They demonstrated the travesty of masculine   superpower   and  agility,  looking  on  them  I instantly  realized  why I always didn't like the feature of the  Superman:  perhaps  he was the brainchild of homosexual genius.
             But  something  peculiar  was  happening with me also - I liked  this  parade  as well as about 700,000 of viewers who congregated  along  the  streets  to  look  and  greet those perverts.  In each of us exist two genders and their balance make  us  more  masculine or feminine in our life-style, but extreme  misbalance  of  hormones  can  transfer us in such creatures  as  these  gays.  Definitely,  huge  role  in our sexual  preference plays our social surroundings, especially when  men  or  women  can't find sexual partners of opposite sex.  It's  almost  obvious  that  inmates  of jails satisfy their  sexual  desire  with partners of same gender. Similar things  happened when men congregated in labor camps such as goldfields  of  California  or Victoria, where no women were available.  Men there created fellowships of partners, as it was  in  America,  or  mates in Australia. These fellowships germinated  in  homosexual  communities  of  California  and Australia.  Oscar  Wilde, the most famous homosexual of last century,  was  delighted  by warm reception of San Francisco gay community, and it happened more than hundred years ago.
             In  Puritan  Australia  homosexuality  flourished between convicts,  gold  miners  of  Ballarat  and shearers of sheep stations.  In  many  cases  that typical Australian mateship meant sexual bondage between men.I  should  stress here that most of the Australian common  men  were  normal  and  kept their fraternity in the face of hostile   environment.   These   land  explorers,  squatters, stockmen,  farmers,  goldminers,  etc.  created the image of  nation,  but their political freedom was not won in struggle  with  oppressors  as  it  happened  in  America. The British Empire   learned   a   lot  after  American  Revolution  and  voluntarily   gave   to   its   Australian   colonies  self-governments  with  substantial  civil liberties. Australians got  the  freedom  without struggle and until now they don't know  what  to  do  with  it.  This  is the most law-abiding country I've ever seen.
             Mardy  Gras  parade was such an explosion of unconformity to  common  ethical  values, that Sydney citizens decided to join   it   even   though  for  their  own  desire  of  free expression.  I  didn't  see  any signs of antihomosexuality, besides  a  small  church  group  with  their barely visible slogan:  "God,  forgive Sydney." Their statement was so weak matching with gay's slogan: "Life is Love."
             I  was  sorry  for this homosexuals, Sydneysiders, church activists,  myself,  and  the  same  time  recalled the last words  of  bushranger  Ned  Kelly  before  gallows: "Such is Life."
             My  church affiliated hosts of Edward Eagar Lodge decided to  make  some  statement  about Mardy Gras celebration, and prepared  barbecue with no charge in front of their building facing  the main gay's promenade on Bourke Street. They also sent   hostel's  tenants  to  the  street  for  donation  of carnation  flowers with an attached slogan: "Jesus loves you anyhow."  For my guess, this slogan was a bit ambiguous, but my  mates  were  happy as much as gays on the street, or may be  they were sorry for each other. In my turn, I decided to visit  the next door gay bar and found it too crowded for my lonely  mood.  It  was  no  choice  but  to  buy a bottle of Victoria Bitter beer and drink it in my cozy room.
             All  the  night our building was shaken by blasts of rock music  from  the  street  close to gay's bar. Crowds of gays and  lesbians  circulated  to  and  fro, demonstrating their flesh  and  exotic  clothing,  but  mostly  its absence. The smell  of marijuana was mixed with chemical odor of cocaine, but not so much of alcohol was used.
             I  didn't  sleep well because all that noise and came out after  breakfast  to  puff my pipe and look at those strange people  who  wanted to be seen. Perhaps, their exhibitionism was  the rudiment of animal behavior which civilized people try  to  suppress  or  hide. All the my life I was trying to hide  my  identity  and  conform  with society requirements.  Whether I am better off than those humanoids?
             That  day I dedicated to visit officials in Town Hall and  Parliament  House.  On the way across Hyde Park I was amazed  by  view  of  two  middle-aged men in white linen shirts and  matching  trousers.  They  decorated  themselves  with  long  black   moustache  and  whiskers,  looking  alike,  as  twin brothers.   They   were  discussing  something  very  vital,  sitting  on  park's  bench,  and  I  decided  to  join their company.  Zivet  and  Slobodan happened to be Serbs and they discussed  the  matter  of  future  civilization.  When they found  that  I was Russian, it made their gesticulation more energetic,  they  even  hugged  me. Their main topic was the size  of  future  Great Serbia which supposed to include all European  countries  and  Russia as well. Zivet and Slobodan explained  that  Serbian  civilization  is the oldest on the Earth  and  should  conquest  most  of the world, it is even predicted   by   Nostradamus.   I   was  amazed  by  such  a perspective  and begged them to write this predictions in my diary.  Those  guys  were  not  good with English, but their Cyrillic   writing  was  not  so  perfect  either.  Slobodan finally  wrote  just  such  an abracadabra: "Chains of light will  circulate around the world and embrace it, etc." Being young,   I  used  to  write  verses  with  such  an  oblique metaphors.  Before  farewell  they  informed me that the USA State  Secretary  Madlene  Allbright  betrayed  Serbs  after making  love  with Iraqi butcher Saddam Hussein. I was a bit surprised  by  such  a  peculiar  sexual  preference of both partners, but avoid further discussion.
             It  was  special  day  of meetings with cuckoos, and next one  was  staying  on  the  corner of Park and Pitt streets, close  to  Town  Hall.  He was a bearded man of early 40-th, with   long  Chinese-style  ponytail  and  resembled  Mongol Emperor  Kublai  Khan.  He  surrounded  himself with plastic bags  filled  with  empty  bottles  and  cans, old books and magazines,  not  finished  slices of pizza and meat pies. In his  right  hand  was  one  liter bottle of Metilated Spirit which  he  diluted  with  Coke and sipped from time to time.  Kublai  Khan  addressed  to passersby with announcement that he  was  retired  Australian  general  whose  purpose was to poison  and  eradicate  all  Russians  in this country. This intention  was interesting to me and I asked the General why he  wanted  to  kill  Russians. He looked at me suspiciously but  finally  explained  that  he  used  to serve in army of Socialist  Germany  and  escaped from there to West Germany.  Since  then Russian KGB has been chasing him around world. I decided not disclosing my nationality and proceed further.
             Town  Hall  of Sydney was built in Victorian epoch of the Imperial   grandeur   and  opulence,  its  occupants  always belonged  to  political  elite  which communicate with their constituency  only  before  elections.  In my case, the Lord Mayor's  secretary  requested all possible information about my  expedition  and  asked  to come the next day to get this letter:
               
                THE LORD MAYOR OF SYDNEY
                COUNCILOR FRANK SARTOR
             MESSAGE FROM THE LORD MAYOR OF SYDNEY
                TO ANATOLY SHIMANSKY
          As  Lord Mayor of Sydney, it is my great pleasure to welcome you  to  our  Olympic  City during the Australia leg of your epic journey, From Russia With Love and Peace.
          Many  people  come  to  Australia in search of a dream. That dream  may be one of freedom, tolerance, equality. It may be a  dream  of  opportunity, fresh air and sunshine, or it may be a dream of adventure.
          I  am  very  pleased that you have chosen to visit Australia as  part of your dream. While Australia and Russia have many obvious  differences, there are also great similarities. Our relative  geographical  isolation  and  extremes  of climate have   developed  in our citizens a resourcefulness and spirit  of adventure that is second to none. This spirit has taken  you  from  your  home  in  St. Petersburg, across the North  American continent and now to Sydney, as you continue your voyage around the Australian continent.
          Sydney  is  one of the friendliest cities in the world and I trust  that  during  your  stay here you will experience the generosity  and  open-heartedness for which Sydneysiders are famous.  I  am confident that you will make many new friends here and that your visit will be an enriching one.
          On  behalf  of  the  citizens  of Sydney, I wish you all the very  best  as  you continue your expedition. I look forward to welcoming you back to Sydney in the future.
            
 Definitely,  Sydney  is  proud to be Olympic City of 2000 and  finally to restore fairness towards this great city, In 1956   its   rival  Melbourne  was  host  of  Olympic  Games bypassing  Sydney.  I  remember  as  a two years ago my home city  St.- Petersburg pretended to be the Olympic City 2000, but  it  was futile claim with no possible infrastructure to accommodate  thousands  of  sportsmen  and  tourists. Moscow Olympic  Games  of 1980 were already shameful for my country because  of  Afghanistan war which USSR was involved in, and many  teams  didn't  show  up  boycotting the games. Russian turn  of  being  Olympic  Country  is far away in an obscure future of next century.
             After  stopping  at  Town  Hall  I  proceed to Parliament House,  just  because  I've  never  been  in  a place, where people  busy  making  laws  not  loves.  Close  to  its main entrance  along  fence  a few tents were pitched, above them big  sign proclaimed: "We hunger for justice, today is 13-th day   of   our  fasting."  It  was  something  close  to  my mentality:  I  have  been  practicing regular fasting for 25 years.
             I  approached  to  people  sitting  on  folded chairs and asked,  what's  up.  They were members of Australian Doctors Trained  Overseas  Association  Inc.  (ADTOA) who decided to protest  against  unfair  treatment  of  them  by Australian government. In their handout doctors wrote:
             "A  PUBLIC  APPEAL  to  our  parliamentarians, church and civic    leaders,    concerned    citizens   to   help   end discrimination  against Australian residents & citizens with overseas  medical  qualifications who want to work for their chosen homeland, their beloved multi-cultural Australia.
             'For the Cause that lacks Assistance Gainst the wrongs that need Resistance And the Good that We Can Do.'
          Give  Aussie  doctors with overseas qualifications a fair go in  the land of the fair go! Let them work in the bush where people  have  been waiting for fifteen years for the 'doctor shortage'  to  end. Let them work for Aboriginal health, for  the  special  needs  of migrants, let them work for our distressed teenagers, let them work!
             The   Sydney   Seven,   Dr   Asad   Razaghi,   Dr  Janusz Milczaniwski,  Dr  Hosein  Aryan,  Dr  Robert  Manga,  Dr H.  Mostaghimi,  Dr  Eric  Bocquillon, Dr Erege Yaghootifam will not eat until their hunger for justice is satisfied..."
             These  doctors  didn't feel well and I decided to support them  saying that I used to fast without any political cause more  than  40 days which helped me to stay alive despite my drinking  and smoking habits. It is good for us from time to time  unload  deposits  of  poisonous  salts and cholesterol clogging  our  blood  vessels.  Doctors  listened to me with professional  interest  but considered their fasting as hard burden  to their body and mind, which was right because they decide to suffer instead of healing themselves.
             Concerning  doctors  appeal, I knew that American Medical Association  (AMA)  created  similar  obstacles to immigrant doctors.  It  is  almost  impossible  for foreign doctors to pass  the  test  required  by  AMA  for  receiving  American medical  diploma. I knew many Russian doctors who gave up of their  medical  career  in  the  USA  and  worked as taxicab drivers or performed other manual works. Similar  hunger  strike in 1997 didn't change position of  Australian  Medical  Association  and  this  fasting against anti-competition,    racism   and   prejudice   of   medical establishment   from   my  point  of  view  was  futile  but courageous.
             I  gladly signed their petition and decided to enquire in Parliament  about  its reaction on this turmoil. But as they explained  me in reception office, the Speaker of Parliament was  somewhere  in  Europe, the President of Parliament, the Honorary  Virginia  Chadwick,  MLC,  was busy with writing a new  laws.  They  had  no time to meet with hunger strikers, but  as  these officials explained, doctors made mistake not attracting  the  Media  attention  to  their action. I quite agreed  with  this because in my case I was unsuccessful. To be  heard  you  have  to  make a lot of noise, especially in this silent as its bush Australia.
             Crazy  hobby  of  collecting  uniform  patches brought me Victoria   Barracks   located  in  Paddington  area.  I  was surprised  that  check  point  there  was  manned by private security  company  but  those  guys  explained  that  it  is cheaper  for Army to use low-paid security guards than army sentries.  I  was  met  by  Sergeant Adam Leonard who was in charge  of  public  relations  of the barracks. Adam took of his  military hat the badge with the rising golden sun which seven  rays radiated from the Queen's Crown and handed it to me.  This  emblem  meant that Australian army was in defense of  British  Queen.  As I understood, this badge was already semi-official and should be changed for a new one.
             Adam  remained  me  that  Australian  army  as a separate entity  from British one was created when on 25 April, 1915, the  former  colonist  landed  at  the wrong time and on the wrong  beach of Gallipoli. Joint Corps of Australian and New Zealand  volunteers,  later  called ANZAC was fighting under British  command  against  Turkish  army  which fought under superb  German  officers'  guidance.  ANZAC  soldiers fought their  way  up  inland of barren ridges in a haze of bullets from  the  cliffs above. They had no choice but dig trenches into  rocky ground as their ancestor used to dig out gold in Ballarat, and "digger" became a synonym for those soldiers.
             By  January,  1916, the ANZAC lost about 8000 soldiers to wounds,  illness,  exhaustion,  and frostbites, but first of all  to  the  incompetence of higher command. In that months the  survivors  were  evacuated  to Europe and this military operation  was  superb  in  comparison  with  landing. ANZAC fought  in  Europe  three  more  years  and suffered biggest casualties  in  percentage  to  their  manpower.  Since that times  of World War I, Australians celebrate ANZAC Day of 25 April  as  a  day  of  victory  over  odds  and  creation of National Army.
             Since  World War I, Australians decided to depend more on American  protection  and  place  their own interests before interests  of  British  Empire. In the times of World War II they  defend themselves against Japan invasion in jungles of New  Guinea  and  Indonesia.  They welcomed American General Douglas  MacArthur  with  his  nearly a million GIs and made their  country the military base for fighting against Japan.
          It  was  inevitable  that  after  the  war Australia and its sibling,  New Zealand, agreed to join the U.S.A. in creating  a   new  alliance  ANZUS  which  supposed  to  defend  their interests in South Pacific Ocean.  I  payed  attention  on  military  band exercising on the  grounds   of  Victoria  Barracks.  Its  parade  uniform  was typical  British as well as military music. Sergeant Leonard agreed  that  military connections between two countries are quite  strong.  Anzac  officers  study  in  British Military Academy  as  well  as in American one. Australian army units also  participate  in  joint  military  maneuvers  with  New Zealand  army  and  armies  countries  -  members of NATO. I didn't  ask  Adam  Leonard  how big his army, but heard from other  sources that it about 30000 strong. In Australia they have  a  joke, that because of such a small army it could be very  easy for Tasmania to occupy Australia. There is second part  of  this  joke: why Tasmania would do it?, and answer: just because they are the tasmaniacs.
             It  was  not long walking distance from Victoria Barracks to  Mounted  Section  of  New  South Wales Police in Redfern area  of Sydney. I was greeted there by Sergeant Bert Tomlin who  was  suffering  after  cold  turkey symptoms: Bert quit smoking  16 months ago and without nicotine intake he gained a  lot  of  weight.  I, as the profound smoker, expressed my sincere  sympathy  and  said  my  proverb: I will never stop drinking but I'll never refuse of smoking either.
             In  that  unit  they  have  30  horses  with  30 officers patrolling   streets   on  them.  Because  policy  of  equal opportunity,  this  unit  has  no  choice  but to hire equal quantity  male  and female patrol officers. From my point of view,  this  is  terrible because they endanger the lives of women  on  horsebacks.  I already witnessed in Hyde Park how these  horsewomen  tried to restrain drunk teenagers and got in  response a volley of empty bottles and cans. In general, women's  physical ability and strength lower then men's, and this  is  a  travesty  of  equal  opportunity to put them in front  line  of  fighting  with  criminals. It is absolutely appalling  to  hear  that in the U.S. Army the proponents of similar  policy of equal opportunities suggest to train more women   as   jet-fighter  pilots.  They  could  survive  the supersonic  speed of the planes but I doubt that after these overloads  such women could give birth to normal children or even they could produce any children at all.
             Sergeant  Tomlin  demonstrated his new automatic exercise ring  for  horses  with  regulated  speed  from  walking  to trotting.  I  didn't  see  such  a  device  even in American police  stables.  I  described  Bert  friendly meetings with American  mounted  police  and  my  shock after meeting with such  police  in Melbourne. Sergeant had good sense of humor while  saying that I should not be upset by Victorian police because  they  just  underdeveloped  Mexicans. He meant that the  state  of  Victoria  is  located south of the New South Wales as Mexico is south of the border with the U.S.A.
         
          IMMIGRANTS
         
             On  my  first day of coming to Sydney I phoned to Russian Club  and  asked about any opportunity to find lodging for a few  days.  After  conversation  with  some of its members I found  that  it  was  no way to get any bed and breakfast in Russian  home.  After  accommodation  in hostel I was not so much  persistent to find something better but didn't mind to improve  my  status  quo.  In  couple days I finally reached Lubov  Primachek,  journalist of Russian newspaper Horizont.  She  lived  in famous by its multicultural diversity area of Cabramatta, which also called a Little Saigon.
             Luba  invited to visit her in Cabramatta where she rented  house.  It  took  me  more  than  an hour to reach that town  because  railroad  tracks  were  rebuilt  in preparation for Olympic  Games.  I  did  not  regret  because  our train was  diverted  to  go  through  Olympic  Village  and  I  got  an opportunity  to  look  at  those  futuristic buildings which  will  accommodate world athletes. They are already attract a lot  of  tourists  who  decided  beforehand  to look at that  sites  which at the time of Olympic Games they will see only on   TV   screens.  Only  the  reach  and  famous  will  get  opportunity to see the main events of that games.
             Our  double-decked  train  was  exceptionally  clean  and looked  modern  matching with Amtrack trains of America. Its  passengers   were   mostly  look-alike  Orientals.  I  can't distinguish  Chinese  from  Vietnamese  or Thais, but I have heard that for them Europeans also look-alike.  It  is  obvious  that we belong to different cultures and neither  Orientals  nor Europeans had any intention to speak with  each  other. I doubt that those new immigrants brought a  lot of their own culture in this Australian multicultural pool.  These  Kulturtragers  brought here their own stomachs to  fill  and  all  talks  about  the  multicultural society transform  in  talks  about  cooking  diversity  and how our stomachs react on it.
             On  the  way  to  Central  Railway  Station  I dropped to Presbyterian  Church  on  Crown Street for communion and was  shocked   not   seeing   even   one   white  face.  All  its congregation  was  Chinese descent and even its chaplain was  Chinaman   from  California.  What  was  left  after  former parish,   there   were   plaques   with   English  names  of  contributors  who  helped to built this church hundred years ago.  It  was  no  continuity  between  former  and  present parishioners  of  this  old church. Similar process is going on  all  around  this country of ardent multiculturalism or, in reality, multistomachism.
             Shopping  Centre  of  Cabramatta  was  attached  to train station  and  was  filled  with Vietnamese shoppers who even there  looked  busy  and in rush. The first boat people came here  after  defeat  of  Americans as well as Australians in South  Vietnam.  After fifteen years of life in this country many  of  them prospered and made enough of money to move in more  affluent parts of Sydney. Their place is filled now by new wave of Russian immigrants.
             Luba  met me in her crumbling house which she rented from old   Polish  couple  living  next  door.  She  was  in  the Balzacian  women's  age of mid-40th and saved some traces of her  former  beauty  despite  of  all  hardship  of her last years'  life  in  Russia. Being typical army officer's wife, Luba  followed him after each his transfer from base to base until  they settled in Siberian city of Krasnoyarsk. Besides raising  children  and  taking  care of her beloved husband, Luba  managed  to  write  articles for army newspapers about how  good  their  life  was going on. In the official Soviet media  it  was  no room for criticizing the best army in the world  and  Luba  was  devoted  citizen of her country. When Soviets  invaded Afghanistan in 1979, she wanted to go there also  to  serve  as  journalist  or  nurse  and even sent an application   form  to  local  draft  office.  It  cost  her husband,  the  army colonel, a lot of money to buy vodka and drink  it  in  company  of  the  chief of that draft office, until that application was canceled.
             After  that  came  times  of  the war in Chechen Republic where  Luba's  husband  was  sent with his unit. He perished there  without  any  traces  or  evidences  of  what  really happened  with  him.  Army  authorities  even refused to pay Luba  any  money  compensation or pension for family members of  service  men killed in an action. Luba had no choice but survive  in  that harsh world of post-Soviet Russia. And she prospered  opening  in Krasnoyarsk a Travel Agency. Her good life  lasted  until one of her partners took all their money and  departed  for Australia. Luba decided to chase her down and came here with grandson Andrey.
             She  was  telling  me  this long story at the table which she  served  with  a  red  wine and Russian style dumplings, called  pelmeny. I felt that she was describing just part of truth   about  her  past  and  present  life.  Many  illegal immigrants  invent  their  fictitious life stories which fit for  Immigration  Department.  I  doubt  that  she  came  to Australia  chasing anybody, more realistic that Luba escaped Russia  being in deep debt and decided to hide here from her creditors.  But  who cares. She was a good hostess and after dinner  we  came  out  to porch to sip out wine and stare on sky  with  unknown  constellations and crescent which for us was  upside  down.  Luba  hopes  to get political asylum for herself  and  Andrey  and after that invite her daughter who still  lives  in Siberia. She is bitter about her Australian boyfriends   who   are  too  tight  and  money  oriented.  I expressed  my  doubts  that New Russians look better and she agreed  with  me. Her grandson already speaks better English than  Russian  and  has  no  memories about Siberia and even about his mother.
             The  next  morning we found that chicken coop in backyard was  empty  off its three hens and rooster. Traces of bloody feathers  were  all  around  of  overgrown lawn and Luba was wandering   around   in   tears   suspecting  in  theft  her Vietnamese  neighbors.  But  more possible that the coop was intruded  by wild animal as possum or red fox who could find a  good shelter under Luba's house. I remember as my friends living  in  center  of  London showed me in their backyard a foxhole with cubs of red fox.
             I  volunteered  to mow grass in backyard with old scythe. It   was   a   nostalgic   pleasure  to  take  this  ancient  agriculture  tool,  and after sharpening it with a sandstone bar,  to  wave  scythe's blade over dense green grass of the  yard.  I  used  to do it in my childhood, making hay for our family's  cow,  and my muscles recalled right away how to do  it properly.  Luba  invited  me  for  meeting  of  Russian  Club  and I departed  for  Sydney  to  see its coastal area of Bondi. It  was  nothing  special  with  that  sea  resort  of  multiple hotels,  Mac'Donald's,  Kentucky  Fried  Chicken,  and other  fast  and  slow  food  places.  I  swam  in  the big surf of Pacific  Ocean  recalling  its  shores  in British Columbia,  province  of  Canada.  Both,  Australia and Canada, were the  British  Commonwealth  members and shared common problems of national  identity,  immigration,  and  economics.  For both  countries  the  Queen  Elizabeth  II  was  the  single long-  lasting  authority  who was the embodiment of their identity  and  provenance.  Canada  didn't  manage to turn in American style  melting  pot, mostly because an objection of French -  speaking  minority  of  Quebec. Australian way of nationhood was  interrupted  by  disproportional  big  influx  of Asian  immigrants.   Nowadays,   Australian   multicultural   gurus suggest  to  change  its name for Eurasia. I doubt that this linguistic   switch  would  help  to  solve  the  Australian national problems.
             Perhaps,   one  of  Labor  Party  politicians  I  met  on embankment  of  Bondi Beach. David Patch was standing at the street  corner  collecting signatures of possible voters for his  seat  in  the  State Parliament. He wanted to represent the  affluent  Vaucluse  area  and attracted voters with his liberal  slogans  of  future multicultural harmony. I didn't discuss  with David the future of this country, but reminded him  that  white  color  includes  all  spectrum colors, but there is no white color in each of spectrum colors.
             Russian  Consulate  was located in mostly residential and fashionable  Woollahra  section  of  Sydney. I was surprised finding  no  queue of people waiting for visas, passports or other  documents  required  for visiting Russia. In New York you   have  to  stay  about  an  hour  to  come  in  Russian Consulate.  My  Russian  passport  was  getting expired in a months  and  I  asked  Consul  Victor Rodionov to extend the effective   date.   Mr.  Rodionov  explained  me  that  this extension  or renewal could be done only in New York where I got  my passport. He also had no spare Russian flag to carry with  my  expedition and bitterly complained about having no salary  for three months. I found no desire from his side to help  me  with  organization  of  my expedition "From Russia with  Love  and  Peace."  This  Consulate  existed  just for itself.
             My  next  stop  was  at  book  shop  with an obvious name "Russian  World"  selling  Russian  books,  newspapers,  and videocassettes.  Andrey  Vlasov  was  its  salesman  and co-owner.  He told me that Bondi's area used to be populated by ethnic  Russians  but  in recent years more Jews from Russia came  here  because it is a better neighborhood than crowded with  immigrants  Cabramatta. People don't like to live in a crowd and even less in a foreign crowd.
             Recent  Russian  immigrants have Russian style food store   "Sophia"  where they sell a variety of sausages and cheeses,  red   and   black  caviar,  perogy,  brown  bread,  pelmeny,  borscht,  and  sweets. Their prices are much cheaper than in  Australian  delicatessens.  Cultural  needs  they satisfy in Russian  Club  where  once  a week they congregate to listen  concerts  of music, poetry, or to meet guests from Russia or other  countries.  That  particular evening I was invited to speak  about  my  expeditions across America and around this  country.  I  was  a bit shocked when the chairman introduced   me  as the famous traveler and writer, perhaps, he misdated me  with somebody really known. I decided not upsetting them  and  just mentioned that this rumor was a bit exaggerated. I used  my  time  to congratulate women with the International Women  Day  which they are accustomed to celebrate in Russia  on   8   March.   Russian  musicians  and  singers  have  an  opportunity  here to discharge their desire to have at least  some audience and to get favorable applause.
             After  the  concert  public  was invited to get some food with  red  wine. I missed it because of talking with Russian  manager    of    Astron    Telephone    Company.   Alexandre  Andriustzenko  used  to  be  a  Medical Doctor in Moscow but  after  coming  to Australia he found no way to pass the test for  practicing  medicine. Instead joining to the Australian  Doctors  Trained  Overseas  Association,  fasting members of which  I  met  near Parliament's fence, he decided to change   his   profession   and   try  himself  in  Telecommunication  business.  Now  he  is assigned as the Department Manager of   Russian  and  Chinese  section of Astron. Alexandre is happy with  his  new job and tries to forget his medical career. I  suspect  that  he  didn't  valued  that  career in the first place  otherwise  he  would  not  leave  Russia.  Anyhow,  I  wished  him good luck in new country and Alexandre wished me  a Bon Voyage.
PICTON
         
             My  staying  in  Sydney  was  getting  useless  because I exhausted  all  possible  ways  to get a sponsorship with no results.  I  spent  my  time  going to State Library to read literature  about  Australia.  This library was built just a few  years  ago  with multiple reading halls and quite areas for  writing  and  reading. Most of readers were students of Chinese  and  Indian  descent, who dedicated to get a better life   than  their  immigrant  parents.  I  watched  similar education  zealots  also  in American and Canadian colleges.  Perhaps,  the  future  of  science  and  business  in  these countries  belongs to them. For me it was convenient that in Australian  libraries  they  give to public a free access to Internet  and  even  let  you  to  establish your own E-mail address.
             Definitely,  regular  Aussies  also  drop  by to read new periodical  issues  or just to rest in air-conditioned lobby or  reading  rooms.  Homeless  also  coming here but most of time  they spend in parks where they even can stay overnight and  police  don't  bother  them.  With its perennial summer time,  Sydney is the Heaven for homeless. Looking at them, I recall  the  poor bums of New York City that suffer in winter blizzards  and  are  chased  by  cops  from  any  convenient sleeping place.
             My  hostel  mates  also  come  here, especially those who want  to  look  intelligent  or  sophisticated.  One of them always  wears  yellow  woollen jacket with golden buttons and carries  electronic  guitar.  I  have never seen him playing guitar  but  it  helps  him  to  look  as  a  real musician, separating  from  homeless  mob.  In our shelter we have own artist  who  every  day goes to Hyde Park with the same copy of  watercolour  picture  which he installs in front of any tree  and with dry brush he makes artistic strokes imitating a  real  artist. For better impression and to show people on the  street that he is not homeless, that guy carries on his belt a bunch of keys.
             My  own  figure  was  getting  to  be  a  part  of Sydney landscape  but  I  came  here just for a while and had to go further.  Kevin  Handley,  manager  of  camel  farm south of Sydney,  had  no  time  to  come  over  for my assistance in choosing   proper beasts  to  start  my  trip  with.  He suggested  contacting his assistant Tracy Powell who was in charge  of  camels on the farm. Each time when I was calling to  her,  Tracy  sounded  busy  and  finally I decided to go there  myself.  I phoned her in advance and asked to meet me on  Picton  railroad  station.  After  more  than an hour of commute  through  Sydney's  suburbs  I arrived to Picton but nobody  was  waiting  for  me.  My  call to her mobile phone number  on  which  I left a message about my arrival, didn't attract  Tracy either. Railroad station's square was blazing under  the  sun and nobody wandered around or drove his car.  I  loaded  my big carrying bag on back and knapsack in front and  as  a  pack  mule  proceeded  to centre of the town. My attempts  to  stop a car for hitchhike failed and absolutely exhausted  I  came  to Central Square. Sergeant J.C. Vine of Picton  police  suggested to stay at George IV Inn which was close to downtown.
             George  IV  Inn  was  single  story  hotel  built of huge stones  and  composed  of  two bars, a large front veranda, and  entrances  of  hotel's  rooms  were from a central open courtyard  which  was shaded with woody vine and palm trees.  I  found  its  owner,  Geoff  Scharer,  sitting  at  bar and sipping  his  beer  from  a  large  glass  called  here  the schooner.  Geoff  was  a  bulky  man of mid 60s with bloated face , which was decorated with rimmed glasses chained to his neck.  Perhaps,  he  was getting bald all his life but never gained  any  perfection in it. Hair on back and sides of his head  still  existed  as  the  last redoubt of his young and better life.
             Geoff  listen  my  peculiar story with suspicious smirk but  finally agreed to rent me out for a few days one of his 10  rooms,  free  of  charge and no Continental breakfast. I was  given  a  small  dark  room  with no windows or reading lights,  facilities  were  outside. Coiled spiral of incense was  placed  on lamp table and I could burn it if mosquitoes bother  me too much. Sausage-shaped pillows were placed near bottom  edges  of  doors  and served as threshold to protect guests  from  a  draft  as  well as from insects and snakes.  This  Inn  was  opened  in 1839 for "Officers and Gentlemen" passing  south  of  Sydney  and  Parramatta.  Convicts, road gangs,  and  inmates of Berrima and Goulburn jails also used to stop here and often were held in spacious cellars.
             Nowadays  this Inn is rare used as hotel but its two bars and  veranda  every night are packed with beer lovers. Most of  them  were  locals  dropping  by  after  work in working clothing  and  coming  here  by  weekends. Soon I befriended with  most  of  them  and  almost became a trademark of this bar.  George hotel was conveniently located on crossroad and many  travellers  stopped  here  for  a  rest and drink. Its former  stone  stables  and  blacksmith  shop  were used for weddings  and  birthday  parties.  Crowds  of  Aussies  were circulating   around   every   day   and  I  had  an  unique opportunity to watch them at close view.
             Geoff's  wife  died  after  cancer a few years ago and he  was  looking  for a new spouse which was not easy because he was  too  busy.  Besides  keeping  George Hotel, he operated "Scharers  little  brewery"  where the brewer Dave Edney was in  charge  of  fermenting three varieties of beer: Scharers Lager,  Burragorang Bock, and D'Lite. Geoff also had another bar  in  Sydney  where  once  a week he was delivering these brands  of  beer. Besides, a few years ago Geoff purchased a piece  of land west of Picton but had no time to built there suitable  house.  He wanted to be in charge of everything and  just recently fired a bar's manager whose room he moved           me   in.  Being  busy  bee,  Geoff,  however,  spend  nights drinking  own  beer with his customers and after midnight he has  to climb by ladder to an attic where he lives. Perhaps, Geoff  was  very  perspective  groomsman  but had no time or desire  to  groom  himself.  He  wears  sloppy shirts barely covering  his  beer-belly,  and belongs to that group of men who  I call never-never: they would never fit themselves for supporting  own  trousers  with  a  belt,  being just a poor belly  carriers.  Sometimes  I  saw  him talking with such a perspective  bride  close  to  his age but Geoff was already drunk  or was on the way to get his next schooner .he helped  me  very much with accommodation and gave me a ride any time when  I  needed,  but  the same time he could be tight and I witnessed  as  his  friend-customer  was  paying for Geoff's  beer,  notwithstanding  that  they  were drinking in Geoff's own  bar.  I  was  laughing  reading an article published in Geoff's  subsidised newsletter GEORGE IV WEEKLY HERALD where Dave  Edney,  the  brewer of this establishment wrote report which  he  called  LANDMARK  DECISION.  I  quote  it  saving original grammar:
         
             Unprecedented  scenes  during  the week when the owner of the   George  IV  Inn,  Mr.  Geoff  Scharer  made  the  most unbelievable decision  to  purchase  a  NEW,  yes,  a  NEW  refrigeration  compressor. The amazing decision goes against all  of  Mr.  Scharer's  principles  of buying 'good quality second  hand  machinery'  at  auction.  Local  refrigeration mechanic,   Mike   Williams,   who   claimed   most  of  the responsibility  for  the  decision,  said  'I nearly shit my facking  pants  when  Mr.  Scharer  told  me to go ahead and install the NEW compressor.
             Within  hours  decision  being  made,  Mr.  Williams  had contacted  the national press, and told them of Mr. Scharers monumental  decision. It was decided by all major television and   radio  networks  to  cover  the  installation  of  the compressor  live,  rescheduling  all  regular programming to make  way  for  this  event  of national importance. The CNN network  will  be covering live via satellite to the U.S.A., Canada,  Britain,  and  Europe, with delayed telecasts going to  other  countries. So in fact Mr. Scharer will be able to keep  tabs on the installation via delayed telecast while on holiday in Thailand.
             The  Prime  Minister,  Mr.  Howard  has  already  sent  a telegram  to Mr. Scharer congratulating him on his purchase.  'It  -  he  said - the compressor should give him many hours of trouble free use.'
             More  congratulatory  telegrams  are expected within days from  such  people  as  The  Queen,  the  Prime  Minister of Britain  Tony  Blair,  President  Clinton,  Helmut  Kohl  of Germany and Boris Yeltsin of Russia.
             It  is  believed Prime Minister has offered Mr. Williams, the  refrigeration  mechanic  involved, a fully armed escort when  he picks the refrigeration unit up from the wholesaler in  Wollongong.  This  will include closing the road between Wollongong  and Picton, tanks and armoured personnel carriers will  escort  Mr. Williams on the road, while in the air SAS troops  in  Blackhawk  Choppers will provide the first stage of  air  cover  and a squadron of FA-18 hornets will cover a wider area.
             Mr.  Howard  deems  this  military  action  necessary  to ensure  Mr. Scharer gets his refrigeration unit in one piece and  on  time,  and in his own words 'we just can't have any fuck ups this time, can we Geoffrey?'
             It  appears  though  not  every  one  is  happy  with the overall  scenario.  As  unnamed source from the brewery said 'who  cares  about  the  fucking machines they just serve up food,  it  seems no one gives a it when the cellar below the bar gets warm and the beer is flat.'
             Strong words indeed!
             Mr.  Scharer was unable to be contacted by this newspaper for comment
.
             I  talk  with  Dave  Edney about his magnificent sense of humour  and  asked  whether he wrote any more such a stories.  Dave  said that it was his first and, probably, last attempts to  write  something  humorous.  He  is too busy with a beer brewery.
             Only  on  second  day  after  my  arrival Tracy agreed to bring  me  to  the  farm  where I supposed to get the camels which  Kevin wanted to sell. She was in early 20th, tiny and skinny,  with  furious  eyes , which  barely  looked at me. I almost  heard  her boiling inside hatred towards me. Perhaps she  hated  me  because I was attempting to take her beloved beasts.  Or  she hated herself and people around her and had good  rapport  only  with animals. There are many cuckoos in animal's world.
             This  farm was located about two kilometres from my hotel and  I could go there any time. Farm supported 18 camels and was  on  the stage of liquidation and it was the main reason that  the  owners  decided to sell their camels. It was even more  reason  to  sell  the worst camels to me. These camels were  slowest  ones at camel races. Tracy managed to attract them just with a flock of hay and tied them up to fence.
             Female  camel  was  called  Red  and  she was about seven years  old.  Perhaps, she was the tallest female of all herd but  for  my  untrained  eye  it was hard to distinguish her from  other eleven females. She was calm and well broken but it will take a time to make relationships with her.
             The  second  camel  was smaller and younger than Red. His name  was    and waking up, turning, and following me.  I  wanted  also  to learn how to mount camels, tie them up,  hobble, hitch, and harness. I wanted Tracy's assistance to  go  with  camels along the road with traffic, her advice about  their  food  and  drinking habits. But she refused to give  me  any  assistance,  saying that nobody would pay her for  this.  Besides,  I  had  no  insurance for working with animals  on  the  farm ground. I was furious but didn't show her  even  hint  of it. Just asked her to come the next time in  my  hotel  to  document  purchase  of these camels. After seeing  and  stroking  them,  I  found  that  I can start my expedition, the ice was broken.
             I  phoned  Kevin  to  Melbourne  and  explained  that his employee  refuses  to  assist me as he promised she would. He told  me that the next day camel men will come to farm for buying  two racing camels and I could learn some basics from him. He supposed to stop by in George IV Inn.
             Weekends  were especially crowded in these days and I was busy  talking  with  varieties  of  Aussies  stopping  here.  Before  noon  came cavalcade of lookalike cars whose drivers were  carrying writing pads and making some notes. They were the  members  of  Vauxhall  Owners  Club  of  Australia  who travelled  by  small  groups for fulfilment of some special task  of  learning  historical  heritage  of  this  country.  Club's  member  Mr. Seymour who has number 75-130, signed in my  ledger:  "Had  a  drink  with the camel driver after the swap  of  badges.  He  has no idea what a Vauxhall is but we all  know  they  are  a  good  British Car! Famous for their 'fluted bonnet'. Happy travelling."
             These  people  taught  me  Australian  language,  such as "monika  on"  which  stands  for  "sign  up."  Because of my intent  for  travelling  through  Australian  outback, it was useful  to  find  that: forest, back country, and rural area have  the  same  term  "bush."  But  more general linguistic addition  to  my thesaurus I got from two women who recently finished  they  backpack  travel across South America. Clare and  Kitti  made  this  entry: "Hola! Amor! A chance meeting you!  Wishing  you  the  best  of  lack  and  humps  in this marvellous  Land of Oz.  May your camels never have a hump blowout as get too much sand in their itchy places."
             It  was  the  first time that I heard this other name for Australia:  Oz.  Perhaps, this term has its root in the name of  Australian inhabitants: Aussies. Also it could be traced after "Ocker" - Archie Bunker of Down Under.
             Actually,  "The  Marvellous  Land  of  Oz" was the name of book  written  in  1904  by  American  author L. Frank Baum.  According  to  that  book, the Wizard of Oz was a balloonist from  circus  in the Unites States. A girl from Kansas named Dorothy  Gale  was  made  a  Princess  of  Oz.  There was no sickness,  poverty  or  death  in  Oz.  Since  times of Judy Garland  who played the role of Dorothy Gale, the country of Oz can no longer be seen.
             I  was  planning  to go from the Emerald Antipode City of Sydney  down the Yellow Brick Road to meet the real Kings of the  Beasts,  Totos,  Tin  Woodmen,  Scarecrows,  Sawhorses, Patchwork Girls, and Princess of Oz of my dreams.
             Shane  Sparkes, friend of Clare and Kitti, happened to be a  free-lance  cinematographer  from  Melbourne  who came to Picton's  airfield  for making shots of ski jumpers in their freefalls.  I  envious  about such a profession but never in my  life  have  had  any opportunity to jump with parachute.  Shane  told  me  that  owners of that airfield have on their property  two  unbroken  camels  and  might be ready to give them  up.  It  was  not  the  option  what I was looking for because  I  had  no  idea  how  to  tame such animals. I was satisfied with Shane's verse, which suited my situation:
          Come, sit down beside me
          I said to myself
          And although it doesn't make sense
          I hold my own hand
          As a small sign of trust
          And together I sat on the fence.
         
             Thanks Shane, you soothed me.
             Later  that  night  I  noticed  a  man  with  black beard
          decorating  his  round smiling face. He came with Rachel who used  to  work  on  a  camel  farm  but later found a job in Sydney.  She  introduced  Peter  Towle,  who came to buy two racing  camels  for  his  farm  in  north  part of New South Wales.  Peter  was  working for living as an electrician but each  year  he  was  going  to  area  of  Allice  Springs in Northern  Territory  for  camel racers and safari. Peter was first   bushman  I've  ever  seen  in  this  country  and  I immediately  stuck  to him asking multiple questions which I accumulated  since  meeting  camels.  His answers were clear and  very  instructive and even he promised to teach me some basics when on farm the next day.  This  son of the bush didn't drink or smoke in comparison of  many  guests  of George IV. But even getting drunk these people  were friendly and nobody defaced big portrait of the King George IV which was hanging on wall of the bar.  I  was  surprised  many  times  how  these  offsprings of convicts  have  so  much  respect  to the law and authority.  Perhaps,  they  were descendants not only convicts but their guards and free settlers who found their country of Oz.
             The  first Australian-born poet-laureate, William Charles Wentworth,  an Australasian, as he called himself, was proud to  write in 1823 this poem dedicated to his beloved country Australasia:

          And, oh Britannia! shouldst thou cease to ride,
          Despotic Empress of old Ocean's tide:-
          Should thy tam'd Lion - spent his former might-
          No longer roar the terror of the fight;-
          Should e'er arrive that dark disastrous hour,
          When bow'd by luxury, thou yield'st to power;-
          When thou, no longer freest of the free
          To some proud victor bend'st the vanquished knee;-
          May all thy glories in another sphere
          Relume, and shine more brightly still than here;
          May this, thy last-born infant, - then arise,
          To glad thy heart and greet thy parent eyes;
          And Australasia float, with flag unfurl'd.
          A new Britannia in another world.
            
Whether  W.  C.  Wentworth  was  the  prophet who in those earliest times  of  Australian  history  predicted oncoming fate  of  this country getting more and more Australasian? I hope  not  to  be a witness of this complete transformation.  For  descendants  of  these  Aussies  this  country could be renamed even more drastically: Asialia
             These  concerns  were  bubbling  on meeting of One Nation party  supporters  who  congregated in abandoned gas station across  the street. They were waiting for arrival of Pauline Hanson,  the party leader and opponent of current Government policy of Asian immigration.
             At  one  of  political meetings Pauline said: "I and most Australians  want our immigration policy radically reviewed.  I  believe we are in danger of being swamped by Asians." Her speech  was  illustrated by statistic data that now migrants represent  24  percent  of  total  Australian population. On this  issue  she  has  a wide support of regular Australians and  receives  a furious critic from the left. Last months, Government-supported   TV  channels  thrashed  her  name  in connection  with  a statement in her support made by members of Arian Nation party in the U.S.A.
             At  this  days of political correctness you have no right to  speak  out you honest thoughts about any minority. Moral watchdogs  could  very  easy  brand opponents as fascists, anti-Semites,  sexists, racists, etc. For this reason people can  not  express  their true fillings, democratic countries suppressed  the voice of real people and transformed extreme minority  of  political  gurus  in moral outspoken majority.  Now  just  they know what is politically correct and what is politically  unacceptable.  Politically  correct  society is society of moral morons and cowards.
             Pauline  came to support local candidate of her party for Senate.  Party activists were selling posters with her photo on  which Pauline wrapped herself in Australian flag and she was  signing them. I had no funds for any political campaign but  joined  a  long queue of her admirers who wanted to get her signature. Waiting for my turn to speak with her and request  to  sign  my  ledger,  I  found her appearance very attractive.  She  was  in  late  30-th,  tall  and gracious, outfitted  in black clothing and high heels. Pauline's smile was  pleasant  and  professional,  she belonged to everybody and  to  no  one.  As any politician, she had no friends but supporters  or  opponents  but  I  liked her and was pleased kissing  her  hand,  as  I  usually do to women whom I would like  to  date.  Latter on my way across this country I will hear a lot about her from a variety of people.
             Back  to  George  IV,  I visited meeting of local writers chaired  by  retired carpenter. They were reading own poetry and  short  stories,  which  I couldn't apprehend. I already visited  similar  writer's  workshop  in Talbot Hostel where the  tutor  explained  to  seven  homeless people the art of creative  writing.  As  she  said, the most important is the fable  of  writing  and  stance  of  author,  his ability to perceive  a  life  around  him. But members of that workshop were  lost  in  their  dreams and didn't know what they were doing.  I  even  was  not sure whether they could even read, even  though  they  wanted  to  write.  Picton  writers were mostly   senior  citizens  who  expressed  in  writing  they suffering  after  multiple ailments and uselessness of their life  after  retirement.  An old woman was an adept of local history  but  she  was  not  sure whether the name of Picton came after famous general or it was an other namesake.
             Next-door   hall   was   occupied  with  50  people,  who congregated  for  annual  meeting of New South Wales's state's society  of  Alpaca  breeders.  Most  of  them were women of middle  age  fascinated by an opportunity of making money of precious  wool  of these overgrown American sheep. There are about  20000  Alpaca  wandering on farm grounds of Australia and  they are intending to keep female owners busy, while their men  work  for  living.  As a matter of fact, no substantial financial  reward they receive but they are busy with social aspect  of  this  group Alpaca-mania. I used to meet similar women  in the U.S.A. who were crazy about own Llamas keeping them  as  pets.  The  appearance  of  those creatures was similar to Alpaca - wholesome stupidity.
             Lindsay  Bicknell,  husband  of  Megan  who kept 9 Alpaca brought  me  on  their  farm  located on Old Hume Highway. I decided  to  go with him keeping in my that down this road I will  go  with camels. I didn't like it at all: narrow, with sharp  turns  and no shoulders, but it was no alternative to it.   Lindsay   was  a  Scottish  expatriate  who  moved  to Australia  15  years  ago and had no intention to come back.  Here  he had a decent job of heavy machinery operator, on 10 acres  of his land along the creek he made pasture for those fanciful  Alpaca  and was busy with extending his big house.  Remaining  in  Scotland,  he  would never has had such a big dwelling  and space above and around. Australia gave Lindsay everything  that  he  was  dreaming  about. He was sorry for those  Highlanders  who  decide  to  stick to their homeland, which  has  a lot of past but no future. I reminded him that his  expatriate,  Alexander  Selkirk,  was  the inspirer for Daniel  Defoe's  Robinson  Crusoe, and Crusoe also preferred to  stay  away from his country. On my way with horse across America  I met Scotsman, David Grant, who for five years was travelling around the world with horse and buggy.
             Lindsay  decided  to show me his neighbours, the Community of  "12  Tribes  of  Israel."  He  decided  that it would be interesting  for me to meet an young man from Russia, and it was  so.  Ilya  was  in early 20th, with patches of red hair imitating  beard, his head was attached to a body swaying on long  legs,  barefooted. Meeting Russians mixed with company of  Australians,  I  prefer  to speak English with them. But this  time  Ilya  wanted to use Russian. He came with family to  Sydney  five  years  ago and enrolled himself to a State College  of Engineering but soon found that he disliked that life   of   being   constantly   tutored.  In  meantime,  he befriended  with  a member of "12 Tribes of Israel" sect who suggested  to  stay  here  for  a  summer  recess. After two months Ilya decided not coming back to his college.
             Ilya  was  not very familiar with philosophy and theology of  this sect but appreciated that its member were not eager about  money  and  prefer  to  live in peace with each other making  some  manual work to sustain them or receiving monthly  Government  allowance  of  $640. In this place they don't  have  telephone or television and spare time dedicate to  construction  of  Community  centre.  Equal  quantity of males  and  females  keep them busy in leisure time. I even couldn't  understand  what  kind  of  faith  they  follow to because  no  crucifixions,  mandalas,  or  Magen David stars were   displayed.   My  attempts  to  discuss  philosophical aspects   of   secant   life   got   entangled  in  polite conversation  about current problems of their life. I am not sure    that    they   were   sure   about   own   religion.  Simplemindedness?
             In  my  shack  I  was  greeted  by  three  roommates: two lizards  and  one  gecko  who  were  busy  chasing moths and mosquitoes.  I opened big bottle of Victoria Bitter and soon was in hugs of Morpheus, God of dreams.
CAMELS
         
             Peter picked me up on the way to camel farm where he had to  find  two  beasts  the  best  for  camel  racing.  I was absolutely  ignorant  on what criteria Peter made his choice but  he  defiantly  ignored perceptively mine Red and Jack.  Tracy  also  was  around, riding Peter's camels but ignoring my  existence.  He  showed  me  how to hitch and harness, to kneel  and  mount  my camels, as well as to make appropriate knots  for tighten them to each other. Peter was buying good racing  camels  just  for  $800 each, which was in 1.5 times cheaper  than  was  the price asked for my camels. I was not quite  sure  that  Peter was pleased with my handling of the animals  but  he suggested working with them couple of weeks before  departure.  I  was  doubtful  about such a long time span  because my host in hotel was getting irritated with my idling around his premises.
             I  told  Tracy  that  I  was  up to buy camels but should renegotiate  their  price  with owners. After that I went to local  branch  of  ANZ  Bank  and  asked to request from the U.S.A.  money  on  my  Visa  credit card. I was impressed by speed  of  this transaction. A bank teller just requested to produce  my  credit  card  and  passport,  asked  my  social security  number  and  address  in  New York City, and after half of an hour I got 3000 Australian dollars.
             It  was the time to call Kevin in Melbourne and negotiate with  him  camels'  price with some advantage of knowing the real  value  of  them. Kevin didn't expect so much objections from  my  side  and  admitted  that  he can't make any price change without negotiation with a real owner of the farm, Sharif  Kezal. He suggested talking with Sharif about a real price  of  camels  and promised to ship saddles as soon as I deposit  check of $1600 on his banking account. Negotiations with  Sharif  were  tough  because  Sharif was Lerbanese and this  people are tough tradesmen. I knew that the real price of  camels was about $800 not 1200, but I had no alternative option  with  camels. Sarif said that Peter got preferential rates  because  of  his  previous  merits  for  a company. I retorted  that  my  camels are useless for any kind of races and  I  want  to  buy  them  just  because of my greenhorns.  Sharif  suggested  selling them for $1000 each, and I agreed to pay this price, reluctantly.
             Tracy  came  next  morning  to  make this transaction and gave  me receipt for $2000. I asked her to produce necessary veterinarian  papers  for  my  animals but she had none. She left  for  good  and  until  now I can't understand what was wrong   with   her   or   with  me  concerning  our  vicious relationships.  If  something is bad in my relationship with other  people,  first of all I blame myself for it. But what was wrong with me?
             I  deposited $1600 on Kevin's account and phoned him with a  request  to mail promptly saddles with necessary harness.  Now  I was up to buy some camping and foodstuff but in such small  town  as  Picton it was not so much camping equipment for  sale.  First  of  all  I  vent  to  St. Vincent Society discount  store  and  bought for two dollars U. S. Army very much  used  blanket  and  boots.  Perhaps  soldiers of General  Douglas MacArthur during World War II used both but  they  were  in more or less in O.K.-ish conditions. For pair  of  bright-yellow  shoes I paid just three bucks, the most  expensive  item  was a tin to make tea or soup, called hear  the  billy,  it  cost  me  seven dollars. This typical Australian  utensil happened to be made in China, as well as an act and pliers to cut a fence.
             Perhaps,  real  Australian  was a swag, which was shown to me  by  the  mates  whom I used to drink beer with. I wanted  to  buy  a swag because it was a symbol mobility and liberty of  bushmen  that  used to wander around this country. Those, about  whom  A.  B. (Banjo) Paterson wrote his famous ballad "Waltzing  Matilda." But since that times nobody carries his bedroll  on  back but carry it in car's trunk. Handling that swag,  I found it incredibly heavy for loading it on camel's back.  Perhaps,  combination of sleeping bag and a tent will be  more  convenient  and lighter than this outdated swag. I had  no  raincoat,  sweater, and good boots, and I knew that as  soon  as  I  reach  higher  altitude of mountains, night temperature of air would be on freezing point.
             I  didn't  care  about  my  food  because very easy I can survive  without  food  for  a  few days, in any conditions.  Besides,  I  was  planning on the way to stop on farms where people  have  enough  of  food to share. So, I bought just a few  packs  of  dried  soup,  tea bags,  and  a  bag  of marshmallows to eat on the road.
             The  next  morning  my host, Geoff Sharer, gave me a ride to  Mayor's  office. It was my custom of visiting police and Mayor's   offices  for  making  notices  in  my  diary.  The Honourable  Christine Towndrow, Mayor of Wollondilly (Picton) was  waiting  for  me  in  her official red robe with golden chain  around  her  neck.  She  asked me to seat and made an order  of  tea  for  herself  and coffee to me. It was a bit seriocomic  meeting  of this representative of British-style authority  with  a  Russian  pilgrim  outfitted  in  shorts, cowboy-style  hat,  and  U. S. Army boots. But I had to keep up  and  expressed my appreciation of the town's hospitality and  cleanness.  I  especially  was  impressed  by the Shire Council's  program of reforestation town's lands with native trees  and  bushes.  Old town cemetery also was kept in good conditions  (naturally,  I  didn't  tell  her  that liked to drink beer there).
             Christine  mentioned  that she was born in Scotland and I didn't  forget  to  express  my  admiration of Edinburg, the capital  of Scotland. I honestly believe that it is the most beautiful  city  in the world. For farewell Christine signed my  ledger  and  handed  her  personal  fountain  pen, and I signed  her  a  paper  cut  about my expedition published in Melbourne's  Herald  Sun.  The summit meeting was over and I vent to drink my VB beer.
             Geoff  and I picked up at postal office packages with two saddles  and  harness  to  bring them to camel farm. Saddles were  made from welded metal tubes and supplied with pads to serve  as  a  cushion between frame and camel's body. Kevine also  mailed  a  set  of  ropes,  chains,  stirrups, leather reins,  and  rope  hobbles  with  an  instruction how to use them.  I  was  disappointed  that  he  forgot  to mail quite expensive  bridles  and  that  hobbles  were  not  made from leather  straps  and  chains,  but  just  from two pieces of rope.  It was cheap, very cheap trick. To sweeten it, Kevine mailed made in India strip coveralls, which go over saddles.
             I  hitched  and  saddled  camels,  after  that made a few rounds  in paddock leading them behind and proceeded through gates  to  the  local  road. Geoff drove his truck in front, warning  oncoming  automobilists  about  walking  behind him camels.  My  future  partners  behaved surprisingly well and were not disturbed by cars in front and behind of them.
             Encouraged  by  this, I decided to proceed farther to the crossroad  with  Hume  Highway  and tight them up there. The purpose  was  to  make  them  familiar  with huge tractor-trailers  shuttling  through that area. My caravan attracted a  lot  of  people from neighbourhood and some of them wanted to  ride even suggesting money to pay. I didn't predict such a  scenario  but  was lured in by perspective of making easy money  and  my camels didn't mind to do it, making rounds on a  park lawn. In an hour I had about 20 dollars, but my host Geoff  was furious. He stated that I shouldn't do it because have  no  insurance coverage of riding activity. He was also upset  that  I  am  planning  to go around Australia with no plans,  equipment,  and money. I have no liability insurance for camels and myself.  Getting  angrier, he shouted:
          "Anatoly,  you are really a nuts, real ignorant going around with  no  knowledge  of  all  obstacles that are waiting for you."  I  knew  myself how insecure my situation was and the worst  that  I  had no mobile telephone, which would allow me going  across  the desert but having an opportunity to phone for  help  being  in  desperate  situation.  Without  it,  I decided  to go along an Eastern Coast and after that to turn west  towards  Northern  Territory.  Definitely,  I  was not ready  for this expedition but if you don't start your road, you will never finish it.
             Back  to  farm, I met its former camel attendant, Rachel, who  laughed  finding  that  all  this time I was training a wrong  camel,  Kathy. My own camel, Red, has been grazing in a  paddock  and  perhaps  was laughing on me also. I already had  no time to train her for the road because I used all my credits  and had to go. This town was a starting point of my expedition.
         

ON THE ROAD
         
             It  was  the  crispy,  sunny  morning  21  March,  when I started   my   trip.   As   many  travellers,  I  am  a  bit superstitious  about  the  dates  and  number  21 always was lucky  number, especially in card games. I brought my camels from  the  farm  and loaded with my very limited belongings: carrying  plastic  bag  and  knapsack  where  kept  the most precious  part  of  my stuff: the ledger which I also called "Album  amicorum"  - Album of friends. To the left side of a camel  I tight written on tarp slogan "From Russia with Love &  Peace." With this sign I was travelling with horse across America  and there are some signatures left of people whom I met across that road.
             Because  of  her  unpredictable  and naughty behaviour, I decided  to  call  Red  by  the name of heroine of TV serial about  warrior  princess  Xena.  This is also the name of my girlfriend  who  lives  in St.- Petersburg, whose plans also unpredictable.  Simple  Jack  got  simple name, Vanya, which also  was  the  name of my horse on trip across the U.S.A. I hope  that  my  mates  didn't  mind about their new names as soon as I give them a good treatment.
             From  the beginning I found that Xena had more experience walking  along  the  road  than  Vanya  and  I  made her the leader.  Actually,  I  was  the  leader, walking in front of them  with  leading  rope tight to Xena's bridle, by similar rope  Vanya  was tighten to her neck and walked behind Xena.  We  departed  Sunday,  the  day  of smallest traffic in this area,  and  after couple of hours I found that we have no choice  but  walk  against  traffic.  Otherwise, camels were frightened  by sound of heavy trucks behind them but were more tame  seeing  approaching  cars.  In  Australia,  as  in its mother country  Britain,  traffic  is leftward, so we walked on the right side of Hume Highway.
             On  our  first  day  I  decided  to  make no more than 10 kilometres  or even less if I'll find an appropriate camping before  reaching  that  mark.  My  first  thought  was about camping  on grounds of "12 Tribes of Israel" which I visited just  recently. It was conveniently located near the road in range  of  8 kilometres from Picton. Just after two hours on the  road  I  was exhausted and thirsty, finding that it was foolish  not  buying  a flask for carrying water on my belt.
          At  the  sect's  grounds I hitched camels to the top rail if the  fence  and  rested  in  a  hope to attract inhabitants' attention.  Finally,  from  main  building  came out the men whom  I  already  talk  with  at  time of my first visit. He greeted  me  with  a bit grim smile listening my request for camping.  After  that  he  left to negotiate the matter with his  tribesmen.  I was confident that these people preaching a   simple  life,  would  be  happy  to  accommodate  simple pilgrim.  Ancient  Israel  tribesmen also used to use camels wandering  around  desert and I was an appropriate symbol of that  past  which these playmates were preaching on. That is why  I  was  shocked  when that guy returned to tell me that his  superiors  rejected  my  request.  They  found  that my attitude  to  their  community  was  negative  and I was not fitted  to  their company even for a night. It is shocked me because  I didn't condemn their life style, but found them a bit boring.
             Thankful  at  least  for  a  short  rest and tap water, I proceeded  farther  under  the  broiling  sun.  The road was climbing   up  to  Razorback  Mountain  and  each  step  was painful.  My  new  second-foot  Army  boots  hurt  me  badly because  of  friction  of  inside  stitches  against  heels.  Camels  also tired and kneeled down each time when I stopped for  a  rest.  It  was  hard to find any cool area along the road,  because  growing  there gum trees give no substantial shade.
             After  passing  the  mountain  top, I noticed a farm gate with  railing across the road, called in the U.S.A. a cattle bridge,  but  on  side  of it I found a regular gate which I passed  through.  From  the top I observed a diary farm with white  house, barns, and pastures with a few dams. Its owner also  noticed  us  and  drove  up hill to meet and greet. He derailed  us  to  fenced by barbwire paddock, which was close to  dam  where I could camp and graze my camels. He promised to pay me visit after finishing milking his cows.
             After   unloading   and  taking  harness  off  camels,  I rewarded  them  with slices of white bread, which I got from a  baker  in  Picton. It was stale for regular customers but perfect  for  us.  Finally I have had an opportunity to take off  my jeans and dive my burning and itching body in a cool waters  of  a  dam.  I  forgot about a bloodsucking leeches, venomous  watersnakes,  and other dangerous animals of bush, but  were cautious not drinking water from that dam. The most dangerous  thing  in  our  life  is  our own stupidity and I paid  for it. I didn't prepare myself even for such a short lag  of  the  travel. I had no proper clothing and shoes, no water  with  me, and now I was suffering of thirst on a bank of  this pond. Besides, I had no tent and sleeping bag, rain was dripping.
             Thanks  God,  Jay  and Barry Harvey pulled over in dusk bringing  a  lot  of  fresh  water, canteen, plastic tarp to cover  two packing bags and myself from rain,. Perhaps, these  farmers  used some kind of extrasensory perception if they  brought  the  most  important thing for my survival. I almost   choked  with  water  but  managed  to  survive  for expression  of my appreciation to this people. Barry gave me about  ten  square  meters  of tarpaulin, which was enough to cover  from  the  rain  not only myself but also my luggage.  Canteen  used  to  serve  Barry  while  he  was  in the Army service.  He also handed me a Fire fighter's badge as like as he knew that I collect badges.
             The  packing  bags  were  custom-made  by Jay and had her trademark:  "Razorback  Luggage."  She used to make them for retail  sale but found this business very time demanding and zero-profitable.  Harveys  looked-alike: they were short and bulky,  and  their  bodies  stood  strongly on own land. Jay wrote  their  farewell  in  my ledger and I made preliminary notice,  that  in  this  country  as  in the U.S.A., a farmer wives  more  literate  than their husbands did. They had to go because  of early wake up for milking. I also wrapped myself in  a  good  roll  of tarp and slept as a baby, abandoned by his parents.
             I  didn't  bother  my  hosts stopping near they dairy and climbed  the  hill to make day trip of 20 kilometres to town of  Camden.  It  was not easy way because Xena refused to go and  I  had  to switch camels, placing Vanya up in front and hitching  her behind. So, Vanya was pulling Xena and despite her resistance we managed to reach downtown of Camden.
             Noticing  group of curious people on veranda, I turned in their  front  yard  and  asked permission to rest there. The property  owner,  Faye  Scannell,  happened  to  be home for lunch  and  she  suggested me coffee with biscuits which was very  nice of her. As a sign of appreciation, I gave a camel ride  to  Faye and her daughter. During our conversation Fay found  that  I have had no tent and she phoned her boyfriend to  bring her tent, not very much in use. Michael was prompt bringing  a  big  tent  for  two persons and showed on their lawn how to pitch it. Fay was so pleased with my expedition that she promised to meet me later on the road, and wrote:
          "Anatoly,  I hope you have many comfortable nights under the stars  but  in  your  tent. Enjoy! A lot of people envy you.  All  the  very  best. Look out for my car with license plate No.: MYBABE. See you around again."
             Just  a  few  kilometres  out of town a middle-aged woman stopped  her  Mercedes  and  asked  whether I need any help.  Certainly,  it  would  be  helpful  from her side to find an appropriate  fenced pasture close to farmhouse. She promised to  find  something  and  proceeded  farther. In an hour she returned  with  a good news: just in ten kilometres down the road  she  found  a  farm,  owners  of  which  were ready to accommodate  my  caravan.  After  that  she left, and I even don't  know  her  name. Naturally, after about three walking hours  I  noticed  an old farmhouse on top of the hill. Its owner  came  out  for greeting of me and soothing their four dogs that got frenzy seeing my indifferent camels.
             I  was  allowed  to  pinch my tent close to their disused barn  and  camels had exceptionally lush pasture with a good pasture.  After  settling down, I came inside house of Willy and  Barbara  Knizel  who  invited  me  for a cap of coffee. Willy  worked  as  a  farmhand  for  a  big  estate owned by Yugoslavian  immigrant,  but  for  two  weeks he was on sick leave,  Barbara  was  just  a housewife but was busy helping her  daughter to raise children. Daughter's husband recently died  after  cancer  and  daughter had to relocate to public housing.  Drinking  instant coffee (during the entire trip I was  served  just  twice  a  regular, not instant coffee), I looked around very neglected house with non-stop working TV-set.  I  didn't  see  there  even  one  book,  newspaper, or magazine.  Their  bookcase  was  filled with telephone books for  last  20 or 30 years. They don't need any books because Willy  finished just four grades of prime school and Barbara -  six.  They  lived  in owner's house and besides four dogs, had  no  property,  didn't  raze  any cattle and even didn't grow any flowers or vegetables in their vegetable garden.
             It  was  much  better  to sleep under cover of tent, rain outside  made my dreams even more soothing. After packing my bags  I  vent  to  the field for bringing camels to load but was  very  surprised  that they didn't express any desire to follow  me. I started with Xena, pulling her with a rope but instead  going  behind me she kneed down ground and resisted waking  up.  After  about fifteen minutes of fighting with her,  I  switched  my  attempts  toward  Vanya  but with the similar   result.  Together  we  were  shouting,  screaming, yelling,  bellowing,  and  squalling  but not moving. I even beat  them  up with my plastic cane but result was the same.  Exhausted,  Finally  I exhausted and sat close to the beasts lighten  my  pipe  and  reminiscent those camels are the most stubborn  creatures  in the world. If they decided not doing something,  they  simple don't do it and I should just wait.  Perhaps,  my  mates intercepted telepathically my thought of respect  to  their honourable nature because when next time I pulled  Xena  with  my  rope,  she  woke  up  and obediently followed me, Vanya walked after he.
             Barbara  was  waiting for me with breakfast and more than an  hour  watched my chaotic motions with pity. She had more wisdom  than I, saying that if she were a camel it would be also hard to move her from such an exceptionally lush pasture.  Camels  just  didn't  want  to search for a better life  if  they  already  had  one. My hosts, living in their dilapidated  shack,  were proud to say that Australia is the best  country  but  getting  spoiled with an impact of Asian immigrant.   Willy   and   Barbara   didn't  have  immigrant neighbours  but  their  boss  came from Yugoslavia and it was more than enough.
             After  crossing  Nepean River I again started climbing up hills  with  many stops for rest. At one of such stops I was approached  by Shane Sparkes, free-lance photographer whom I met   drinking   beer  in  George  IV.  Shane  finished  his assignment  filming skydiving and looking for a new job. He would like to join me but had to make money.
             The  similar  thoughts  expressed  a  man  of  my  age, a corporate  executive  from  Sydney  who  stopped  his luxury Lexus  to  talk  with  me  about his childhood dream to do a similar  trip.  We shared similar education background and his writing did not surprise me: "Good one Anatoly. It takes  guts  to walk 2 camels over Razorback Mountain. Don't meet  too  many politicians, you can't trust them. Maybe one day  I  can  buy  your  camels or their offspring. Good luck with genetics and your environment. Enjoy! Jim."
             May   next encounter was with huge Viking alike man, who interrupted my rest in a shade of village store. Viking was with Russian photo camera  Zenith, and asked permission of making a snapshot of me  with  camels. I  didn't  mind  but  decided to behave a similar  way  as  some  tribesmen  with European tourists: I asked  him  to  bring  me  some  cold  drink. Neal suggested instead  walking about 100 more meters and stopping at his parents' place.
             Senior  Hansens  were  sitting  on porch and waving to me while  I  turn  to  their  front  yard. Pitching camels to a fence,  I  made  a  big  mistake  leaving them being tightened together.  Xena  walked  around  tree  pulling  with  a rope Vanya,  but she was spooked with something and bumped in him from  opposite  side,  entangling  both camels in a twist of ropes.  Vanya's leading rope was attached to his bridle with a  chain  across his nose, the most sensitive and vulnerable part  of  his  body.  Spooked Xena tighten that rope so hard that  Vanya  screamed  helplessly and I run to cut that rope before Vanya's nose was broken.
             My  hosts  were watching this shameful scene from the top of  their  veranda  but  could  not  help  me  even with any advice.  Hansens  were  town folks who came here 30 years ago  from Denmark. Both Neal parents used to work as truck drivers  before  retirement. When his mother shaken my hand, greeting,  my  palm was squeezed in hers helplessly. She was happily  satisfied  with  my  remark  about her strength and added  that  until  now  she can easy change a truck tire or put a new battery.
             Noticing    that   his   father   reads   the   "National Geographic,"  I said to them that people in this country are divided  to  ignorant  who read nothing or just newspapers, half-ignorant    who    read    "Reader's    Digest",   and intellectuals  reading  "National Geographic". Perhaps, they were  pleased  with my rating, because she served so admired by me blue cheese, cold ham, and salami.
             Those  Dutch  were  proud  of  their Viking ancestors who about  a  thousand  years ago crossed the Atlantic under the command  of  Erick  the Red and Thorvald to find a lash land of  America  which  they  named  "Vinland," 500 years before Columb.  I  almost  bit  my  tongue  not asking, whether any Vikings visited Australia before Captain Cook.
             My  host  used  to work as a carpenter on construction of public  housing  for  Eskimo  natives  of Greenland. Denmark Government's  program  of  public  assistance  spoiled those people,  made  them  a useless parasites of Denmark society.  Similar  process  is  happening here and nobody knows how to stop  a  moral  deterioration of Aborigines. Government help goes  to subsidise black bureaucrats of different levels who in  the  name  of  sacred sites take government lands to let self-proclaimed  Aborigines  to  drink  there  a  beer,  not disturbed.  They  enjoy  now a preferential treatment and if an  Aborigine  in the street, the police prefer not touching them.  A lot of trashy people having just some of Aborigines blood  self-designate  as  Aborigines  to  get  a Government checks and their birth-rate is far higher than the white.
             There  are  not  so  many  purebloods Aborigines left and most  of  them  oppose to Asian immigration but the apostles of  multicultural  society don't want to hear them. My Dutch hosts  also  opposed  any immigration because with a current rate  of  immigration  Australian cities soon will look like Shanghay,  Hong  Kong,  or  Bombay.  Australia  has  limited resources  and can't accommodate hundreds million of surplus people  born each year in Asian region. Enough is enough and borders of Australia must be shut down for any immigration.
             Partially  I agreed with their statements because believe that  problem  of  population  explosion  could be solved by emigration    to    other    countries.    The   banner   of multiculturalism  is  the  shroud  for  Australian  national culture.
             Most  of  Australian liberals accept this Doomsday future of  own  country.  Former  Australian,  now  living  in  the U.S.A.,  Ros  Terrill  finished  his  book: The Australians" with  following  sentence:  "And whatever the speed, or lack of  it,  with  which  Australia  moves  to solve its present problems,  this  unique  land,  as its spaces slowly fill up with  immigrants,  mostly  from  Asia, and as the mysterious pieces  of  an  evolving  immigrant  community rub and clink against  each  other, will become one of the most intriguing of the world's melting pots."
             This  is  a  very  hellish  prediction for people of this country  because  it  is  hard to live in a melting pot: too hot  and  crowded.  And,  the most important, who holds this pot  and  measure  its  contents?  The  first  cooks of this multicultural  hodgepodge were Prime Ministers Gough Whitlam and  Malcolm  Fraser  who  in  1970-th  started boiling this spicy  dish  which  most  of  Australian don't like but eat.  Most  of  Australians already fed up with this dish but each new  Chief  of  this  Hell Kitchen adds just new spices to the  hodgepodge,  not  suggesting  anything  different. Each person,  rejecting  this dish is considered as a distasteful jerk,  nationalist  or  even  fascist.  This society suffers after severe heartburn.
             Our  conversation  lasted  more than an hour but I had to go  and  find  a  proper  place for my camels. Neal drove in front  of  me  and  negotiated  with Rey Bowen, a showground caretaker  about  my  staying  there.  We  placed  camels in fenced  paddock  with  a  lot  of  grass  and Rey opened his office  to  let me cook there my dry soup. Close to the main entrance  I  noticed  a  pile  of firewood and asked Ray its origin.  He  was  pleased  to  explain  that this village is known  by  its yearly national championships in the firewood chopping.
             Niel  arrived  later  with  a  cardboard cask of Yallumba Semillon  red  wine  to  tell  me about misery of his family life.  He  was married for six years and lived with wife and five  ears old son in parent's house. Just two months ago his English-born  wife  decided  to  abandon  him  for  life  in Sydney.  She  could  not  stand  any  more scandals with his mother.  Niel was sorry for her but couldn't follow his wife because  his  mother  threatens  him  to commit suicide if he leave  her and father. Niel didn't know what to do. This was typical   situation   which   sons   encounter   with  their domineering  mothers.  I  suggested  Neal  to  move  out  of parent's  house  and  rent  his  own  place. He will enslave himself   following  his  wife,  and  will  be  forever  his mother's  slave-son,  staying with parents. We are very good with  a  wise  advises  to other people but can't change our own miserable life. I slept in delirium.
мҐБ Y       ї               Ml   
 bjbjуWуW                Ђ  ‘=  ‘=  Mh                яя          яя          яя                ]     М       М   М       М       М       М       М               а       а       а       а       а   
   м       а       e
  ¶                d       f       f       f   >   ¤   D   и  D   ,
  $   
  ф   
  Z   P
                М                P
      x       М       М                x       x       x           j   М               М               d                а       а       М       М       М       М               d       x   м   x               d       М       М                d               
   аВ%ОsWї а       а       ~   ъ   d               
         
BALLADS
         
             I  followed  up north Rte. 69, which was less, crowded than 89  but  busy  enough  to spook my camels from time to time.  Once  Xena  was frighten by brake’s noise of tractor-trailer and  being behind run in front, pushing Vanya on me and they both  dragged  me  in  front  of  oncoming  traffic,  barely avoiding  collision.  Passing small town and villages, I was surprised  by  quantity  of  dog  kennels along the road. It looked  like  most  of  Australian  dogs live not in owners’ houses  but  in kennels. Once I stopped near one of them and asked  owners  about a good place for overnight. They showed me  good  big  house wit a lush pastures around. In its front yard  an  Asian  woman  was  watering her flowers and didn’t answer  on  my  greeting and question about which I may speak with  about  camping. She just pointed to backyard where her husband  was  barbecuing.  He  was  about 50, with unshaved, mustached  face of a happy idiot busy with feeding himself.  The  man  barely  answered  my  greeting because he was busy taking  pieces of broiled meat from grill and inserting them in  his  big  mouth.  As an Eskimos, he kept in right hand a sharp  knife  that he used to cut off an extra flesh. Drops of  thick grease were dripping on his big hairy belly but he picked them up with the knife and sent back to his mouth.
             He  said  that  there  is  no  appropriate paddock at his property  and  the best bet is to ask his neighbor who has a good  pasture behind the house. I followed an advice of this slob  and  proceeded  to  next  property  down the road. The owners   were   busy   in   their  front  yard  watching  my conversation  with  their  fat  neighbor  and my progress in their  direction.  A  woman  was  hanging  washed clothes on clothesline  outside  and  her  husband shook my hand with a greeting  smile.  After  listening  my  story he asked woman what  she  think  about  my accommodation on their property.  The  woman in broken English objected on the ground that camels might go outside  of their paddock and the owners will be responsible for any damage which camels could inflict to others.
             I  was  so  exhausted  and  so  much in need of a resting-place  for my animals that I kneed in front of her begging to  let me stay. And her heart was broken when she said that I  could  stay with the condition of hobbling my camels in the bush  behind their house. They allowed pitching a tent there and even making a small campfire. After accommodating the beasts,  I  came to their house for a cup of coffee. A woman already  left  for her work as house cleaner but her husband was  up  to  answer  my questions. They came to this area 35 years  ago  from  a small village on Malta Island. Having no education  or  appropriate  trade, Joe was doing any kind of manual  work  until  finding a job of tractor mechanic. They managed  to  raise  two  sons  who  got a good profession of plumbers  and now work hard to make money for building their own  houses. From Joe’s point of view, he is lucky living in the  country , which  gives  an  opportunity for hard working people  to  fulfill  their dreams. Joe had no respect to his neighbor,  typical  ocker,  who  inherited his property from parents  and  lived  idly  by  selling his land to immigrant piece by piece.
             Joe  still  was not good with English when I asked him to write  something  in  my  diary.  Luckily,  after 12 working hours  came his tired son who was a bit better with writing:  “Good  luck  of  the  journey  in Australia and you and your camels from family of Buttigieg.”
             The  first  time  in this country I had an opportunity to make  my  campfire  using  brushwood  scattered  around. Joe uprooted  most  of  bush  trees  for  changing his bush in a grazing  field  and it was no problem of finding firewood.  Perhaps,  in  my  last  incarnation I was a nomad, wandering around  unknown  land and the highest satisfaction for me is sitting  in  front  of  campfire  and watching as its sparks bellowing  up to skies to disappear between celestial sparks which life also short considering the timeless Universe.
             It  was  hard to saddle and hitch camels the next morning because  these  dwellers  of open spaces hate to be in dense forest.  When  I  led them down the narrow road, camels were spooked  by  the  cry  of  invisible  bird  and run over me, throwing  me  down  to  the ground and hitting me with their mighty  feet.  Perhaps,  my ribs were cracked and right knee was  damaged  when  I  managed to stand up for seeing how my mates  run  along  the  narrow road scattering on the way my belongings.  After  crossing  an open gate, they turn to the main  road  and  proceeded  farther  not paying attention on traffic.
             Despite  all  my  pain,  I  had to run after them knowing that  on  the  road  they could kill themselves or hurt cars and  people  driving  along. I was waving to passing cars in hope  that  somebody  would  pick me up and chase my naughty boys,  but  nobody  wanted  to  stop for a crazy man running along  the road. For my luck, a police squad car was passing by  and  picked  me  up  for  a  hot  pursue  of the berserk animals.  After  about  a  kilometer of chasing I noticed my mates   on  top  of  the  hill  grazing  and  still  hitched together.  Luckily, police didn’t give me any ticket or even reprimand,  just  asking  to  be  careful  along the road. I picked  these  humpbacks and returned to pick my luggage and drink  coffee  with  smiling  Joe.  He reminded me that last night  his  wife from the beginning didn’t want my camels at her  property because of  their unpredictable behavior.  Happily,  she  was  still  in bed, otherwise she would  laugh  on  us  with  a  satisfaction  by her eternal, maternal wisdom.
             I  was  going  down a rough terrain toward an old town of Windsor.  This entire region  used to be the domain of famous bushranger  John  Donohoe,  called “Bold Jack.” Sentenced in 1823  to  life  transportation  in  Ireland. In Australia he spent  time  in  a  road  gangs but, as it is written in the ballad about his notorious life:

He’d scarcely served twelve months in chains upon the  Australian shore,
When he took to the highway as had done before:
He went with Jacky Underwood, and Weber and Walmsey too,
These were the true companions of bold Jack Donohoe.
Bold Donohoe was taken for a notorious crime,
And sentenced to be hanged upon the gallows-tree so high-
But when they brought him to Sydney Gaol  he left in the stew,
 or when they came to call the roll, they missed  Jack Donohoe.
         
             Before  long after his miraculous escape from the prison, Jack  Donohoe  had  assembled  a  gang  of Irish and English gallow  birds  and  commenced  his highway robberies in wide range  from Bathurst south and to the Hunter River north. He enjoyed   being  kind  of  Robin  Hood  of  Down  Under.  As contemporary issue of the Australian printed:
          “Donohoe,  the  notorious  bushranger, whose name is a terror in  some parts in some parts of the country, though we fancy he  has  more  credit  given  to him for currages, though we fancy  he  has  more  credit  given  for outrages that he is deserving  of,  is  said  to  been  seen  by  a  party  well acquainted  with  his  person, in Sydney, enjoying, not more than a couple of days ago...a ginger-beer bottle.”
             Governor  Darling  priced  his  head up to 100 pounds and sent  a  mounted  police  unit  and  they  surrounded him at Bringelly,  which I passed just day before yesterday. It was the  last  stand  of  Australian  Robin Hood. According to a ballad:

It never shall be said of me that Donohoe the brave
Could surrender to a policeman or become an Englishman’s  slave-
I’d rather roam these hills so wild like dingo or kangaroo
Than work one hour for Government,’ cried bold Jack  Donohoe.
(Reading  this  line,  I  recalled  my mates in hostels, who follow their famous predecessor’s oath.)
Nine rounds he fired and nine men shot before the fatal  ball-
That pierced his heart and made him smart and caused him  for fall-
And as he closed his mournful eyes, he bade the world adieu,
Craying “Convicts all, pray for the soul of bold Jack  Donohoe!”
            
In  reality,  a trooper Muggleston shot Donohoe in the head  and  within  a  couple  week after his death the Sydney  shoppers  could  buy  clay  pipes in the form of his head  with the bullet-hole in the temple. John Donohoe lived just  24  years  but  his romantic personality inspired many ballads  where  he was called different names: Jack Dowling, Jack Duggan, or Jim Doolan, “Wild Colonial Boy.”
             In  his book “The Fatal Shore,” Robert Hughes priced Bold Jack’s image:
             “He  was  a  figure of fantasy, game as a spurred cock, a projection  of that once-subjected, silent part of their own (Australians)  lives  into  vengeful freedom, thrown against the  neutral  gray  screen  of  the bush. The legends of his freedom   relieved  Australian’s  dissatisfaction  with  the conformity  of  their  own lives, and this has been the root of the cult of dead bushrangers ever since.”
             I  have  to  add  here that about a quarter of Australian work  force  is employed by the Government. They volunteered to  live  in  this  “safety  net”  of  the society, which was forged  by  British Authority. Its founders were Lord Thomas Townshend  Sydney  and  Governor  Arthur Phillip, not Quaker William Penn or General George Washington.
             I  was  on  the  road  to  see  not  those  “safety  net” creatures  but  the real owners of their lives about who is written in “Wild Colonial Boy”:
         
O come along, me heartiers, and we’ll roam the mountains
high-Together we will plunder, together we will die.
We’ll wander over valleys and we’ll gallop over plains,
And we’ll scorn to live in slavery, bound down by iron  chains.
         

          HERITAGE
         
             Since  times of Jack Donohoe the old Windsor Road changed for  worst.  Poor  “Bold  Jack” used to hold up the bullock-carts  that  diligently  rolled between farms and market, he even  didn’t  need  a  horse  to  chase  them. Using a time machine  and  coming to our time, Jack would definitely stop just  me  because  other  vehicles would scare him. We would drop  by  to  liquor  shop  and  drink some vodka for Irish-Russian  friendship  and  after  that he would return to his machine begging for coming back to his never-never country.
             This  road  is  so  crowded with traffic that I sat about half  of  an  hour  near the bridge across Hawkesburry River before  crossing  it. I was making camel used to this narrow traffic  obstacle  with  a  wide  body  of  water  under the bridge.  As  soon  as  we  stepped  on  its  grated pavement, Xena attempted  to  run  back  and  I  barely hold her. Having no opportunity  to  go  back,  she  simply  kneed  down on that pavement  and  Vanya  followed  her.  All  traffic  in  both directions  was  on  hold  but  drivers  were  friendly  and patiently  waited for my next attempt. I rehitch animals and made  Vanya  the leading camel, which did help, and we managed to  proceed to another bank of the river. It wasn’t the most pleasant experience of my life.
             After  two  kilometers down the road I was stopped by two cops  in  a  squad  car who came after somebody’s call about traffic  jam , which I created,  on the bridge. I apologized just  for not calling them before crossing the river as used to  do travelling with horse in the U.S.A. Actually, in both countries  animals  walking on the road have priority to any vehicle  but  even  police  don’t  remember this old traffic regulation.  Police  also asked why I go against traffic but didn’t  object  to  my  explanation  that  camels  would  be frightened  by  cars  behind  if they were going on a proper side  of  the road. They left wishing me good lack with this arduous  task  going  down modern road with a very old means of transportation.
             On  both sides of the road turf of Kukuyu grass for lawns was  grown,  watered by sprinklers. I decided to stop near a water  well  to  water  camels  and  take  some  rest. After finishing  drinking,  Xena  decided to roll over in the same pool , which  she  was drinking from. She was loaded with all my  belongings, which didn’t, prevented her to got pleasure of mud  bathing  and didn’t pay any attention at my attempts to wake  her  up,  Vanya  followed  her. Only after a good bath they  woke  up  and  looked  at  me  with a kind of smirk. I managed  to  retaliate  by  tighten  them up to the tree and washing  down  all  that  mud  with  watering  hose.  Now my belongings were clean but wet.
             According  to  my  map  farther  down the road Australian Pioneer  Village  was located. I came there in twilight when most  of  its  guests  left  but the Village owner was still there.  Chris  Wells was in mid-40th, outfitted with typical Australian  hat,  boots, and already international jeans. He already  noticed  my  caravan  on  the road and was happy to accommodate  me  on  his  property.  The main problem was to separate  my  camels  as far as possible from his horses who got  berserk after seeing my beasts. We accommodated them in very  isolated  paddock but tent was pitched close to Chris’ office.
             He  told  me  that  bought Hawkesberry Heritage Farm from old  owners  quite cheap. (I presume, he paid not less than  million  dollars.)  For  many years his predecessors managed to   bring   here  many  old  buildings  of  old  Australian  settlements:  post  office, police station, blacksmith shop, sheepshearer’s  barn, school building, etc. Every day crowds  of  tourists  congregated  here  to  see how their ancestors managed  their life of raising cattle and sheep, making hay,  and   growing   vegetables.   For  their  convenience  Chris organized  horse  rides with cabmen outfit in old clothing.  It  was  also place to educate children about their heritage and  many  school groups were coming here for excursions. At weekends  people booked here in advance to organize weddings or  meetings  of  descendants  of  those farmers who settled here  in  last  century. Chris told me that in a few days he will  be welcoming Ross family whose ancestor’s dwelling was preserved here.
             Besides  two restaurants in the town, Chris was the owner of  world’s only horse drawn restaurant, where patrons could enjoy  dinner  while two huge Clydesdales pulled wagon along the  road to Windsor and back. Certainly, I didn’t such even in America.
             Chris  used  to  be a business executive in multinational company  IBM and had there a good “safety net” of salary and other  benefits but he was not happy there forking from 9 to 5.  After  purchase  of  this  village he has no holidays or weekends,  working more than 12 hours a day, and he is happy every  minute  of this life. In some way he was my soul mate because  he was doing something he wanted to, most of people doing what they have to do.
             I  got  his  permission to stay at his place one more day to  make  some  purchases  in Windsor. Our village was about ten  kilometers  from the town and Chris told me that locals are  very friendly giving lift to any hitchhiker. But it was not  so,  and  only  tenth  passing driver gave me a lift to Windsor.   Being   hungry,  I  stopped  at  Fish  and  Chips restaurant,  which  was  copy  of  similar restaurant in any English  town.  But it was one distinguishing detail, which I learned  about very soon. After taking my tray, I decided to dinner  outside  at  table for two placed at sidewalk. As in any  other  places,  at the table I found salt and pepper as well  as  typical  Australian  spice  called Vegemite, which made  from concentrated yeast extract. I in love with it and found   more   useful   than  a  second  typical  Australian invention:  the  boomerang.  I  guess,  the boomerang is the arms  of lazy pessimists, who beforehand know that they will miss the target and at least their boomerang fly back.
             Besides  these  spices,  I  found  at  the table a can of spray  that  resembled  similar  cans  in  the U.S.A. which contain  Mazola butter flavor spray. Not paying attention on what was written on that can, I decided to make my fish-and-chips  more  palatable and sprayed it over. The stench of an insect  repellent  was  repugnant, my dish was ruined. I was laughing  of  myself  silently  for not showing my neighbors how  foolish  I  was  mistaking  butter  with  an  insect repellent.  Definitely,  at each table it was placed similar containers  for  customer  to spray off insects. Oh, foolish of me.
             I  liked  this  beautiful  town  of  Windsor that has no Royal  Castle  as  its namesake in Berkshire, England. It is good  for  him  because  the  Windsor Castle was cursed with catching  fire  on a regular basis. I visited that Castle in 1990  when  it  was  under  restoration  and  supposed to be fireproof   but   burned  down  again  just  recently.  That tragically  fire  gave  me  some kind of relieve that not only we, Russians, could be sloppy with preserving our heritage.
             While  visiting  English  Windsor,  I  dropped to the pub proudly  carrying  name of Robin Hood who supposed to wander around  that region according old legends. But being in this Down  Under  Windsor,  I  found  no bar with a name of local substitute  of  Robin Hood, named “Bold Jack” Donohoe. These ockies  don’t  respect  their  outlaws and don’t know how to make money after them.
             At  local  radio  station 89.9 I asked listeners to drive slow  when  they  meet  on the roads and proceeded to sport-shop  to buy the appropriate American-made tent, collapsible water   container,   and  a  mesh  to  ward  off  blowflies.  Australia  is  notorious  for  these  large  buzzing insects which  are  a  part  of their life. Two animals, the emu and the  kangaroo,  appear on Australian coat of arms, the third should be added, the blowflies.
             These  insects are especially annoying when you walk with camels  or  seat  on  their  back. The shop owners sold me a tent  and  container  but  didn’t take any money for a mesh.  Now  I  was  equipped a bit better but still had no sleeping bag which useful to have at these Highlands.
             I  discussed  my  further movement with Chris who advised to  go  up  Putty  Road  which less crowded than other roads going  north but more rough and narrow. Sometimes it will be no  farms  or  town along it and I need carry spare drinking water and food but I had no option but follow it.
             Near  liquor  store  I was stopped by an old man about 70 who  was  on  the  way  out  with a package of a beer. Woman about  35,  also  drunk, was waiting for him in an old wreck resembling  a  Vauxhall  brand  of  car.  He  called himself Barrie  Thompson,  the  camelman.  Barrie  used to work with camels  before  World  War  II  and  since that times called himself  the  camelman.  He  was  happy to see my beasts and invited  us  to  spend  a  few  days  at  his farm, which was located  on  our  way up north. I didn’t mind to stop at his place  especially  after  his  promise  to  teach  me how to handle camels properly.
             Chris  gifted  me  with  semi-antic  spoon  and  cap,  he expressed  a hope that people along the road will be helpful to  my  expedition.  But the road towards Colo River was not so  helpful,  with  multiple  twists and blind spots where I could  not  see oncoming cars. Barrie, the camelman, came to help  me with passing that dangerous part of the road but he could  not  ride  on  the wrong side of the road which I was walking  along.  Besides,  Barrie’s car had no proper brakes and he used transmission to stop.
             In  a  small  town of Colo River Barrie attempted to help me  with finding a good place for camping but it looked like that  the  property  owners  were  suspicious  about  my new friend  and  transferred  their  attitude  at me also. I was thankful  Barrie  for his assistance but decided to look for campsite  myself.  The  best place was occupied by big house surrounded  from  three  sides by a veranda. Its owners were busy  working in the next-door shed where they had a pottery shop.  A  mighty man was installing big tanks with a propane gas  and  tiny  woman  was  busy  with  placing a fresh-made pottery  in  a  big  furnace.  They  already  knew  about my arrival  to  the  town  and were not surprised by my request for  camping  and  welcomed me. Camels were placed to fenced paddock  and  I  was allowed to pitch my tent at their front yard.
             Wally   Greenhalgh  was  in  the  business  supplying  of cultivated  Couch  and  Kikuyu  turf  but  after work Walter helped  his  wife June to make pottery of her own design and sell  it  in  their shop “Hands of the Earth Artworks.” June in  her  pottery design very skillfully mixed Victorian style with  Aborigines  motives.  She  also  modeled her artifacts with figures of Australian native animals and birds.
             I  am  fascinated  how  liberal Australian with own first names as in case of Walter who preferred to be named Wally.
             All  furniture  of their house was handmade by Wally from native  lumberwood, mostly from a gum tree. Especially their mighty kitchen table made from thick planks impressed me.  After settling down I was invited for a dinner with broiled  meat  and  a  lot of vegetables but no wine or beer were  served.  It  was the first time that I was invited for dinner  in Australian home and I cherished this hospitality.  However,  I  should  admit,  that  in general Australians are more  suspicious  about strangers than their counterparts in America.
             From  her  attic studio came down their daughter Clarissa who  was a student of Sydney State University. This year she was  finishing  her course of English language and departing for   England  to  teach  there  high-school  students.  Her parents  were  proud  of  Clarissa who being “colonial’ girl will  teach English folks their own language. Living in this small  town,  she  was  in  contact  through  Internet  with friends  all  around  the world. I used her computer to find out that nobody was desperate to contact with me.
             Considering  my  yesterday’s  hair-raising  experience of going  down main road, I followed to Wally’s advice and vent down  old Colo Heights Road along the river which was longer but  safer than main road. There were many horse studs along our  way  and  horses got crazy about my mates, their owners also  looked  at us with anger because of concerns about any self-inflicting damages of their got berserk thoroughbreds.
             As  I  have  heard  in  the  town, Colo River is the most pristine   and  clean  stream  of  this  region  because  no industrial  development  allowed  on  territory  of  Wollemi National  Park  that  it is streaming through. Tourists are allowed  to  use  it  only  for canoeing or floating down in groups  with  inflated  car  tubes. I met two groups of such eco-tourists  with  local  guides,  Brat  and Mark, who made living  after  accompanying  these  people and teaching them how  to  camp  not  spoiling this land. But the same time, I was   noticing   along  the  road  a  lot  of  houses  under construction  and according to names on the mailboxes, many newcomers  were  not old settlers but recent immigrants from Asia.  This  Government’s policy of open borders resulted in overcrowding  even this area which quite far from Metropolis of  Sydney.  It  was  funny  to meet one of settlers who were happy   seeing  me  because  his  wife  was  also  Russians.  Actually,  I  am  not a big supporter of Russian immigration as  well,  we  have  big  country of our own and should work hard  to make it comfortable to live instead go abroad to share somebody’s plenitude.
             As  soon as we started climbing up from river’s valley to main   road,   my   camels   showed   signs  of  exhaustion, especially,  Xena.  She used any opportunity to sit down and refuse  to  proceed down the road. I was surprised how these mighty   beasts   could   be   so  vulnerable  and  tiresome especially  on  hilly roads. So, I had no choice but to seat and  wait  until  my camels get a new winds, puffing my pipe and  being surprised that these non-smoking creatures had so short   breath.   Perhaps,   being   life-long   smoker,   I overinflated  my  lungs  and  increased their capacity. Long time  ago I found that the wrong is not completely wrong and the  good  is  not  always  good  and  in  each good we have something wrong, and vice versa.
             My   new   friend,   Barrie  Thompson,  advised  to  stay overnight  with Charles Johns, retired track driver and also former  camel  man.  Charly lived in old shack near the road and  was  happy  accommodate  me  on  his  falling  in parts property.  He  used  to  keep  a  good  farm with horses and cattle  but  a few years ago his wife was infected with some kind  of  an  acute  infection,  called  tetanus,  which was incurable.  She  was  placed  in  nursing  home that Charly visited  weekly.  He  lost  any desire to do anything at his farm  and was waiting until his son build a new house to mow there.
             He  used  to  work  with  camels until late 40th, hauling with  them  a  wool  from  sheep farms to storage docks near Windsor.  Charles knew about camels a great deal more than I and  criticized Xena’s swollen fetlocks. Perhaps, because of pain  she  refused to walk so frequently and he guessed that I  could  not  walk very far with these animals. Judging her behavior,  Charly said that Xena never been broken properly because  of  her  handicap  and  the best bet is to send her back  to  owners.  I  doubt  that  owners ever agree to take camels and pay me money back.
             In   his  filthy  bachelor’s  kitchen  Charly  fixed  the bachelor  meal  of  pork  chops  which he served with frozen vegetables  and  we  talk about his better times. Such a big men  frequently are very vulnerable having lost their spouse and don’t know what to do while left by themselves.
             I  vent to sleep in my tent with thought that I should be happy  having  nobody  to  loose  in  my life. I was a happy nonsense.мҐБ Y       ї               Tn   
 bjbjуWуW                Ђ  ‘=  ‘=  Tj                яя          яя          яя                ]     ’       ’   ’       ’       ’       ’       ’               ¦       ¦       ¦       ¦       ¦   
   І       ¦       %   ¶   Т       Т       Т       Т       Т       Т       Т       Т       $       &       &       &   >   d   D   Ё   D   м  $   Ы   ф   П
  Z                ’       Т                Т       Т       Т       Т               v       ’       ’       Т               Т       Т       v       v       v       Т   
   ’       Т       ’       Т       $                ¦       ¦       ’       ’       ’       ’       Т       $       v   ®   v               $       ’       ’                $       Т       Ж   
     ЮРqWї ¦       ¦       Ь   љ   $               
         
 CAMEL DUNDEE
         
             Charly  fixed  our  bachelors breakfast of bacon and eggs and  explained  how  to  find  Barrie  Thomson’s dwelling. I already  found  that  Putty Road was not so much deserted as Chris  Wells  described  and people along the road knew each other.  Village  of  Colo  Heights  was  nothing  more  than filling  station  with  cafe  with  scattered houses around.  Near that station two women who wanted to pet my camels approached me. Megan and her daughter Ann were English extraction  and  bred  horses  at  their  farm  while  Ann’s husband was making money by carpeting.
             They  wanted  to  do something for me and I didn’t reject their  idea  to  bring  me  a lunch on the way. In two hours they  pulled  over  with  a  big  basket filled with cheese, salami,  coffee,  and  a  lot  of fruits. We made our dinner table  on  the  top  of  car’s  fender and enjoyed fantastic lunch  with  memories  of beautiful country of England. They both  enjoyed visiting relatives in Yorkshire but home sweet home  for  30  years  was  here, in New South Wales. Ann was born  in  Australia  as  well as her children which made her more  tolerant of Aussie’s roughness and absence of European manners.  But  Ann  knew  that  living in England, she could never  got  an  opportunity  of  having  own  horse farm. In England  everything  is  settled  down  in social strata and people  are  born and live being the first- and second-class citizens.   In   Australia,   Pommies,   people  of  English extraction,  are  considered as the first-class citizens and proud of their noble English heritage.
             We  wished  a  good  luck  to each other and proceeded in opposite  directions:  I  was going to my obscure future and my  Pommies  went  back  to their horses. Barrie already was waiting  for  me  to  explain  the best way to his place. He decided  that  the  shortest  way  for  my caravan was to go along  the  high-power  electric  transmission  line. It was some  kind  of service road going under electric wires that was  more  or  less  good  for  four-wheel drive vehicle but terrible  for a man walking in front of two camels. The road was  still wet and slippery after last rain, with deep-water ditches.  I  was  stumbling  in  it as much as my camels and cursed  myself  for  following Barrie’s advice. But what was good  with  it,  that it was going far from traffic and wild animals  were  free  to show themselves up. First time since coming  to  this  country I had an opportunity to see a herd of  six  gray  kangaroos  jumping across my road. Only after seeing  these  curious  creatures I realised of being in the real  Australian  bush.  The  same time, stumbling down this road,  I  noticed that to go down rural roads I have to ride  camels, at least one of them.
             Barrie  was  waiting  for  me  near entrance gate to show where  I  could  unhitch  camels  and let them to graze. His estate  was  some  kind  of two-store cabin in the middle of bush.  About  five discarded cars surrounded this shack with broken windows and two rainwater storage tanks.
             I  unloaded camels and hobbled one of them before letting them  go, it was obvious that fence around Barrie’s property was  in deplorable conditions. I followed him upstairs using broken  staircase  to  find  myself  in  filthy kitchen with firewood  stow  and  a  single  piece of furniture which was represented  by  a  plastic  kitchen table covered with oilcloth.  This  place  was  the  Kingdom  of Blowflies buzzing around  and  trying  to copulate, populate, or deposit their eggs  at  any  orifice of yours face. I found it appropriate to use inside my fly-proof mesh that I rare used outside.
             Barrie’s  bedroom  was  just  through  threshold  with no doors,  his  mattress  was  lying on the dusty floor with no bedding  but smutty sleeping bag on the top. He suggested sharing  his  bedroom with me but I declined such a generosity and  decided  to pitch my tent in his vegetable garden where just  pumpkins were growing. While placing saddles under the roof,  I paid attention that my camels were wandering around that  bush  finding  not  so  much  grass to graze but these beasts  found  a gum tree’s bark as a good food substitute..  Besides,  they  wanted  to  taste  our host’s pumpkins and I watched  how  easy  they  get over fences. Even with hobbles on,  Vanya  placed  his  knees  on top wire of the fence and pushed it down.
             I  watched  as my host wanders around his property making preparation  for  our  dinner. Barrie was 68 but looked much younger  because  the  life  in  bush  made  him  sturdy and tractable.  His  right  foot was injured in horse riding and didn’t  bent  in knee but he limped fast collecting firewood and  bringing  water  for  cooking  from  a  rainwater tank.  Surely,  it  was  no  running  water  or electricity at this place,  guarded by four dogs. He collected eggs from chicken coop  and  brought vegetables and sausages from his kerosene refrigerator.
             Barrie’s  clothing  was limited with worn out half-zipped synthetic  pants,  unbuttoned  shirt  of  very hard to judge fabric  because  it was dirty and worn out. His balding head was  covered  with narrow-brimmed hat decorated with a small  camel  figurine.  For  a dinner party he placed on the table about  seven  bottles  of alcohol, some were half-full, some with  not  open  corks.  These bottles were gifted to him by girl friend  that  was  in a  cleaning business and collected bottles  from  vacated  houses.  The  strongest stuff was in half-empty  or,  being  optimist,  you  could estimate it as half-full,  bottle  of  Backardy  rum  and weakest stuff was represented by half-cask of red wine.
             Our  dinner  party  lasted well after midnight and Barrie was  happy  to  tell me the history of his life. He finished just  four  grades  of  primary  school  before  started his working  life  as  a  camel  driver  at big sheep station in Northern  Territory.  With  his  mates he used to haul three bales  of  wool  on  each  camel,  the  weight was about 500 kilos.  Two bales of wool were loaded on sides and third one on  back , which let camels possible to rest on knees without unloading  them. His camel driver’s life lasted for 20 years with  breaks  for  working  as  a  stockman,  sheep shearer, kangaroo  and  rabbit hunter, horse trainer, etc. During his oblique  carrier  Barrie served  a time in jail for a cattle snatch  and  other  petty crimes.  Between jails, he managed to  marry  five times and now was a bachelor but had a girl-friend  30  years  younger. His only daughter gave birth his grand-son   two   months   ago,   however,   Barrie  had  no opportunity  to  look  at  him because of arm fight with his son-in-law, with whom he celebrated that birth.
             About  20  years  ago Barrie’s driver license expired and since  then  he  was given citations or arrested many times.  Finally  local police gave up to have a deal with Barrie and don’t  touch  him,  even  refused  to  put him in a jail. He recalls  with melancholy those old good times of the Vagrancy Act,  by  which you could be placed to jail for three months just  for  not  having  money on your account. Each prisoner cost  Government  $350 daily and he used to have a good food and  rest  in  cells  of  State  Prisonhouses. “They used to treat  us as Queens and Kings!” - recalled Barrie those good times.
Alas,  not  any  more! He lamented that nowadays there is no   place  in  a  decent  prison  for  a  good  Anglo-Saxon  criminal.  Jails are filled with Aborigines and Asians; even in  the  Penitentiary System they implemented a preferential  treatment for people of colour.
             The  next morning we dedicated to attempts of breaking my camels  for  riding  them.  After saddling them I left Vanya   tighten  to the tree, mounted Xena and Barrie led her with a rope  deep  to  the  bush. It was not easy to him walking in  front  of  her  because  of his limping, a few times he fell down  and  cursed  the  road, camels, and his old wounds. As  soon  as  Barrie  let  Xena  go free, she turned in opposite direction  to  run  back  to her mate. On the way I tried to  steer  her  but  Xena  paid no attention at my attempts but retaliated  later.  As  soon  as  I  kneeled  her down, Xena  rolled  over  her  left  side  ant tried to kick me with her right hind leg. I barely escaped from that mortal stunt.
             After   couple  more  attempts  to  break  this  stubborn  creature  we  leave  her alone and switched on Vanya. He was also  good  following Barrie but as soon as he let him free, Vanya  ran  back.  He  was  a  bit  better  following  to my steering  attempts  but  instead  going  down  the  road, he pushed  between  trees  in  an  attempt  to dismount me with tree’s  trunks  or  branches.  I don’t know how I managed to stay  in  saddle when we finally, despite all my objections, came  back  to  Xena’s  site.  We celebrated our defeat with leftovers of our yesterday’s alcohol collection.
             Barrie  complained  that  not  him  but Rodney Ansell was proclaimed  being  the  inspirer of the movie character Mick “Crocodile”   Dundee.  I  have  heard  about  that  Northern Territory  rancher  whose  feats  of  survival  on  a  small deserted  island was described in his book and a documentary film  called  “To  Fight  the  Wild.”  Rodney Ansell’s story perhaps  sparked  an other Australian celebrity, Paul Hogan, in  company  of  Ken  Shadie and John Cornell to make a film about  an  Australian  bare-foot  philosopher,  Tarzan,  and Rambo,  named  Mick  “Crocodile”  Dundee  and played by Paul Hogan.  In  1986,  an  year of this film’s show, Australians finally  got  their  national  symbol,  a  blue-eyed, blond-haired  Dundee-Hogan.  Since  then  many  Aussies imitate at least  an outfit of their hero. It was also the happy end in the  relationship  between  Dundee  and Sue and that between Paul Hogan and Linda Kozlovski, who later were married.
             Life  of Rodney William Ansell, the inspirer of that hit, was   getting   from   bad   to  worst.  He  never  profited financially  from the movie, and in 1992 he was convicted of snatching  cattle  and fined for assaulting his neighbour. In 1999,   the   44-year-old   Ansell  was  killed  during  the confrontation with police.
             My  “Dundee,” Barrie Thomson, insisted that his long life was  more  colourful  than Ansell’s and worthwhile to make another  hit,  better  than  the  “Crocodile  Dundee.” A local journalist  promised  Barrie  to  write a script of the film about  his  adventures, and share financial profit after its production.  That conversation happened a year ago and since then  Barrie was waiting for her arrival. I was intrigued by his  optimistic  dreams  and  asked  to  show  her  name and telephone  number. Because Barrie had no telephone, I phoned Barbara  later from his neighbours. Her mother responded that Barbara  left  Windsor  for  Tasmania  about  six months ago following  her  new  husband  and  planned to live there for quite  awhile.  Mother never heard about Outback man Barrie, Camel Dundee.
             He  told  me  that  the  road up north will be even worst than  before but I wanted to find it myself and asked Barrie to  give  me  ride in that direction. That task was not easy to  fulfil  because  no brake fluid left in Barrie’s car and no  service  station was around. I recalled an invitation to stay  at  a  quarry, which I received previous day from a man who  lived  just  four  kilometres from entrance to Barrie’s estate.  I  figured out that man might have some brake fluid to borrow and suggested to visit him.
             I  was  not  so  simple to go there because car’s battery was  dead, but we got a charge from a battery that supplied electricity  to  Barrie’s  radio.  We  arrived  to  the sand quarry   where   I   was  invited  to,  but  found  that  my perspective  benefactor was just thrown out from home by his wife  and resided in a barn across the road. Max was sitting drunk  on  his  swag and greeting me waving with a bottle of VB  beer,  the  strongest and cheapest stuff that you could buy  in  this area. Barrie didn’t approach to the barn, so I presumed  that  he  was  not on good terms with a quarryman.  Max  suggested  sharing  a  beer  with me but had no extra brake  fluid  to help us. His wife was staying on a porch of her house and watched our negotiations.
             I  decided  to let Max alone with his family problems and joined  Barrie  to  go back home. On the way he suggested to stop  by his landlords from whom he rented out his shack. It happened   that   he   lived   on  property  of  Seventh-Day Adventists  whose  campus  was located just a kilometre from his  place.   We arrived there after end of the service when members  of  that  community  were busy with baking bread.  Three  men  and  a  woman met us without big smiles on their faces,  as  I  found  later,  Barrie was a big sore of their life.  Two  years  ago  they  let him to occupy that shack , provided,  he  will  mend  fences  around their property and teach  their  children  horseracing.  Member  of this church reject   as   a  big  sin  drinking  alcohol,  smoking,  and swearing.  Barrie  didn’t  smoke but most of the time he was drunk  and  used profane language when they showed up at his place  with futile hope that Barrie will perform his working task  as  their  tenant.  Later  on  they  gave  up  of this unrealistic  dream  and were in the process of his eviction.  It  was  not  so  easy  because  police  didn’t  want  to do anything  with  this  persistent sinner and they didn’t like  Adventists.
             I  found these details of local life in conversation with an  outspoken  woman  who  was the leader of this community.  Givilio,  Helim,  and  Slobodan  were recent immigrants from Serbia  and  barely  spoke  English but they also castigated Barrie  for  his  sins.  They  congregated in this community waiting  for  the  upcoming  Doomsday  when all sinners will perish  and  just member of their sect will be saved. I used to  meet such people in the U.S.A. and found them profoundly boring  and  blockheaded.  I would rather perish at Doomsday in  the  company  of  sinners  as  Barrie  than be saved and surrounded by such singleminders.
             Adventists  had  no  spare brake fluid for Barrie, and us as  a  last  resort,  decided to go and see his neighbour who lived  near crossroad. Near abandoned gas station we found a big  house  from which came out a big man who heard the sound of  our  car.  All  his  appearance  radiated  some  kind of confidence  in  stability  and  usefulness  of  our everyday life.  Even  his  name,  Peter  Day,  was  mundane and self-confirming.  So,  I  was  not  surprised  finding that Peter served  as  the  Public  Negotiator  in local Magistrate and perhaps  he knew very well my outlaw mate. Peter also didn’t find  any brake fluid for us but found some time to write in my  ledger:  “To  Anatole.  Surprised  to  meet you and your camels  travelling  sideways  down to Colo River on Saturday 27/3,  State  Election  Day,  N.S.W.  More than delighted to meet  you  in  person today, Tuesday, together with your new friend  and local identity Barrie Thomson who will teach you a  trick  or  two  about  camels.  We  wish you well on your travels and hope one-day  to meet you again. Peter Day - Glenis.  Singleton  Road,  Wellong  via  Windsor.  Telephone number...”
             We  failed  to  find any break fluid and came back to use our  internal  resources  to  fix the car. Barrie managed to bleed  out  some  fluid  from  his  junk cars. Deficiency of motor  oil  he  also  compensated by scavenging on these car cadavers.   But   it   was   too  late  for  us  to  go  for reconnaissance  of  my future road, besides, I had no choice but  to  go  down  any  road. My staying with Barrie was too long  and  we  already depleted his limited food and alcohol resources.  He  even run out of kerosene for his freezer and hoped  to  buy  a  new  supply  as  soon  as  he get monthly Government Check.
             We  already gave up to break my camels but Barrie decided to  help  me  with  making  a  new hobble to restrict unruly wandering  of my camels. They spooked out his two horses and Barrie  had  no idea where they grazed now. Barrie knew that sooner  or later his Adventist landlords would evict him from their  property.  Barrie didn’t bother himself with bringing his  garbage  to  municipal garbage dump site, but dug it in his  backyard  following that saying that somebody’s garbage could  be  others  treasure,  especially  in  couple hundred years.
             His  old  friend  Kevin  had  a  big  cattle  station  of 100,000  acres in northern part of the State and didn’t mind to  let Barrie stay. My mate was planning to build there his own  log  cabin  and  to sustain himself by hunting kangaroo and  making  firewood  for  sale.  Before  departure  ha was planning  to  marry Christine, but recently changed his mind in  behalf  of  Sandy  who  was  34-year-old.  But  his main problem  was  to  find a horse trailer for transportation of two  horses.  I  was  a  bit surprised by such an attachment knowing that limping Barrie doesn’t ride horses any more.
         
 MONASTERY
         
             Barrier  guided  me to the crossroad and promised to stop by  while  I  will  be  on the road. I had some doubts about the   fulfilment  of  this good attempt, knowing that today was  his  pay-day  and for sure Barrie will buy a lot of beer  and  visit his girl-friend who was thirsty for his money and beer.  Almost  for  sure, Barrie will be busy with her until his  money will be over, I just crossed my fingers in a hope that  before  visiting  her  Barrie will buy some foodstuff and  kerosene  to preserve it. He was a bit spoiled my these Government  monthly checks but I also hoped that Barrie will sustain himself in any conditions.
             Peter  Day  met me near his house and suggested making a next  stop  at Coptic monastery which was just 15 kilometres down   the  road,  he  even  promised  to  phone  there  and negotiate  my arrival. I used to stop at similar monasteries down  my  road  across  America  and  always  enjoyed monk’s hospitality.  It  was  raining  all  the  way  and water was dripping  from  my hat down soaked clothing, fountains of it were  squeezed  through  a  shoe  lace’s  holes with each my step.  I  covered  my  belongings on Xena’s back with a tarp but had no tarp or raincoat to cover myself.
             Finally,  in  a  mist  of  rain  I noticed a big Orthodox cross   and  a  sign  of  “St.  Shenouda  the  Archimandrite  Monastery.”  I  turned  in  its  direction and found a small chapel,  close  to  which  I  hitched  camels  and touched a buzzer.  It  took  a  few  minutes until the chapel door was opened  and  a  small  figure of a monk came out to a porch, looking  like  being surprised and disturbed. I described my meeting  with  Peter Day who promised to phone monastery and warn  about my arrival here. In his turn, the monk told that he  had  no  call  from  Peter  but suggested talking with a monastery’s  caretaker.  That  young  man  spoke much better English  than  monk  and  escorted me to next-door cafeteria with  joining  to  it dormitory. He fed me with leftovers of yesterday  feast  but I barely touched it because of concern about  my  beasts.  The caretaker vent back to his tiny boss and  returned  with  bad news that my camels are not allowed at  big  paddock  which  I  noticed on the way to chapel. As caretaker   explained  was  in  process  of  turning  it  in cultivated  pasture  and  my  camels  might disturb roots of planted  grass.  I  had  no choice but to right my camels to the  fence with no available grass overnight. The chief monk soon  shoved  up in cafeteria to listen about my travels and talk about his monastery.
             The  monastery  was  named  after  St.  Shenouda,  famous Coptic  Archimandrite  (the Abbot) who since 383 A.D. was in charge  of  the White Monastery in Egypt. Copts believe that their  Church  is  the  oldest one in the Christendom. From handed  me  pamphlet  I  found  some interesting information about  that  Abbot  who  followed  strict ascetic practices.  Because  of  his devotees, St. Shenouda was a target of many demonic    temptations,    but   through   his   faith   and righteousness,  he  always  found himself victorious. Once a Devil  appeared  to  him  in  the shape of an Angel, saying:
          “Hail,  oh  struggling  saint!  The Lord has sent me to you, for  you  are  righteous  and  have straggled much. You have experienced  enough  toil  and  ascetic  practices  in  this wilderness;  now  you mast go into the world to guide people there.”  The  Abbot modestly replied: “If you have been sent from  God,  stretch  out  your hands in the sign of the holy Cross  of  our  Lord and Savior.” The Devil was confused by these  words and fled, as he could not even hear the name of the Lord Jesus and his Holy Cross.
             I  was  confused,  after  reading this legend and knowing that  St.  Shenouda  was an Abbot for more than 65 years and was  in  charge of more than 2,200 monks and 1,800 nuns. His monastery  was  not  the  wilderness  at  all  and  I am not surprised  by  his  refusal  to  go  in the world, which those times  was much less crowded than now. At least, it was less crowded  than the White Monastery. I was also surprised that a  devil was so shy that refused to stretch out his hands in the  shape  of  the  holy Cross. Today’s devils are doing it every  day  and  many  of  them  perform  the sacrament from podium   of  churches,  in front of TV cameras, broadcasting their teaching around the world.
             The  other  story about miracles of St. Shenouda was even  more   confusing.  Her  was  known  as  a  hiller  and  many  recovered   parishioners   donated  to  monastery  money  in appreciation  of their recovery. The abbot was also known by his  generosity  and  three  conmen  decided to extort money from  him  by  performing a simple plot. Two of them came to St.  Shenouda  in  tears, complaining that their friend just passed  away  but  they  were  out  of  money for his decent funeral.  Generous  abbot  gave  them money and happy conmen rushed  back  to their place. Naturally, they left the third plotter  in  good  conditions,  waiting  for money. But upon their  return,  those people found their friend really dead.  By  such  a way St. Shenouda taught that people to be honest with  him. I found his lesson a bit harsh and the punishment was way worst than the committed crime.
             Despite  of  such a powerful protection, the situation of Coptic  community in modern Egypt is getting worst with each year.  Belligerent  Moslem  fundamentalists  chase Christian Copts  from  their  villages,  assault monasteries, and kill innocent  people  every  day.  My  host,  that small and shy monk,  used  to  be  veterinarian in Egypt but had no choice but  emigrate  to  Australia  to avoid persecution. This new monastery  was built two years ago to substitute many closed Coptic monasteries in that country.
             Later  on to our company joined one of honorary guests of this  monastery  with  a  very  fragrant name, Anise. He was proud  to  be in charge of laymen committee, which supervised  construction  of  the  monastery. Anise came to this country from  Sudan  just  five  years  ago and in such a short time managed  to  open  his  own  construction  company.  By  his admittance,  the  situation  of  Christians in Sudan is even worst  than  that in Egypt and official policy of its Moslem government   directed   to   eradicate  Christians  of  that country.  Most  of  Australian  Coptic community of Sudan is extraction and this monastery  built  on their expense.
             Before  going  to  bed,  I visited my mates staying under the  pouring  rain with no food around. That small monk, who used  to  be  a  veterinarian,  suggested  to feed them with leftovers  of  their  rice  dish  with  a lot of spices, but camels even didn’t touch that generous gift.
             I  came  to  a  dormitory and hanged over my wet clothing all  around  a  room  but  it was no way to make it dry with such  a  humidity  outside and inside. My perspectives to go farther  down  the  road  were  very grim. It was the Easter time  and  traffic  was  terrible  because  of  vacationers.  Barrie  warned  me  that   God  always  punish locals at the Easter time with  rains and thunderstorms.
             Apparently,  it was pouring rain all the night and it was not  so  much  better  when  I came out the next morning. My hosts  were  sitting  on  veranda  with no opportunity to go outside,  meteorologists  from  TV  screen  predicted such weather  for  next  three days. It would be better for me to find  some  hay from any neighbour farm and wait for a better weather  but  it was not the case of my hosts. Anise told me that  big  group  of  parishioners will come soon for Easter holiday  and  they will occupy a dormitory, which I used last night.  So,  I  have  to  get out as soon as possible. I was half-ready  for  such  a scenario and asked about permission to  pitch  my tent close by and wait inside of it until rain will  be  over.  He  categorically rejected my sophisticated plan and repeated his order.
             It  was shocking news to me because crossing the U.S.A. I was  spoiled  by  good attitude of monks to my expedition. I also  knew  that historically monasteries always served as a shelter  for travellers. In the given to me this monastery’s booklet  I  found  that: “According to St. Shenouda, worship is  correlated  to  social  life,  and religion is practical love  and  piety.”  I  even  shoved  to  menace  Anise  this quotation  but  it  didn’t  change his mind. Apparently, he was  acting  in  behalf of that small monk who was in charge of the monastery.
             Under  the  downpour, I brought my mates close to veranda and  begun  saddling  and  loading  them.  I  was sure about Sudanese  knowledge  of  handling  camels  in  their  former country,  but  nobody  came  out to assist me. To prevent my luggage  from  being  soaked, I covered it with my blue tarp and  finally  departed  not hearing any words of wellwish or just  any  good  words. Only hundred meters down the road, a sudden  brief  rush of wind flipped up a tarp on Xena’s back and  she  was  so  scared  by  the  sound of it that started jumping  to relieve herself from that nemesis. She succeeded very  well  with  this  task  and  all  my  belongings  were scattered  along  the  road.  I  had  no choice but to tight camels  to  a tree and load them again. My hosts were on the way  to  the  chapel  for worship to God who taught love and compassion of people to each other.мҐБ Y       ї               Шj   
 bjbjуWуW                t  ‘=  ‘=  Шf                яя          яя          яя                ]     ’       ’   ’       ’       ’       ’       ’               ¦       ¦       ¦       ¦       ¦   
   І       ¦       Ќ  ¶   Т       Т       Т       Т       Т       Т       Т       Т       Њ       Ћ       Ћ       Ћ   >   М   D       D   T  $   C   ф   7
  Z   x                ’       Т                Т       Т       Т       Т       x      ж       ’       ’       Т               Т       Т       ж       ж       ж       Т   
   ’       Т       ’       Т       Њ                ¦       ¦       ’       ’       ’       ’       Т       Њ       ж   ¦   ж               Њ       ’       ’                Њ       Т       Ж   
   а6 }Wї ¦       ¦       Ь   
   Њ               
         
LUMBERJACKS
         
         
             Rain  and  traffic  along  the  road were even worst than yesterday,  it  was  no way to go very far and I was looking for  any  sign  of  the  dwelling  with  some  grass around.  Finally,  I  noticed  a  very good fenced paddock with white house  on  a  slope of the hill. I hitched camels to the top rail  of the fence and walked in direction of that house but very  soon  I found that nobody was inside. But the road was climbing  farther  up  the  hill  and  supposed  to bring me somewhere.  Exactly  at  the  top  of  the  hill I noticed a lumberyard  with  log  cabins  and moving houses congregated around  main office building. A few cars were parked near by and  their drivers were sitting at veranda’s tables drinking their beer.
             I  introduced  my  self and asked whom I could speak with about  accommodation  of  my expedition for a couple nights.  John  Stokes,  the owner of this lumberyard pulled over just after  my arrival and overheard my request, perhaps, he also noticed  my camels hitched downhill. He was a sturdy man of early  60th with balding head and a big stomach of an ardent beer  lover.  It looked like that his body’s left side was a bit  strained  in  motion,  and,  as  I  found  it later, he suffered a heart stroke two years ago.
             John’s  behavior  was  in  full  harmony with his family name,  when  he  promptly  decided that I could stay at that paddock  which I noticed on the way. His son, John, Jr., was lodging  in  the  white  house  there but his father decided that  it will be no problem for my staying close by. I could not  help  but  to  mention about that monastery which I was kicked  out just recently. John was not happy with them also because  monastery’s  builders  borrowed  some  of his heavy equipment  for  a  road construction but didn’t pay for its usage yet.
             We  drove  back  to my camels to make some snapshots with them  after which I walked towards my future dwelling. John, Jr.  arrived  soon  with  his  two  small  daughters whom he brought  here  from  Picton. His ex-wife lived there and for each  weekend  he  has been taking daughters for visitation.  John  had  nothing  against my staying but it was no room in the  house because he lived with girl friend Angela with her twin  sons,  Bradley and Brendan. He suggested me to stay in a  shed  at  backyard of his house. It was a good idea and I vent  there  but  was  scared by hundred nests of the funnel web  spiders,  the  most  venomous  insects of this country.  John  was  a  bit  surprised  by such news and allowed to pitch a tent at his veranda.
             He  was  busy teaching his toddler girls Kylie and Zoe of 2  and  3-year-old to ride 4-wheels motorbike, and they were better  off  with  riding  than  walking. He didn’t pay much attention  at  Angela’s  sons  in  the same age as his elder daughter.  Those  kids  were  scared  even  by sound of that bike,  although helped me with pitching a tent. John himself had  some  problems  with  walking after being involved in a bicycle accident.
             His  two  friends  came  soon  with a lot of beer and the grass  that  I’ll  remember  for many years in future. They came  to  celebrate  an  Easter  Eve and invited me to share their  plenitude.  I  was  foolish  enough  to jump in their bandwagon.   The  younger’s  name  was  Paul  and  he  was a lumberjack  at  John  father’s  sawmill, making $600 a week.  But  he  was  a  gambler,  spending  all  his money on horse betting and alcohol and having no girlfriend.
             Tug  was  much  older  than  Paul  and  used  to work for telephone  company.   A  couple  years  ago  he was asked to retire  and got his maturity payment of $30,000 which lasted less  than  a  year because of his gambling habit. Tug was a very  joyful  person  and didn’t concern very much about his future  living  on  day  by  day basis. At least, he owned a small  shack  and  didn’t  pay  any  rent,  besides,  at his vegetable  garden  Tug  grew for own consumption a cannabis, commonly called marijuana.
             John,  Jr.  decided  to  give us ride around his family’s property  of forest with multiple logging roads, ravines and hills.  After  logging  they  plant  trees and also makes new dams  and access roads for future developments. John liked driving  his  four-wheel-drive car and was proud of his land that  sometimes  will  be  his  own. I was surprised by his driving  skills  after  so  much  of  beer and grass. But he explained  that  it  is  normal to him smoking a grass every day  at  work  or after. His mates, lumberjacks, don’t smoke it so much but never drink any water but a beer.
             My  situation  was  much  worst  because  on  the  way my drinking  partners explained about absolute impossibility to go  down  farther  by the same road, which I was walking down before.  Just  a  few  kilometers  down  I  would bump in so called  “10-miles  Mountain  Road”  with no shoulders and so sharp  turns,  that  it  will be impossible for oncoming car drivers  to  see  me and stop before crushing me and camels.  It  was  just  one option-using bypass of 100-kilometer-long that  is  being  used  by  loggers but no map of it exists.  After  driving  with  John along local logging roads I found how  it easy to miss the main road and bump in the dead end.  I  was  stunned and stoned after smoking that damn grass and could  not  think  logically, finding myself in some kind of devilish  circle  of  crunching  the same thoughts again and again.  My  mates have their place to live and a food to  chew but I have had nothing like this, besides, I had my other  two mates to take care of. These innocent beasts were grazing on a lush pasture not knowing about their boss self-inflicted misery.
             It  took  a lot of determination to hitch myself together in  one piece and crawl in a tent where I attempted to clear a  mind  with  yoga  breathing  technique.  It  did help for awhile  but soon I succumb to deep stupor that was relieved by a normal night dream.
             I  woke  up  in  a  bit  better  dispositions  but with no decision  what to do next. Angela made a cup of coffee that helped  a bit with sharpening of my mind. I could not depend on  John’s  advice  because  after  breakfast  he placed two girls  and  left  with no explanation where he was going and when  he  is  coming  back. But Angela was used to this life and  was  grateful  at  least  having a roof over her twins’ heads.  She  was  raising  them with no parental support and sustains only on government checks.
             Angela  advised  my  to  find a cattle truck and drive my camels  over  that rugged mountain road. She even phoned her friends  having  such a truck but it happened that it was in disrepair.  We  also  phoned a local police hoping for their assistance  in  my  conversation with a constable I recalled the  help  of  Canadian  police  that  gave me an escort on especially  dangerous  part of highway. Local police gave me very  curious  advise  of  hiring  a heavy track and walk in front  of  it  with camels, while track would follow me with its blinking lights on.
             Finally,  I  decided not to waist my time any more and to go  and  find  John,  Sr. I did not know his whereabouts and just  walked  up  the  hill  where I met him the first time.  John  came  there  after shopping with his wife Mary and 14-year-old  daughter Kimberley to celebrate Easter. While Mary was  fixing  dinner,  John gave Kimberley and me a ride down the  same  roads , which his son was driving yesterday, but he was  more  familiar  with  his  plans  what  to  do with his property.  The  main  cash  flow  he  expected  to get after selling  to  Sydney  developers  15  construction sites with already  built  dams  and  access roads. He was driving even more  risky  than John was,  Jr. and his daughter were scared by this  quite  a  few  times.  I  was not surprised when on my question  to  Kimberley,  whom  she  would  like to be after school,  she  said  that  she wanted to be a police officer.  Reacting  on  my  surprising  expression, she said: “I hope, being  with  police,  I’ll  get  an opportunity to arrest my daddy for his crazy driving!”
               But seriously speaking, her father had no plans to give Kimbeley  any  college  education  because  he believed that more  you  educate a girl, less you make her a good wife and mother.  Actually,  he was quite independent in his attitude to  our  life. I suggested John to fast for awhile to reduce his  extra  weight  and  to cut with his consumption of beer and  food,  especially  after  his  last  heart  stroke.  He thought  for  a  short  time  and  said: “I would rather die earlier than give up of something that I like in my life.”
             We  came  back  to  enjoy  a fantastic dinner with a main course  of  broiled  fish with a lot of homemade white wine, which  we  diluted with a beer and still stayed alive. After this  party  Kimberley  wrote  in  my ledger: “You must have rocks  in  your  head to travel this great land that we live in  with  two  camels,  walking  instead of riding no-where, just  bush  surrounding  you!  I hope Australian people have not  deter  you  from returning to this country perhaps once again.”  After  reading  this  note I thought that Kimberley was  more  than ready for a college and will make it with or without her father’s plans about her destiny.
             John  didn’t  speculate  very much about my crossing that threatening  mountain  passage  down the road. He decided to load  my  camels in a horse trailer and drive with them to a safe  place  after  which I could walk by myself. Because it was  too  late  for  my  coming  back to his son’s house, he accommodates  me  overnight  to  his another son’s trailer. I always  use  any  opportunity  to  find  something new about Australia  and  that  time  I was lucky finding published by Rider’s  Digest  book about this country. Before sleeping, I managed  to quote in the ledger this lines: “Jonathan Swift, writing  Gulliver’s Travels, had invitingly placed Liliput on the  fringe  of  the  Great  Victoria  Desert, near the 1950 nuclear  bomb  testing site of Maralinga.” “How pathetic!” - it was my last reflection of that great Easter day.
         

GOLDEN HIGHWAY
         
             John  and  I  woke  up  about the same time to go earlier down  the  road with my camels. First of all, we had to find a  horse  trailer and finally found it in backyard of John’s prospective  daughter-in-law. Her father was more than happy to make happy his future relative (and either, me). I was impressed  by  John’s  wisdom finding that he took from home slices  of  a white bread to attract my camels to be caught.  My  foolish  mates  were  used  to  smell  and taste of that terrible  white  bread  which  taste  I  hate  dearly.  Xena followed  me  in  that  tight  trailer’s compartment where I managed  to  tight her to the rail. Vanya foolishly followed her  and  also  was  restricted  with  ropes and bars. I was amazed   how   these  two  big  beasts  managed  to  squeeze themselves in such a small place.
             As  soon  as  we  moved,  Xena knelled herself down being ready  for  any  kind of hardship down the road, but foolish Vanya  decided  to  stay and he was really foolish. While we were  driving  down  that  notorious  “10-mile-long Kindarun Mountain  Road,”  I found how lucky I was not walking up and down  this  menace  of  car drivers. It was some kind of the road  designed  for  a stuntmen’s performance or just for me to be killed together with my beloved Xena and Vanya.
             John  brought  us  to  a  small village of Bulga where he decided  that farther down the road was safe. My poor camels came  out  of  trailer a bit dizzy but at least alive. I let them  to graze and sat close puffing my pipe. It didn’t take much  time  for neighbors to congregate around my camels for  petting  them  and  feeding  with  apples   and bread. I was hungry also but nobody suggested me any of these products.
             Farther  north  we  stopped  at  service  station where I decided  to  get  at least a cap of coffee. For my surprise, shop  owner  came  out and shout in my native language: “Oh, my  dear  Russian  brother, I am so happy to see you in this country.   Welcome!”  This  woman  happened  to  be  Serbian immigrant  who  wanted  to  discuss  with  me the outrageous bombardment  of  Serbia  by  NATO  air force.  Historically, Russians  and  Serbs,  sharing  the  same Christian Orthodox religion,  have been the allies in their wars against Moslem countries.  This  last war in Kosovo between Christian Serbs and  Muslim  Albanians   has been smoldering for many years.  Serbs  defend  their Kosovo land from invasion of Mussulmans whose   population   has   been  growing  much  faster  than Christian  one.  It  was not NATO’s business to interfere in that  war and I am sorry that Russians were so wick in their attempt   to  help  Serbian  brothers.  This  Serbian  woman complained  that  all  the  world  as  fighting  against her country  and only Russian understands what is going on there.  I  told  her  that  European powers blindfold themselves and don’t   want   to   see   the   nemesis  of  global  Islamic proliferation.  What  will  do French if in the next century Algerian  Muslims of Marseile region decide to separate from France? To bomb with NATO plains?
             Close   by,   an   old-timer   was   selling  crabs  from refrigerated  trunk  of  his car, he shared a cigarette with me  (  an  item  of  very  high  commodity in Australia) and advised  not  going  to  Singleton. I could take New England Highway  farther  north,  in  Muswellbrook.  In  meantime, I could go down Golden Highway and later take a short cut.
               From  Bulga  I made a short-cut to the highway and very soon  came  to  Warkworth  Locality. It was a good term for, besides  a filling station, served by Barbara and Joseph, it was no other houses or people around.
             Perhaps,  Joseph  Wahas  was  of  Lebanese extraction but completely  Aussie in his attachment to football games. He barely  stick  himself  off  TV  screen to make hamburger and coffee  to  me.  Even  rare customers of his filling station were  nuisances  to  him  because  of  that  Champion  Final.  Barbara  also watched that football and I had no opportunity to  speak with them but was thankful for a paddock with good grass.
             It  was  getting cold and I build a big bonfire to dry my clothing  and  sleeping  bag. For a dinner I mixed two packs of  dry chicken soup, added water and boiled this stew in my billy.  The  taste  was fantastic! After finishing this hors d’ovre,  I filled my billy again with water to make a tea. I drunk it with a marshmallow and felt myself as an epicure.
             The  next  morning Joseph generously filled my flask with drinking  water.  Rain  was  on  again, and it was much more water  pouring  down  my  hat and clothing. Lucky camels had their  water-  and  cold-proof  wool  but  I was not so good defended  from  elements.  I  felt  especially dreadful when water  from my hat was pouring down a spinal column, between buttocks and inside of my shoes.
             Finally  I  decided  to  take a rest under the shelter of bus  stop  or  something  that  resembled me such. It had no walls  but  at  least  it was a roof over my head. I hitched camels  close by and they even had some tree’s bark to chew.  That  shelter  was  on the top of the hill and windy drizzle had  enveloped  me.  I  had no choice but to built a bonfire  with  no  firewood  around. But our mind in need is a friend indeed.  It was a lot of empty plastic bottles around thrown  by  careless  drivers.  As  a  matter  of fact, I hate those people  who  don’t care about our environment, but this time   I   was   very   much   appreciative   for   their   garbage incorrectness.  Very  soon  I  had a good plastic fire which  fed  up also with a thrashed car tire. Apparently, it was no  excuse   to that mother-f.....,  which  threw  around  the   useless,   fireproof,   environmentally   incorrect,   glass bottles.  A stack of black, dense smoke was bellowing up the skies,   signaling   to   somebody  in  distance  about  my whereabouts.  Especially  I  was  concern that the smoke was attracting  the  police  who  would very easy find that this fire  on  bus  station  is  in  violation  of  some  traffic regulation.  Indeed,  very  soon a squad car pulled over but passed  my  smoky figure and stopped in 20 meters to enforce a  speed limit of passing motorists. Perhaps, this time they had  no  order to enforce bonfires along the Golden Highway.  Sometimes,  I am sorry for police because they live by order and orders and have no freedom to be outlaws.
             My  black  signal also attracted a passing woman-motorist in  blue  Ford  who asked whether I am in need of something.   Surely  I  was,  and  asked  about  good,  hot meat-pie. She promised  to  bring it on her way  back home. In meantime, I  found  a whole foolishness of my idea waiting here of a rain end.  My  hill  was  attracting  all passing rain clouds and   they  discharged their water at the top. Here I could wait a good  weather  forever. Besides, I burned out all the supply  of   garbage   in   radius   of   fifty   meters   and   was environmentally proud of myself.
             Just  hundred  meters  down  the  hill,  I  found  a good   weather  and  blue  ski , which was smiling,  at my high-top  foolishness.  My  humor  was  improved  even more after that woman  pooled  over with two meat-pies, hamburger, and a cup  of  hot coffee. She advised to stay in town of Jerrys Plains where  they  have  a good grazing paddock at grounds of Pony  Club.  Life  is  great  when  you are fed and know the place where you could sleep overnight.
             Coming  in  any town, I ask usually a passerby about Show  Grounds  location  but  here  I found it myself, because the entire town  was  built along the main road. Gates were opened but  I  could  not  find  anybody  in  charge of this place,  actually, I didn’t need any assistance. After  placing camels in a grazing field I searched for a
          firewood  but  the place was kept in good order and no piles  of   discarded  planks,  logs,  or  board  were  around.  In  searching  of  firewood,  I  decided  to  visit an abandoned   house  across  the road, in front of which was placed a “For  Sale”  sign. It was not good to trespass somebody’s property but  I  masterminded an excuse as I had intent to buy it.   We  always  making  excuses  first  of all for ourselves and only after that for an other people.  House  was abandoned long time ago and it was no firewood around  but  to  my  surprise  I  found  that  gas stove was  operating,  even  hot  water  was  available. So, why not to check  how  well  is  shower of my prospective home!? Yes, I  took  a  shower,  the  first  time  in  a week. After that I brought  my wet clothing and hung it all around the kitchen.   The  Russian  invasion  culminated  in bringing my soups and  billy  for fixing a dinner. It was no more excuses and I was  concerned  that police or neighbors could come and accuse me in  trespassing, but it was no way back - I wanted to eat. I  retreated  to  my  tent  only after finishing all my chores, well after midnight.
             Finally,  as  soon  as  Easter was over, weather was good  again.  I  hitched  my camels, but before following highway,  stopped  to  speak  with  a  young  man  who  was  mending a barbwire   fence.   It  was  hard  task  of  digging  poles,  unrolling  an  old,  rusty  barbwire, and nailing it down. I was  surprised  seeing  him  with no working glows. This man was  aware  about  a  tetanus,  an  acute infectious disease which  hew  could get, cutting his finger with the wire. But he was lazy to drive back home for his gloves, poor Aussie.
             Arrowhead  Vinery was in a mess, when I walked over there to  taste their wine. Just a few months ago the main storage area  and  reception hall were erased by fire and damage was more  than  ten  million  dollars.  I was sorry for them but didn’t  refuse  to  taste  their  leftover to tell my reader later  that  wine  was terrific. But being honest, I have no palatal  apprehension of any wine and to me the best wine is strong  one,  and vodka is even better than wine. Perchance, Australian convicts preferred Whiskey or Rum.
             After  passing Arrowhead Vineyard, I made a sharp turn to go  by  shortcut  in direction of Muswellbrook. This was the most  pleasant,  beautiful,  and  friendly  road I ever have taken.  It  was  no  heavy  traffic  here,  just locals were stopping  and  feeding  me with whatever they had with them.  It  could be a meatpies, sandwiches, Easter eggs, fruits, or just coffee.
             Wildlife  flourished  in  multiple  artificial lakes with exotic  to me black swans, gum trees with flocks of parrots, cockatoos,  and  noisy  kookaburras.  Farther  deep in bush, small  herds of curious kangaroos followed me along the way.  This  wild  world  was  so peaceful, beautiful, and so self-contained,  that I never had even vague idea to catch any of them for myself.
             Once a horse trainer who was surprised by my walking but not riding camels stopped me. He thought for awhile and  expressed  the  great  idea that any good horse trainer could  break  my  camels  for riding. It was as some kind if lighting  for  my mind: I was coming in the local capital of rodeo  and  I  could  find there a lot of horse or even bull riders.  Apparently,  it would be easier for them to ride my tame camels than wild bulls.
             After  these thoughts, my spirit raised high, I knew what to  do  next.  Unfortunately,  this horse rider was too busy with  his chores for helping me with camels, but he was sure that  in  the  town  I would find some good horse trainers as well as bull riders.
             It  were not so many appropriate households with paddocks along  the  road, also I was restricted by my knowledge that stud  owners would not like to have my camels close to their horses.  But  finally  I  noticed  a  big grazing field with green   grass   and   no  horses  wandering  around.  I  was determined  to take it despite any objections of its owners.  Their  house  was  far back down of a long alley between two fenced  paddocks  and  my  camels attracted its inhabitants’ attention  well  before  our  close approach. The owner came out  of  his  house  to porch followed by shorter figures of his  wife  and  two  children. I approached to them not as a road  beggar  but as the respectful worldwide traveler who decided  to  make  people of this household be happy with my arrival.  We already managed to walk about 30 kilometers and had no choice but staying here.
             And  it  did  work. The owner was a bit hesitant from the beginning  but  after  petting  my camels he felt obliged to give  them  place  to rest. I was suggested to place my tent in  the  front  yard. Jeff even brought an extension cord to supply  electricity for my small dwelling. He also agreed to make  a  few  calls to people involved with a horse training and rodeo.
             Jeff’s  house  was  something that I’ve never seen before in  entire  my  life. His wife looked more male than female, not  only  in body appearance but in her clothing, such kind of  outfit  I  used  to  see  in  New  York  City  on active Lesbians.  They  older son was about 16-year-old midget with a  very  limited mental capacity. Daughter was about 14, she looked  normal, but for an hour of my staying in their house I  didn’t  hear  even one phrase from her. All that time she spends in living room, watching TV.
             Many-many-year-old dust and grease covered the ceiling and walls of the house, a mixture of spider web with soot  was  hanging down from the corners. Multiple layers of dust  covered bookcase, and cupboard’s shelves with bric-a-brac  of  china  and  porcelain. Smelly floor carpets were scattered  with  any  kind  of  garbage  and foods, to reach bathroom,  I  overstepped  piles  of  dirty  clothing  in  a hallway.  It  was  no  shower  there, a bath-tap was covered with  a  thick  mold, and a toilet bowl had no water in its tank and was flushed with a bucket of water. Their children slept  in beds with no linens, between piles of dirty cloth.  Annoying  blowflies  were  buzzing  around  and  crowded  on pieces  of  rotten  vegetables  and  fruits  in kitchen, the Cockroach Kingdom it was.
             After  my coming in the house, Jeff’s wife hide somewhere in  kitchen  and  came  out  just  once  suggesting a cup of  coffee  with  sandwich, which I refused of. I was sitting in living  room  on  edge  of  a  broken  chair and barely hold  spasms  of  vomit, and I am not the most fancy person of the neighborhood.  Jeff  was proud of his wife’s achievements in  poultry  breeding and proudly showed her diploma of champion in   leghorn   chickens   breeding.  It  was  no  books  or  newspapers  around  house  besides  copies of magazine about poultry.  Most  of  the time Jeff spent calling to companies making   prizes  and  other  memorabilia  for  golf championships. He also  made  a  few calls around and found a person who was a  Chairman  of  Committee  in  charge of local showgrounds. In  our  conversation, Mr. Collard promised camels and me a good  reception  there  and   his son’s help in breaking my camels  for  riding.  He  also  phoned  local  newspaper and made an arrangement of my meeting with its editor.
             Before  my coming to bed, Jeff gifted me a bottle of good white  wine  which  I  was  drinking in a tent and ruminated about  these  people  life.  Perhaps,  they  don’t  know how dirty,  lazy,  and dumb they are, and happy in their vacancy of  mind.  More minds you have, more irritated you feel about its  absence.  It  is  good  to  be a fool with no knowledge about it.
мҐБ Y       ї               ~t   
 bjbjуWуW                Є  ‘=  ‘=  ~p                яя          яя          яя                ]      
       
   
       
       
       
       
               "       "       "       "       "   
   .       "       M   ¶   V       V       V       V       V       V       V       V       L       N       N       N   >   Њ   D   Р   D       $      ф   ч
  Z   8               
       V                V       V       V       V       8       ¦       
       
       V               V       V       ¦       ¦       ¦       V   F   
       V       
       V       L                "       "       
       
       
       
       V       L       ¦   ¦   ¦               L       
       
                L       V       J   
   @]f•ЃWї "       "       њ   
   L               
         
MUSWELLBROOK
         
             I  don’t  know  why  Mark  Twain  in his list of the most curious  site  names of this country didn’t mention the name of  this  town.  Simon  Chamberlain,  the  editor  of  local newspaper,  didn’t  know the meaning of his town’s name, but had  some  hints for guessing, as you, my reader. Simon came to  Jeff’s  site,  but was not allowed to come closer to the house.  Perhaps,  the  owner  didn’t  want  to  see his ugly place.  (Of  course,  I  changed  the  name  of  my host and decided to name his household: Messybrook.)
             Simon  made  a  few  snapshots  of my camels and tried to talk  with  my  hosts  but  they  stayed  inside  until  his departure.  Simon  promises  to  pay  me  visit  later, at my camping  site.  On  the way to Muswellbrook I was stopped by Brian  Collard  on his way to Sydney for a horse race event.  Brian  assured me that he made an arrangement for my staying at  show  grounds  as long as I liked, his son, Luke, should come  later  with his friends to take a look at my camels in respect of their breaking up for riding.
             Muswellbrook  was  the  first  big  town  on  my way from Sydney  to  Brisbane,  and very homey one. Its downtown area still  withstands  to tremendous push of modern architecture of  making it as any other modern town of shopping malls and American-style   fast-food   restaurants.  However,  it  was powerless  to  a  lure  of  BI LO shopping mall, even two of them  invaded  this  beautiful town of outback life. I found show  grounds across the street from a smaller BI LO mall in southern part of the town.
             On  the way, I already used to  similar show grounds with a  racetrack,  horse  stables, circle for rodeo, office with cafeteria,   and   toilets   with   hot   showers.  Perhaps, Australians  copied  this  set of cowboy-like, country-style show  grounds  from  Americans. At least, I didn’t find much difference between them, travelling through both countries.
             Grounds  keeper,  Ken, let me pitch a tent near cafeteria shed  and  placed  my  camels  to rodeo circle with no grass available  there.  I had to keep camels there at daytime and let  them  graze only after horses were taken from racetrack to  stables,  after  7  P.M.  I  was  ready  to  accept  any conditions, just to have my camels broken for riding.
             Three  Australian  Mousquetaires: Luke, Trent, and Brett, pulled  over  to  my  place on a dilapidated 4-wheeler. They were  pleasant boys of very late teens, who decided to try something  new  -  to  break  camels. As I soon found, three friends  were  classmates who after graduating a high school dedicated themselves to the dream of being rodeo cowboys.
             For  survival,  they  made  some menial jobs, but most of free  time  they  spend  riding  horses, or even more challenging  beasts  -  mighty  bulls. This kind of sport or entertainment  came  here from the U.S.A., where these young men  dreamed  to  visit.  When  Luke’s father called them to give  me  help  with  their expertise of bull riding, it was challenge  to  them, and they had no fear doing it. My tamed camels  looked less threatening than wild bulls they used to ride.
             Xena  was  their  first  target.  Brett mounted her while Trent  led  her  with  a  rope. After a few rounds at rodeo ring,  Trent left her loose running with Brett on top trying to  steer her with reins, but Xena refused to go in required direction.  She  approached  to  wooden rails of rodeo fence and  tried  to  squeeze  Brett against it. Brett escaped her mortal  trick, jumping up the rails. She repeated this trick a  few  times  and  Brett  was  quick  to be fooled with her stunts.  When  he  ordered her to kneel down, Xena sat close to  the  fence and tried to roll on it with Brett in saddle, but  he  already  was  familiar with her game and escaped it easy.
             Not  letting  her  to  rest, they changed roles and Trent mounted  Xena  for  riding  around rodeo field. She repeated the  same  tricks  and  Trent  also managed to stay unharmed jumping  on  and  off  her  as a circus acrobat and used his whip  mercilessly.  I had to turn my back off having no guts to  look at this torture. But at least they were not so much cruel  as their predecessors were. I happened to read memory of Australian  settler  of  last  century,  Thomas  Spence,  “A veteran  Pioneer,”  where  he  described his encounters with camels:  “It  was  a  sight  to see the big camel trains leaving  Bourke. I still have a vivid recollection of seeing one  of  1200  leave  that  centre, one loaded with two 400-gallon  tanks,  one  swung  on  each  side  of its back. The Afghans  were terribly cruel to the camels and more than one was  heavily  fined for sewing a patch of sheepskin over the raw sores on the animals’ backs.”
             Finally,  my  cowboys  exhausted themselves, leaving Xena to  recuperate  and  switched their efforts to Vanya who was watching  all  this  breakage with fear. Perhaps, he learned some  lesson because he didn’t try to throw his trainers off but   Vanya’s  obedience  for  direction  was  not  perfect.  Instead  of  a  bit for steering, we used a chain across his nose  and  reins.  As  I  mentioned  earlier,  most of camel riders  for  steering  purpose  punch  a  holes  in  camel’s nostrils  in which they insert wooden or plastic pegs. Reins are  attached  to  those  pegs, making steering easier. Xena has  had  no such holes but Vanya did. We could not find any pegs  around  and  decided  to  use instead D-clamps that were available in any hardware store.
             As  soon as we inserted those clamps in Vanya’s nostrils, he  followed in any required direction, he was broken. After riding   around  rodeo  circus,  we  rode  outside  to  show grounds’  road  and over there Vanya was also good. Just one problem  existed  - he wanted to be close to Xena turning in her  direction.  After  we  hitched  her  behind,  even this problem  was  solved  -  we  had  a  good  team  for riding.  Definitely,  all  these  trainings  and adjustments took two days  of  work  from Trent and Brett but those days they were free  of  work being in transitional period. I could not pay them  for  such a sturdy job and suggested making money the next  weekend  giving  rides  to people who supposed to come here  for a scheduled market. After a short consulting these young  men refused to come for that event for a good reason:
          Xena  and  Vanya were too frighten by them and could shy out any  time.  If  we  get  people  riding  them,  it  could be dangerous,  especially in market’s crowd. I agreed with them and promised to reward them by different way.
             In  my diary Trent Mollit wrote: “Good luck with Xena and Vineya.  I  think  you  are a crazy son of a !!!” Brett Peel happened  to  be  more  derivative: “Anatoly, I did not know what   to   think  when  I  met  you  riding  camels  around Australia,  but  I  wish  you  all  the  best  on your crazy adventure  and  I  hope you have lots of patience cause your gonna need it for those damn camels!”
             My  helpers  were  glorified by Simon Chamberlain, editor of   Muswellbrook   Chronicle,   where   their   names  were misspelled:  “Three  19  year  old  Muswellbrook  men,  Luke Collard,  Brett Peel and Luke Willard, are assisting Anatoly  in his quest to get camels broken to riding.”After  this  article  I  became  the most known person of  that  locality  which  helped  me to get some donations from shop  owners  of  BI  LO market. A baker gave to camels five loafs   of  stale  bread,  and  Julie  Folpp  from  Gunsmoke
          Tobacconist  shop  donated an Amphora pipe tobacco with this wording:  “To Anatoly, the crazy pipe smoking cowboy, have a great  trip,  all  the  best.” A newsagent was happy selling all  copies  of  the newspaper because of camels’ picture on its front page.
             I  negotiated  the  conditions  of  my  participation  at Sunday  Market. The main obstacle of liability insurance for my  camels  was  solved  by  payment  of  10 dollars to show grounds  Council,  besides,  I  had  to  pay  them 10% of my future  profit.  I  had  no opportunity to advertise a camel rides,  so  it  was  not  so  many customers for this exotic entertainment.  I  charged  for each ride three dollars, the same  amount  Kevin  in  Melbourne charged for rides. It was dangerous  to  use  Xena  for this purpose because she could roll  over  with  people  on  her  back,  but Vanya was more dependable.  He was working in behalf of both, mostly giving rides  to  parents  with  children, lazy Xena was smiling at him.  She  won he freedom through two days of suffering from hands  of  my  helpers.  I liked and hated her for this, her behavior  remained  my  girlfriend  with the same name. She was  sending  from St.-Petersburg letters assuring me in her eternal  love  as  Penelope,  the  wife  of  Ulysses who was waiting  for  him during 20 years of his travels. He eternal love  lasted  just  six  months  until  she  found  her  new boyfriend  and  stopped  writing or answering my phone calls and E-mail.
             Local  flea  market  was  definitely  less versatile than similar  ones  in America or Europe. Any piece of furniture, pottery,   china,   books,  or  bric-a-brac  was  considered antique  being  more  than 50 years old. I was not surprised by  it,  knowing  how  young  this  nation  is. In Russian’s antique  shops  and  flea  markets  we have even less really precious  items  for  sale because for more than 70 years of Bolshevik’s  rule  they were sold out to the West, even more of  them  being smuggled by contemporary Russian rulers. All my country now is 4-sale.
             After  the entire crowd  left  the show grounds, I left by myself  and was making coffee, when came my new friend Simon Chamberlain  came  with  his wife. They brought a hot dinner for  me  and, the most important, a sleeping bag with a worm shirt.  In  my  diary  Simon  quoted poetry by Will Oglivie, which is hard to read, something like:

             By stockroutes brown and bent and base.  By flood wrapped rivers bends They’ve hunted them from gate to gate.  A droves has few friends.

             But I was lucky having so many good people around. The   next   morning  I  dedicated  to  wandering  around  Muswellbrook  and  meeting  some  official  or  not  so much official  people.  As matter of fact, being in the U.S.A., I had  a  good  support  from  local Chambers of Commerce. But Kevin  Doherty,  a  co-ordinator  of the Chamber, was not so much  open  for  contacts.  He  gave me a color print of the Armorial  Bearings  of  the Shire of Muswellbrook, which was granted  to  the  shire  by  Letters Patent in 1984. I doubt that  many  shires  of  Australia have so much sophisticated arms  with  symbols of agriculture and coal mining. The arms were   designed  by  English  specialists  in  heraldry  and included  the  red  bugle horn from the arms of John Hunter, second  Governor  of  New  South  Wales.  His  name was also attributed  to  the  Hunter River and the Hunter Walley. But this  shire  was  also  proud  of being named as Blue Heller Country, because of breeding here these famous sheep dogs.
             Brian Collard, who originally accommodated me on show grounds and found those young men for breaking my camels, engaged me for a dinner party. He returned back from  Sydney  and  wanted to feed me with the best of a food which  his  wife,  Lyn, could cook. He gave me a ride around his  beloved  town  and  showed  the  best  places  of it. I already  walked  around  it  with  my  camels  and  found it incredibly  home  and  made by people for the people, with a park  on  the  riverbanks, a golf course, a stadium, and a racecourse.  His house was overlooking the show grounds, and being  the  Chairperson  of  that  grounds,  Brian could see what’s  going  on  there  any  time. Being two years younger than  me,  Brian  managed  to raise three sons and daughter.  Luke,  the  youngest  one,  was  taking  a  course of diesel engine  mechanic in an auxiliary branch of the State College and   Brian  decided  that  it  would  be  enough  for  son’s education.  Brian himself was an engineer of heavy machinery at  local  coal  mine  and  was happy with such a secure and well-paid job.
             We  sat around dinner table with no alcohol served, but a lot  of  broiled  beef  and  vegetables.  Lyn was not just a housewife  serving us, because Brian helped her with cooking and  washing  dishes,  even  I volunteered to mash potato. I was  impressed by their satisfaction of just regular life of people  who  got  everything  they liked on this earth. They were  happy  living  at  this  place and this time which was given to them by God.
         
THE FARM
         
On the way out of Muswellbrook police  escorted me when I was crossing the main road.  Only  after  finding  myself  in outskirts  of  the town I decided to mount Vanya for riding.  He  was  surprisingly  obedient  and we followed down bypass along  New  England  Highway. Xena followed him with all our belongings  and  it  was much better arrangement because she had  no  opportunity  for  browsing  on grass, the nasty her habit  which  used to delay our travel. On the right I could see  a  big  coal  mine  of  Aberdeen  with multiple digging machinery,  I  even waved to people working there because my friend Brian was between them.
             I  was going to the farm of David Birch, friend of Brian, who  was  aware about my coming and agreed to accommodate me for  a  night. David’s house was close to the road and after hitching  camels  to the rail of the fence I buzzed the door but  nobody happened to be inside. Across the road I noticed a  big  herd  of  cows  congregated  close to dairy barn and figured  out  that  my  prospective  hosts  were  busy  with milking.  Approaching to the barn, I greeted two men, one of whom  was  herding cows inside and another one was busy with milking  them.  Before attaching a milking machine he washed an  udder  with a sprinkle, after that he sprayed it with an iodine solution.
             David  Birch  with his brother James had had milking 120 cows  twice  a  day, and they spent about two hours for each procedure.  I  talked  with  David  about  his farm after he finished  milking  and  came  out to help me with camels. He was  a  good  horseman but had no opportunity to ride camels before.  All  inhabitants  of his farm congregated around to pet  my  beasts and ride them. David’s children were already grown  up  and  lived  by  their  own,  but  children of his younger  brother  James were happy to make rounds on Vanya’s back.  Even  Christine, 72-year-old mother of David, decided to  ride and was happy to share this new experience with her grandchildren.
             Before  dinner David decided to give me a ride around 650 acres  of  his  property  on  which  he  bred  350  heads of Holstein  and  Piedemontese  cattle. He was especially proud of  Piedemontese  studs  that were introduced on his farm a few  years  ago.  David  paid $1,500 for each frozen embryo mailed   to   him   from  Holland.  With  help  of  a  local veterinarian,  he inserted them in womb of pregnant Friesian recipients.   After  five  generations  David  got  his  own  Piedemonte  cattle  which became popular, especially between rodeo  owners.  Bulls  of  this cattle are very massive with very  good  developed  muscles  which is very prized by bull riders, for each bull they pay David $3000.
             We  rode  across  hay fields and paddocks with cattle and David  knew  on  which  stage  of gestation each of his cows were.  He  graduated an agriculture college and upgraded his knowledge   with   reading  many  periodicals  that dedicated  to farming.  For  planting  of cultivated grass he didn’t plow, but  tilted  his  hay  fields,  saving  money  on   fuel and  workforce.  After  last  drought  he found necessary to make his  own  water  wells and spent a lot of money for drilling them.  To  give  his cattle a better place for a rest, David planted  shady  trees in rows.  Each piece of his land has been  improved  by  his  own  hands  and  his  children will inherit  it  in  much  better agriculture conditions then it was before David.
             I  was  surprised by David’s explanation about wholesale prices  of milk which government imposed on Australian dairy farmers.  In  average,  each his cow produce daily 30 liters of  milk,  but  only 15% of it he sells to dairy factory for 50  cents a liter, 65% of his output he sells for 40 cents a liter,  and  20% for only 20 cents. Each dairy farmer has to produce   extra  10%  of  milk  as an assurance for possible shortage  of  milk  in  this  country, for which he is paid just  15 cents a liter. One of many problems of David’s farm is  shortage  of  workforce,  because  he  has  to  pay  any farmhand  not  less  than $14 in an hour, but with all other benefits each worker cost him about $30 in an hour.
             David  was  just  45-year-old,  but already considered to retire  after  30  years  of  farming and starting some more leisure  kind  of  business  as  a  building contractor. His elder    son,  Nick,  decided  to  be  a  professional bull-rider  and  left  Australia  for learning these skills in Texas,  U.S.A.  When  I  came  to  David’s  place,  he  just received  a  phone  call  from Nick, who was recuperating in hospital  with  broken  ribs  after an unfortunate fall from bull’s  back.  Nick  was  not  planning  to  come home until perfecting his bullriding skills.
             Hugh,  his  younger  son,  wanted  to  be  a professional football  player and was a raising star of his college team.  But  for  each  weekend  he  comes to help parents and Uncle James in operating of their dairy farm.
             David’s   wife,   Janelle,  was  a  registered  nurse  in Aberdeen  hospital  and  helped  him  in running a farm just after   her  regular  working  hours.  Sarah,  their  single daughter  was  a very talented artist and lived in Sydney in her  own art studio. Just a month ago Janelle was on opening of  her  personal  exhibition  and  was happy that Sarah had planned to live for a year in London.
             Around  a  dinner  table  they  discussed David’s plan of reopening  a meat processing plant (obituary) in Aberdeen. A few  years  ago,  huge  American  meatpacking  conglomerate purchased  all  small  obituaries  of  this region and after that  closed  all  of  them in behalf of big meat processing plant  in  Queensland.  Thousands  of people lost their jobs with  no  perspectives  of  finding  any job in this region.  Just  small  fraction  of former workforce found job at that plant,   most   of  former  workers  lived  on  unemployment benefits.
             David  wanted  to  create some kind of cooperative, which members  should  be  former  workers  and local farmers, who would   organize   their   efforts   in  reopening  of  meat processing  plant.  Americans sold it out at an auction to a developer  who  would  be  happy  to  resale it anybody with money.  David’s biggest concern was about that Americans who would  do  everything  to obstruct his efforts to revitalize that   plant.   They   closed  all  these  small  plants  to monopolize the meat prices of all region.
             The  first  time  for  all  my staying in Australia I was allowed  to  sleep  in  the  house. Unfortunately, my camels abused  my  host’s  hospitality, I found it the next morning when  came  out  to  check  them. They overstepped the fence separating  their  grazing paddock from a field, where David grew  a  mixture of oats and lucerne for feeding his cows. I was  ashamed  by  it  but  David  assured me that damage was minimal  and  I  should  be happy that camels didn’t sneaked out.
             Before  my  departure  David helped me to change D-clamps in  Vanya’s  nose  for  much  lighter plastic rings. He also paid  attention  that I had no cushion on my saddle and for this  purpose  gave me a pad from his old couch. This farmer knew  how  is important to walk comfortable on the road, and he  paid  attention that my shoes were worn-out. David gave me  his  old  suede  boots,  which  he  used to wear being a bachelor.  They served me well for many kilometers of bush roads.
         

MURMURING
         
             After  Vanya’s  breaking  for  riding,  I  have much more comfortable  life  of observing my surroundings from the top of  his  back.  The main concern is about broken glass along the  road,  and I steer Vanya carefully to prevent camels to step  on them. But an unexpected obstacle for us happened to be  the strings of spiderweb across our road. Each time when Vanya  noticed  such  a  string,  he  was  stopping  or even turning  in  an  opposite  direction.  But soon I learned to break  these  strings  with  a long stick before Vanya sight them.
             My  road  was  following  down  valley  between  Dart and Kingdon  Creeks  with  rich alluvial soil, but planted along  the  road  gum  trees  didn’t  give  enough  shade  to  rest comfortable  under  them.  In  Scone  I  had  to turn to New  England  Highway  because  no secondary road was going along it.  My  friends advised to use a stock routes, and to get a  map   of   them,   I   stopped  at  office  of  Rural  Lands  Preservation   Board  (RLPB)  in  Scone. Mary, its director,  was  happy  to help me and asked her stuff to make a copy of the  map.  She  refreshed  me  with  biscuits and coffee and suggested  using  for  my travel the Bicentennial National Trail,  which  was  opened  in  1988  and goes along an East Coast  for  5000  kilometers. I’ve never heard about such an option  and  asked  Mary  to  give me a map of it. She found only  a  general  map  with  no details but promised to find some  more  and mail it to RLPB office in Tenterfield, where I was planning to stop on the way north.
             After  looking at the map of stock roots, I found that it would  be  hard  to  find  and  follow them, because for many years  farmers  don’t  use  them  and  transport  cattle  by trucks.  Once  I used a similar road along electric line and found  it  hard to follow. Camels didn’t like that bush road also, and I returned to hard-surface road.
             Denis  Quinn, Regulations Officer of Scone Shire Council, showed  me  the way to town’s show grounds, where we found a good  grazing  paddock  close  to  football field. After the game,  schoolboys  congregated around my camels to pet them, or  feed with apples. I paid attention that a teenagers had no  pierced  noses  or  ears,  as  those in big cities. They didn’t  smoke, or drink alcohol, and didn’t use any drug. As one  of  them  explained  me,  it could be hard to be a good sportsman  or cowboy, if you have a pierced face and consume any kind of liquid or powdered chemicals.
             Denis came later with his grandchildren and camera to  make  snapshots  of them with camels, his wife send me a hot  meal  with  coffee  and  apples to my beasts. Mary from RLPB  also  decided to pay a visit with coffee and biscuits.  So,  I was fed and warm in my sleeping bag under the roof of Coleman tent, my life was great.
             It  was  no  side  road on the way to Wingen and I had to follow  by  the  main  New  England Highway. I was surprised that  despite  my attempts to ride on soft or grassy grounds along  the  road shoulder, camels preferred to walk on hardtop  of  asphalt or concrete, and the danger of broken glass for  their  soft feet was constant. Once, I missed to notice a  big  piece of broken beer bottle, and Xena stopped on it.  I  heard her shaking left front leg and turned back to see a blood  gushing  from her foot. Finally, she managed to shake it  off  but  the  blood  was  running nonstop. I decided to kneel  her  down  by  such  a way to squeeze her leg’s blood vessels,  and it did help. After ten minutes we were walking again.
             On the way, a very joyful man, John Harpley, who also called him Harpo, stopped me. Perhaps, he was a fun  of  poetry  and word puzzles, because in my diary Harpo inserted  this  puzzle  about  his  hometown: “Do not forget about BLANDFORD:
 
Beautiful
Landscape
AND
Dust
Flow
Over
Rangers
Drive
         
             This  puzzle was not perfect but good enough to me. I had no  opportunity  to  visit  that  beautiful  dusty  town  of Blandford.
             Peter Mills and his daughter, Kirsty  Russell, operated Durham  Hotel in Wingen.  Actually,  it was no hotel anymore  but  only  a  pub with many gambling machines and a pool  table.  Peter  had  no available paddock for my camels but  advised  to  put  in  nearby  show grounds’ circle with plenty  of  grass.  On the way, I was surprised by neglected conditions  of village houses. Some were abandoned, but some were  still  occupied  by strange women with small children.  After  sharing  with  them a cup of coffee with cigarette, I found  that  these young women were single mothers, living on  welfare  checks.  Rent  in  Wingen  was  cheap and women decided  to  congregate for a mutual support. It was hard to speak  with  them  because  women  even  didn’t express much interest  to  my  camels.  I didn’t like people who were not interested with animals.
             Back  to pub, Kirsty and Peter fed me with a meat pie and let  to  take  a  shower.  It  was no room available in that dilapidated  hotel,  but  I had my own room in a tent. Peter used  to  work  all  his  life  as  a  sheep  shearer  until collected  enough  of money for renting this pub. It was not so  much customers in, and they didn’t express any desire to speak  with  me,  drinking  their beer, or playing that darn game  automates.  I  paid  attention  at a woman in white uniform  who  was  sitting with her smoldering cigarette and glass  of  beer  in  front  of one of gambling machines. She didn’t   pay   attention  at  anybody,  but  was  busy  with inserting  coins  in  that  slot machine and waiting for the matching  of  symbols  with  cowboys  and fossickers. Kirsty told  me  that  the  woman was working as a kitchen aid in a local  hospital  and  spent  every evening in the pub with a hope to win her big prize. Oh, hollies fool!
             The  next morning Peter invited me in his big kitchen and fried  a  big steak to me, while himself eating just cereals with  milk.  I  don’t mind of eating heartily breakfast, not knowing  when  and  where  I  will eat my next meal. My next stop  supposed  to  be in Murrurundi, about which Mark Twain wrote:
         
The Koppio sorrows for lost Wolloway,
And sigheth in secret for Murrurundi,
The Whangerro wombat lamenteth the day
That made him an exile from Jerrilderie,

             I  was  happy  to  meet the Russian woman from Odessa, who was  working at Murrurundi library and helped me to check an E-mail.  It  is  incredible, how modern waves of immigration could  bring  to  Australian  shores  so  many  varieties of people.  She  warned  me  about oncoming a Sheepdog Trail at show  grounds.  Simon  Flannery, Works Manager of Murrurundi Shire  Council,  happened to be a very young man of late 20-th.  He  guided  me  to  the show grounds and let to pitch a tent near office.
             My  camels  were  placed  in  a  paddock with not so much grass  there,  but  a lot of weeping willows near the creek.  Simon  warned  me to keep camels off those trees, but it was impossible  to  prevent  them  from  nipping  such  a  tasty leaves.  I’ve  heard  that  an animal like eating these leaves because  of  some  kind  of chemicals in them that poison intestinal worms.
             My  neighbors  happened  to  be a retired couple of Betty and  Clive  Adams,  who  came  with  Border  Collies  for  a sheepdog  competition. During a night and next morning, more than  twenty  participants  came  with  their  pets  for the competition.  I had to go earlier to remove my camels from show grounds  because  many  dogs  were driven crazy with a view  of my beasts. A small black dog with white spots tended three sheep.  His  owner  was  standing  far off behind,  giving  orders to a dog by whistling. Kelpie was driving  the  herd through obstacles of a small bridge and a gate.  The  first time I watched this typical Australian dog of  a  breed  developed  by  crossing the dingo with various English  sheepdogs. These dogs made Australia the first in a sheep-raising world. See you later, doggy!

CURRABUBULA
         
             Vanya  decided that two or three kilometres of riding him was  enough, and after that he started making rounds off the road  to  a bush, where his attend was to squeeze me between trees  or  throw off in mulberry shrubs. Sometimes I succeed in  this  fight  and  stay  on  his  back despite all of his tricks,  but  most  of  the time I give up and decide not to ride but walk in front of him.
             In  downtown  of  Willow Tree I was surprised by the man, who  was  running  down  the  main  road in search of a good shovel  to kill a brown snake, which he noticed near a flood drain.  I  have had neither a shovel nor desire to kill that poor  snake which happened to be in wrong place and in wrong time.  This is pathetic that even alligators in this country are  in  some  extend  protected by the law, but not snakes.  They  are  the  last  reserve of Mother Nature in protection itself  against  of  human  invasion on its turf, but people chase  and kill them mercilessly. Who has more right to live on this land? Humans or snakes?
             After  passing  town of Willow Tree, I decided proceed to Quirindi,  but  soon  found  that  it  would  be  too long a distance  for my team. On the left I noticed a nice English-style  manor  with  good grazing field in front of it. About eight  new  and  expensive  cars  were  parked  close to it, indicating  that  some guests paid a visit to the hosts. It was  no  response  to  my  buzz,  but  I  decided proceeding further  because  was  sure  that  somebody  supposed  to be inside.  After  opening  second  door,  I  observed  women sitting  around a dinner table with cups of tea, and looking at  me  in astonishment. After begging pardon, I asked about any possibility to find a resting-place for my camels.
             In  process  of our conversation I found that interrupted a  church  meeting dedicated to oncoming charity flea market on  grounds  of  local Anglican Church. These women were too busy  to consider my request for help and advised to proceed farther.  The  manor's owner also was a bit apologetic about not  accommodating  us for her concern about safety of roses in  her  garden. In this respect, I was on her side, knowing my camels love for prickly rose shrubs.
             Farther  down  the  road,  I  noticed  an  old  house  in deploring  conditions  but  with  a good grazing field close by.  On  my  call,  an old woman came out to a porch with a younger  man  behind her back. After a short hesitation, she decided  to  give  me a shelter and asked her son to help me with unloading camels.
             Beril  Kimpton  was on disability pension because of poor eyesight  inflicted  by conjunctivitis. She lived with her only  son, Colin, who was divorced, but that day brought his son,  Don,  for  a  weekend  visitation.  As a truck driver, Colin  made  enough  money  to  live by himself, but all his life,  save  five  years  of marriage, he lived with mother.  She  makes  all  the decisions of their life and he asks her permission  for any movement. Being 42, he behaves as a boy, doesn't  smoke  or  drink  and  watch TV programs, which his mother  let  him  to.  Before  going  to sleep in my tent, I asked  him  any  book  or  magazine to read, but Colin said, that nobody reads in their home.
             On  the  way  through  town  of  Quirindi, I stopped at a saddle  shop  for  finding good hobbles for restraining my camels.  My  old hobbles were made from a rope and inflicted sores  of fetlocks because of friction. In that shop I found hobbles  made  from  soft  leather  straps, connected with a strong  chain, but their price was $19,99 each. I decided to negotiate  it  with an owner, who finally agreed to sell one pair  for  $15.  Even that price was high to me, and finally the  owner  decided  to  sell it just for $10, if I agree to pose  for  a  snapshot  with  camels  in front of his saddle shop.  It  was  more than pleasure to me, because I would do it free of charge.
             Werris  Creek  happened  to  be  a  big railroad town and centre  of  mining  industry.  In a Town Hall they let me to stay  on  grounds  of  racetrack  and  sent  Don Thomas, its keeper,  to open an office for my accommodation. He not only opened  all  accommodations,  but also gave me permission to use  kitchen  and grill for cooking of frozen meat, which he brought  from home together with a case of VB beer. Don also informed  me  that  his  friend in Tamworth raise camels for racing and promised to phone him about my expedition.
             I  woke  up earlier to take camels off racetrack, because Don  was  concern, that camels could frighten racehorses at morning exercise.  I  kept my mates hitched behind office  building  until  that morning training was over, but anyhow,  the  horses'  owner  was  angry because of my camels grazing  on that field. I tried to soothe him, but it didn't work  until,  just by a chance, we found that both were born the  same day of the same year. It completely reversed Bob's attitude  towards  me  -  instantly  we  became  the closest friends,  because  it  was not so many people on the Earth, as  we  were.  We  exchanged   with Ron Miller addresses and promised  to  send  each  other  birthday  cards.  (It never happened.)
             I  decided  to  spend Saturday in Werris Creek for making money,  and after breakfast vent with camels to Town Park in a hope to give children  a  camel  rides.  The  town was surprisingly  quite  and  only  later  I  realised  that its inhabitants  lived  by  English  custom of closing all shops Saturday.  But  even  in  London,  nowadays,  many shops are open, especially if their owners are immigrants.
             The  main  street  was  dead  and  only  dogs' owners were strolling  with  their  beloved  creatures,  barking  at  my mates.  After hitching camels to the fence, I sat on a bench to  fill my diary. A few idle teenagers join my company in a hope  that I'll give them ride free, but I was pre-programmed to make  money.  So,  I  suggested them to call parents and ask them some money for rides. I was getting tough.
             We  were  sitting  around  a picnic table and watching as across  the  railroad  tracks, where the passenger train was ready  to  depart for Sydney. My young mates, Josh Saunders, and  Michael  Furner,  with  envy looked at those lucky men, who  could  afford  to  live  in that city. They complained, that  nothing  interesting  happens  in their town. But they didn't know my camels, yet.
             For  all  that  day I've got just five customers to ride, and  camels  were  bored  not  less  than local boys were. After wandering  around  a mowed lawn, Vanya decided to get out of that  park. With his saddle on, he crossed the entrance gate and  bumped  in  a  billboard with the name of a park and an instruction  of a good behaviour for its guests. Strained by iron   bar  of  that  sign,  Vanya  panicked  and  proceeded farther,  crushing the billboard and bending a saddle frame.  I barely caught him on the road. Now I was in a trouble.
             With  assistance  of those boys I fixed a bit that sign, but  Vanya's  saddle needed repair and welding of its tubing frame.  The  owner  of  service  station  suggested  calling around  for Marty Hausfeld, the best handyman of that place.  He  was working that time on construction project, and after conversation  with  me  by  telephone, Marty suggested me to come at his site.
             I  found him at outskirts of the town, where in a company of  other  man Marty was busy with building of prefabricated house.  Marty was a young man of late 20th, tall and sturdy, with  his  black  beard,  he  looked  like  Gypsy or outback pioneers  from  old  photos. Each of us creates his own image for  himself  and  people  around, and Marty with his outfit and  wide-brimmed  hat was the classic bushman, or even as a bushranger Thunderbolt.
             The  house,  which  he  was working on, belonged to Wayne Pursehouse,   a   fuel  station  attendant,  or  "Fuels  and Lubricant  Agent," as Wayne called himself in business card.  His  prefabricated house with all facilities was priced just about $90,000, land in this area was also cheap.
             Marty  happened  to  be the real handyman and he not only welded  my  saddle's  frame,  but  also mended my saddlebag with  rivets.  He also invited me to his bachelor house near by  to  serve coffee and to donate his own compact billy for  cooking  on  campfire.  Marty was living by himself and even  studied engineering in a local college. He was in love with  more  than  one  woman,  but  was  inclined  to  marry Natasha,  whose  portrait  decorated  a  wall  of his humble house.  They  shared  interest in horse riding and rodeo, at that  photo  blond  Natasha  was sitting on her Thoroughbred horse  outfitted  as  an American cowgirl. Marty was so much in  love with her that even considers fostering her children after their marriage.
             While  I  was  there, Natasha with her girlfriend visited Marty  and  both  were  not in a good shape after last night party.  Natasha's  friend  was  a half-American Indian, and especially  suffered  after  hangover,  running  outside  to vomit.  I  was  happy  for  giving ride to children of these suffering women.
             Back at my site, Geoff Skewes, local horseman and a train driver met me,  who noticed me on the road before.  He  wanted  to  make similar trip as mine, but with horses, and quoted this verse:

I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains.
Of riggen mountain ranges,
And I hope he comes again.
         
             I  doubt,  that Geoff was sure about authenticity of these lines,  and  who  was  he, but who cares. I like people with poetic  souls,  who  like  their not evergreen, but evergray bush   country  of  soft,  deceitful  colours  of  eucalyptus' perennial foliage.
             Before  my  departure for Currabubula, Don Thomas brought a  lot  of  hay  and  grains for my camels. The leftovers he promised  to  deliver  by truck to my next stop at Davis Pub in  that town. Don happened to be my guardian angel for next two  days,  making advance calls for my housing at next stop and supplying me and camels with food.
             All  the  road  from  Werris  Creek  to  Currabubula  was intermitted  with  fight between Vanya and me for leadership and  stamina.  It  was  especially  hard  to  get  out  from outskirts  of  the  town, when Vanya used any opportunity to brush  me against of barbwire fences or blackberry's spikes.  Especially,  he liked to go through open gates of somebody's property  and  make  havoc between dogs and property owners, he    was   an   experienced   psychologist,   knowing   how uncomfortable  I  was  in  such situations. So, mostly I was walking than riding.
             The  main  and single attraction of Currabubula was Davis Pub,  attended  by  "Blue" Marshall, a former sheep shearer.  He  allowed  me  to  place  camels to the paddock behind his house,  but  asked  to  wait for his wife arrival for my own accommodation.  In  this  countrywomen play more important role  in  making  decisions  than in Russia, and even in the U.S.A.
             His  horse  from  the beginning was very much frighten by camels  and  even broke the fence to run out. But in awhile, her  curiosity  prevailed  over  fear,  and  she returned to smell  or  even  touch  my big beasts. Soon they were grazing side  by  side.  Actually,  it was not so much grass to eat, and  I  was  happy, when Don brought leftover hay and grains for  my  mates.  They  shared  it  with  the horse in a very friendly fashion.
             Debby,  wife  of  "Blue,"   decided to give me a separate room  on  the  second  floor of their hotel. Perhaps, it was the  oldest  hotel  I ever stayed in Australia, its interior reminded  me  similar  Inn  in  the  U.S.A., where I stayed, travelling  there  with  my horse. That time I was placed to the  same  room, where George Washington stayed in after one of his battles with British troops.
             After  the  American  Revolution,  British Government was more  careful  with imposing taxes on its overseas colonies.  Actually,  that  American Revolution started on the night of December,  1773, after British Parliament passed the Tea Act on  the East India Company. That Act allowed the company not increase,  bit  to  lower  the  price  of  its tea enough to compete  with  contraband  tea  from  Holland.  American tea smugglers  were  so  alarmed,  that organised the Boston Tea Party,  when  criminals  dressed  as  Mohawk Indians swooped onto  British  merchant  ships, moored in Boston Harbour, and tossed overboard 342 chests of cheap British tea.
             That   times,  the  Government  considered  importing  by colonists  a tea from other, than Britain Empire, countries, as  a  criminal  activity, contraband. The tea smuggling, as now  smuggling  of  drugs, was a very lucrative business  in America,  and  the  Tea Act triggered a cry of alarm between the  tea-smuggling Boston Mafia. As Peter Thomas in his book "Tea  Party  to  Independence,"  writes:  "...to win popular support  they  launched  a  propaganda campaign based on two alleged  dangers  to  the whole colonial community, that the East  India  Company  would expand its tea monopoly into one of  all  foreign  trade,  and  that  the  whole  project was ministerial  scheme  to  trick  Americans into acceptance of taxed  tea." Boston tea Mafia organised  mass demonstrations and  printed  pamphlets  declaring  anyone  agreed  to drink British  tea  be  "deemed  an enemy to his own country." So, the  Boston  Tea  Party was transformed in the Tea Party for Independence.   Evidently,   the   American  Revolution  was started and inspired by criminals.
             This   country  is  blessed  having  in  its  history  no revolutions  or  civil  wars.  But  it  shares  with America similar  history of eradication indigenous people. No traces of  them  left  in this area, and nobody knew the meaning of obviously Aborigines name of their town of Currabubula.
             Here  I  found  my room with no reading light, TV-set, or the  Bible,  so  common  for  American  hotels,  and rare in hotels  of  this country. The facilities were located in the end  of  hallway and were shared by other guests of this old hotel  if  they  come, which was very rare. I switched on an electric mattress heater and slept well.
         

LINA POTAPOVA
         
             I  was  treated  more than regular guests of Marshall's hotel were.  Debby  and  her  daughter-in-law,  Cheryl,  fixed a hearty   breakfast  to  me, and their children made drawings of  my camels as entree in my logbook. What was interesting, that  Rebah-Lee  pictured  them with two humps, Jemmica made them  one-humped,  but three-legged. These people surrounded me  with  so  much  of hospitality, that I felt myself a bit uneasy  and  not  worthwhile  of all their attention. But my camels  also  got  fantastic  reception from my hosts' horse and  didn't  like  to leave their new friend, when I came to pick them up for our next leg  to north.
             While  I  was  saddling  them,  pick-up truck pulled over with   two   strangers,   who   greeted  me  and  introduced themselves  as  Ken  Towle  and  Ron  De  Bauter.  They were camelmen  whom  my  friend  Don  Thomas mentioned before and asked to come over for helping me with camels.
             Ken,  happened  to  be a twin brother of Peter Towle, the camelman,  whom  I  met  in  Picton  and  got from him first lesson   of   handling   camels.   That   time  we  made  no arrangements  of  meeting  again, but now it appeared that I will  see him later. Ken was a friend of Don and worked as a train  driver  in  Werris  Creek. In Tamworth he had a small camel farm and wanted me to stay there for awhile.
             Ron  lived  in  suburbs  of  Tamworth  and  recently  was  involved  in camelmen fraternity. He was in early 50th, with  baldish  head  and strong, muscular body of the man, who all  life   was   working  outside  and  hated  any  office occupation.  He  suggested  me,  after  staying with Ken, to move  in his place for a week rest and adjustment of camels'  gear  and  my  skills. For last two months Ron was on a sick leave and had some time to spend with me.
             These  experts  paid  attention that Vanya had no proper  pegs  in  his nose, and that Xena was not broken for riding. My  saddle  pads  were  broken  and didn't serve as a proper cushion,  it  was  much  more  the  salient details, which I didn't  notice  before.  My new mates promised to come at my next stop in village of Duri and fix some.
             Our  common  friend, Don Thomas, came to show me the best side  road  to avoid heavy traffic down Tamworth. Oh yes, it was  absolutely abandoned road with no cars or people on it, but  on  the  way  I  had  lost my direction many times. Two  parallel  ditches  filled with rainwater served as the road and  many  other  similar  roads  criss-crossed  that creek's valley.  I don't know, what happened with Vanya, but he gave me  a  ride  across  all those obstacles, otherwise, I would never walk down that road.  Coming  out  of bush to a village road, I had no idea, in
          which  direction  it  was that village. Far in the fields, I  noticed  a  farmer  driving  his  tractor  with some kind of chemicals  sprayer behind. John was busy with eradication of some  very  rapidly  spreading  weed,  but find some time to  talk  with  me  and  telling about a Russian woman living at the farm, which I suppose to pass on the way to Duri. I  was  not lucky with finding that farm, and came to the village  knowing  nobody there. As always, my camels were my assurance  for a people's hospitality. The shopkeeper, women of  very  middle  age,  happened  to  be  in  charge of show grounds  and gave me permission to stay there overnight. She also   phoned   to   that  Russian  woman's  farm,  but  her respondent  spoke  English  badly,  she  happened to be that woman's  mother.  It  was easier for Galina to speak with me than  with  the  shopkeeper,  and  she  promised to visit me later with her granddaughter, Lina.
             I  was  surprised  finding  in such a tiny village a show  grounds  with  a  football field, tennis court. It is almost  obligatory  for  any  settlement  to  have a monument to the veterans  of  wars,  in  which  fought  Australian soldiers,  beginning   with  the  war against the Boers in South Africa and   finishing   with  the  Vietnam  War.  In  Duri  it was erected  in  the  middle  of  show grounds and represented a granite pedestal of a tall flagpole.
             Camels  found a lot of grass with sprinkles of clover and I  found  a  good  hideout at veranda of an office building.  Very  soon  I  was  meeting  with Ken and Ron, who brought a plastic  peg  and inserted it in Vanya right nostril. As Ken explained,  it  was enough to have just one peg for steering a camel.
             While  my  camel mates were still there, a Russian woman, Olga,  brought  for  visiting  me  her  mother,  Galina  and daughter,  Lina.  As  soon as I looked at them, I found them as  my  friends,  whom  I used to know. Evidently, they were also  from  St.-  Petersburg, which Olga left five years ago after  marriage  with a local farmer. Only three years later her daughter, Lina, came to this country.
             I  immediately fell in love with this elegant, beautiful, and  talented girl of 15-year-old. She made drawing of me in a  ledger  and  wrote: "Anatoly, it was so nice to meet you.  There  are  not  so  many  Russians  around. Stop by, if you happen to be around again."
             Such  kind  of  girls don't belong to a countryside, and, definitely,   Lina,   after  graduation  of  a  high-school, planned to study and live in Sydney.
             Her  granny,  Galina,  came  here  just  a  year  ago and enjoyed  a  stillness  of  this place. She was a daughter of famous   Russian   geologist  and  all  her  life  spent  in geological  expeditions  not  only  around  Russia, but also around  India,  Egypt,  and other African countries. She was proud   of   her   past,   saying   that  Russian  geologist  discovered a lot of mineral deposits in that countries.
             After  retirement, Galina came back to St.-Petersburg and lived  with  her  daughter,  Olga, who was a physician. Just for   a  year,  Galina  befriended  more  locals,  than  her daughter  during five years. I already paid attention that Olga was a very reserve person, barely speaking with me.
             Being  born and raised in St.-Petersburg, which is famous by  its  museums  and  theatres, Galina found here also some intellectual  surroundings,  even with her limited knowledge of  English.  As  she  wrote  in  my diary: "The world is so narrow,  and  our  globe  is so small. Today we met Anatoly, and  a  month  ago  in  our  town  was with concert a German orchestra  of chamber music, and two of their musicians were also from St. - Petersburg."
             As  Lina  told  me,  her  granny  was the main saviour of their  family  life, because Olga was very hysterical in her relationships  with  her  Australian husband. Before long, I witnessed,  how  terrible  that  woman  could  be.  A woman, who came to office for making some order before scheduled that night meeting of local council, invited us for a cup of coffee. While Dave was entertaining us, Olga  busted  inside  with  screaming,  that  she  has been waiting  outside  for  my  guests  more  than an hour. I was surprised,  that  she  didn't want to come here to share our company,  or  had no desire to invite me in her house. After their  departure,  Daven  lamented  that Olga always behaves such  a way and has no friends in the village, but everybody likes  her  mother  and  Lina  is  the  best  student of the school.  In my diary she wrote: "Anatoly, you met my husband (Den)  this  afternoon, and he told me about this bloke with two  camels  travelling around the world. I came down to our local  tennis  club  to do a tennis course and here was this bloke  with  his camels! Well, you've made my day and I hope you have lots of happy times in Australia. Regards!"
             I  was privileged to witness the meeting of Duri Progress Association,  which  happened  in  the  same office. About 7 P.M.,  eleven  members  of  this  committee  congregated  to discuss  a  few  topics  of  local  life. They invited for a meeting  a representative in the legislative assembly of New South   Wales,   and   also  invited  for  participation  in discussion five teenagers.
             A  treasury  informed,  that the Association's budget was $12,000,  part  of which was spent for a construction of new basketball  court  and  maintenance  of  a  shed for keeping there  a  restored coach and antique agriculture appliances.  It  was also the problem of finding a safe place for keeping sports  trophies,  donated  to  the  Council  by  widow of a famous cricket player.
             Very  important  topic of discussion was about the Mother Day's  celebration and organisation of an auction. They also invited  for  a  meeting a post official who explained a new regulation  about  installation of signs with street's names and  house  numbers.  Perhaps, it was not necessary, because Duri  had just three streets and a postmaster knew everybody personally.
             After  their  departure,  I  was  sitting  on veranda and matching  this meeting with similar ones in my country. Here they  distributed  and  managed  a plenitude of the land, on which  people  created  its  wealth  by  hard  work  of many generations  of settlers and former convicts. In my country, before  the  revolution  of 1917, Siberia served the similar role  as  convicts'  settlement  and  prospered by their hard work  on  own land. But after the revolution, Siberia became the  land  of  GULAG,  or  the  land  of  labour camps, where innocent  people  were incarcerated and worked at government projects   of   forestry   or   gold  mining.  Their  living conditions  behind  a  barbwire  fence  and  under permanent guard  of  KGB  soldiers  were  much  worst,  than  those in Australia.  And  most  of  them  were  innocent  victims  of Bolshevik  political  system  of  prosecution their enemies.  They  followed the slogan: "If you are not with us - you are against  us."  They  succeed  in making labour camps in the death  camps.  About  15 million innocent people perished in those  GULAG concentration camps. Even the menace of Norfolk Island was a Boy Scout's camp matching with Siberian camps.
             After  destruction  of  the  Soviet  Union, most of those camps  were  abandoned,  but  Siberia  land was ruined for a many  years  ahead.  British  penal system managed to create the   land  of  plenitude,  but  the  Soviet  System  ruined Siberia.  Nowadays, Siberia is the country of an opportunity for  Chinese  illegal  and legal immigrants, in this respect it reminds me Australia.
TAMWORTH
         
             On  the  way  to  Tamworth by secondary road, I met quite unusual  for  a  countryside  a  jogging woman, who would be normal  for  a  park in Sydney, but not for village of Duri.  My camels also surprised her  on  her  path  of exercise.  As  usual,  I was not shy asking a passer-by about her  occupation  and  whereabouts.  Definitely,  Linda was a newcomer  in  this  area,  just recently she moved here with her  husband to start a new business of raising some kind of deer  for  velvets  or  antlers.  They  are  considered as a source  of  aphrodisiac in many countries of Asia. I used to visit  such farms on my way across the U.S.A., and they were very  profitable. Linda assured me, that their new farm also has  good potentials  because  of  many Asian immigrants wanted to buy here their remedy against impotence.
             Vanya  again  was  very  much  unruly, being spooked many times  by  any  machinery on the side of the road, reminding him  an  animal, so, most of the road, I was walking instead of  riding.  It was easy to find Ken's house in outskirts of Tamworth,  but I was surprised finding it in the cul-de-sac, surrounded  by  a  new  development, so familiar to me since travel  through  America. These new houses were built in the international  architecture  style  of a lower middle-class, with   all  necessities  of  a  couple  with  two  or  three children,  plus a pet. But Ken's household was a bit bigger, because his pets were a herd of ten camels.
             I  came  to his place, but found nobody home, perhaps, he forgot  to  notify his wife about my arrival. Having nothing to  do but wait, I hitched camels to the tree and buzzed the doors  of  Ken's  neighbours. A young woman with a child came out  a bit surprised by my intrusion in her privacy. She did not know even their names she had no idea about whereabouts of her neighbours. Unfortunately, it's normal for modern  neighbourhoods,  that people, living side by side for years,  have  no interest or desire to know each other. This trend  of  a  mutual  indifference  is  international  and I witnessed   it  not  only  in  Russia,  but also  in  many  other countries,  which  I  was  coming  through  before coming to Australia.  Perhaps, this is a result of replacing of a real life  with the virtual reality of television characters, which come  in  each  home  with  a  switch  button  of  a  remote control's box.
             That  night  I  also  was  the virtual guest of many TV-viewers  after  a  crew of local channel came to make report about  my  arrival  to  Tamworth. My hostess, Lorraine, came later  and  apologised  for being mistaken about the time of my  arrival. She was working at department store and Ken had quite  secure  job  as  a  railroad  train driver. They were raising  two  children:  16-year-old  Kylie  and 14-year-old Russell.
             Kylie  wanted  to  be a veterinarian, but he family could not  afford  of  her  higher education and planned just send her  to  a  college,  where  she  could get profession of an animal  technician.  Russell  just  wanted  to  be  a police officer  or  a  fire  fighter, which didn't require a lot of money  for education. These are typical professions of lower middle class.
             Ken  placed  my camels together with his and I was happy, that  they  were not chased out from a herd. In his backyard Ken  was  building  his  new  wagon  for  driving  it by two camels,   it  was  much  better  designed,  than  his  first carriage.  Every  vacation  he  spent  in  outback,  driving camels with his family or brother, Peter.
             Ken's calmness and self-assurance impressed me. 
          His  bulky,  but  strong  figure  was  crowned  by  a round, bearded  head and he never raised his voice. Ken spoke, when it was absolutely necessary and always with a smile.
             Lorraine  was  busy with a permanent refurbishment of her beloved  home,  never  asking  Ken to participate in it. Her domain  was inside and his outside of the house. She was the second  housewife  of  all that I met during my travel who suggested washing my clothing.
             Before  going to bed, I asked Kylie to check my E-mail on her  computer,  and  found  again,  that nobody wanted me. I especially  was  waiting for a letter from my girl friend in St.-  Petersburg, who promised to wait for my return. It was obvious,  that  Xena  found a new boy friend, her body could not survive without man's body inside her.
             Ron  De  Bouter  came  the  early morning to direct me to bypass  for  his  place  in Loomberah, in southeast side of Tamworth.  It was very nice road and Vanya gave me ride down it,  but  on  the  way  I  felt,  that a saddle was pounding against  his body. Only this time I found, why my poor Vanya was  fighting  against  my riding. Ron also assured me, that it was the main reason of my failure with riding my camel.
             After  just  four hours on the road, I climbed up hill to a  log cabin, where Ron nurtured his bachelorhood. His house was  surrounded  by  five acres of grazing field, secured by barbed  wire  with  electric  wire  at  the top, which could prevent my camels from escape.
             Ron  used  to  live  in  Tamworth,  but  a  few years ago decided   to   move  in  this  area  of  rolling  hills  and farmfields,  with not so many neighbours around. He built his house  of  own  architecture  without anybody's help, by own hands,  with  a  big  living room, three small bedrooms, and bathroom.  When  I  came,  Ron was in a process of finishing veranda  and  planting  native trees around. He placed me in one  of his bedrooms with no heating, but with good electric blankets.  He  decided  to  keep  me  until  finishing  with training  my  camels  and  fixing their gears. I was free to eat,  whatever  I find in his kitchen and rest as much, as I liked  with  unlimited  supply of the Reader's Digest issues to read.
             My  host  was  a  bachelor since his wife left him with a salesman  a few years ago. His two daughters and son all got profession  of  nurses and moved to Sydney, but Ron rejected his  ex-wife  approaches to restore their family and decided to  live  by himself. He left his parents' house well before graduation  of high school and for many years was working as a sheepshearer, stockman, and finally, as a truck driver.
             Two  months  ago,  Ron  was  injured while working on his truck  and  since  then he was on the sick leave, having his full  wage,  but  working  just two days a week. This is the advantage  to  be  the  union's  member.  Once a week he was visiting  a  doctor's  office  to get his physical exercises and  already  fell in love with his nurse, twenty-five years younger.  It  was Ron's style of life felling in love with young women, and they responded to his charm. His last love was  so  impressed  and  disappointed  with Ron's love that escaped him  going  to  New Zealand. This did not surprise me after reading his poetry dedicated to:
                The Angel
          My dream of you as you came out of the night Was one of shear beauty.
          One that only the sun and moon could create.  The vision of old broken bones looking at The desert with her seductive shapes and curves.  Hearing the tenderness of running water, As it breaks a new spring.
          Seeing growth of a new born seed
          As it sprouts its power of love to the virgin earth.  As a eagle flies overhead in the pale blue sky The power of love is warmed through its heart.  The golden rays of little arrows come piercing These old bones with every thought of you.  Oh Mother of feelings, look after this child of life, As this child of passion is beauty itself.
          It is a love I can only dream of,
          As I look around me.
          It is also a love that must never be destroyed.
          So my dreams of you can only remain dreams.  As you are a goddess of life and beauty and should Never be redeemed to the cruelty of this world.  So my little drop of dew, keep shining in the Rays of love from mother Sun.
          And glow in the darkness of the silver-moon And in this way I can keep dreaming of you.
         
             I  was  impressed  by cruelty and sincerity of this poem, and  asked  Ron,  what  is  "the  vision of old broken bones looking  at  the desert...," and he said, that it is his own bones.  Also,  I  asked,   whether  he ever wrote any poetry before,  and  he assured that it was his first and last poem in  his  life. I was not sure, that it was his last love and last  poem.  Ron  belongs  to  everlasting breed of men, who always  be in love. I dug out one more poem and am not sure, whether  it was dedicated to the same woman, or that time he was in love with another one:
         
                Love of a Angel
          She called around a second time the angel of the night.  And I loved her just as much as the first time I caught sight the beauty of her movements so graceful and so light.
          She moves around so quietly, my angel of the night
          Her hair it flows so softly, and her eyes light up
          so bright
          God knows how much I love her,
          He also knows whats right.
          I look up at the heavens, at Venus that shines so bright.  I look out at the oceans and the mountains that  stand so high.
          I see green fields and valleys and flowers in the light I'll always be there for you, my angel of the night.
             It  was  obvious, that Ron was not good with spelling and using  articles (a Angel), but I also don't know, how to use them.  I  just  asked  him, why he named his poem: Love of a Angel,  which  mends  that an Angel was in love. It  would be proper  to  name it: Love to an Angel, but Ron didn't buy my polite correction.
             He  was  in  love  not only with women, but also with all living  things  around.  When  I  came  out to his porch, he warned  me  to  be careful not disturbing a spiderweb, which was  constructed  between  two  poles,  and a fat spider was hiding  in  its  corner. Ron considered him as a friend, who protects a house from flies and mosquitoes.
             Outside  of  his kitchen's windows lived three toads, who used  to  come  every  night  for feeding on moths and flies bumping  in  the windows, three geckos lived inside and also helped to chase insects off.
             Ron  also  was  an  ardent bird-watcher and every morning was  filling  his aviary with fresh seeds to attract noisy kookaburras,  parrots,  cockatoos, and varieties of magpies.  Binoculars  in  hands,  he  was  sitting  at his veranda and watching  his  colourful  friends.  But Ron especially missed his  she-friend,  Basil,  a red fox that he raised from a pup to  a grown-up mother of her own pups. That time he lived in Tamworth  and  Basil  lived  in a backyard together with his two  dogs.  By  nights,  she  used  to  go  for  hunting and socialising   with  her  wild  mates  in  a  bush.  Ron  was especially  touched,  when  she  brought to kitchen her five pups  and  let  him  to  take  care  of  them, while hunting outside.
             He   thought,   that   Basil  would  be  better off  after
          relocation  to  Loomberah,  with a lot of wilderness and not
          so  many  people  and dogs around. But he forgot about a big
          chicken  factory  just  half-mile from his property. For its
          owner  red foxes were the main enemy, because if they manage
          to   come   in  a  pen,  thousands  of  chicken  could  kill
          themselves  being panicked. To keep red foxes off, employees
          throw  around  chicken  factory  poisonous bait. Perhaps,
          Her wild mates about this danger did not warn Basil
          and perished soon.
             Ron  was  so  touched by death of his friend, Basil, that
          he  wrote  a short story named: "On the Death Row." Again, I
          was   surprised   by  such  a  savage  expression,  but  Ron
          explained  that  red  foxes considered by people as a menace to  their  domesticated  animals.  They are chased around by any  means,  and  life  of his animal friend was doomed from the beginning.
             I  paid  attention,  that  Ron's family name, De Bouter, sounded  very  much  nobly,  but  he  didn't  care about it, having  no  intention  to  search  his pedigree. His parents came  to  this  country  from  Denmark  after  World War II, bringing  with  them household with furniture, china, books, and  musical  instruments.  Both,  mother  and father, spoke five  languages  and  played  five  musical instruments. Ron speaks  just  English,  doesn't  play  any  instruments, and likes  just  country  music.  His library consists in a main part  from  books about Australia, wild life, and camels. On the  top  of  his  bookcase  I noticed the trophy, which Ron with   she-camel  Abeer,  won  in  1995  at  camel  race  in Collarenabry, western New South Walles.
             Ron  likes  wilderness  and  hates  computers, believing, that  computer  virus  infected  brains of his poor brother, who  instead  of working, stays home and day after day plays video  games,  or  chats politics with a similar lunatics on Internet.  His  career  of  an  accountant was ruined by his dependence  on  government's welfare checks, which lured him in useless, idle style of life.
             Being  on  a  sick  leave,  Ron  was  busy every day with finishing  veranda  of  his  house,  making  saddles for his camels,  fixing a fence around paddock, and now working with my  gears.  Ron  was a real handyman, when he was welding my saddle's  frame,  fixed its pads, stuffing them with coconut fibber,  or  made  a  new leather straps for my bags. He also didn't  allow  me  to  cook any food and his dishes were the real products of gourmet art.
             Ron's  neighbour,  Paul,  was also a truck driver and once he  invited us for a barbecue party. He was proud driving B-double,  made  in  the  U.S.A.,  truck,  in  which  he could transport  600  sheep,  or 72 cattle. Two other friends were also  truck  drivers and, with a bottle of beer in hand, all the  evening  they discussed a trucking business. It was not easy  life-style, driving around this enormous country. They noticed  my caravan many times along the road and warned not walking  from Tamworth by a north-bound New England Highway, especially  across  Mount  Bullimballa  Range,  with a sharp turns  and narrow shoulders. Ron already considered driving my camels through there in his horse trailer.
             With  his broken leg, Ron could not help me with breaking Xena  for  riding  and we waited for Ken to come. Finally he pulled  over  to our front yard, greeted by Ron's sheep dog, Kelp.  I  already  warned Ken about Xena's tricks of rolling over  with a rider on her back. She was not original or tamer  since  Muswellbrook rides, but Ken was ready for this, and  she  didn't  hurt  him.  After couple more attempts, he pronounced  the  verdict,  that Xena is the trickiest cow, he  ever  had a deal with. I was proud of my unique she-mate with  such  an  independent  character, I had no choice, but proceed further with her.
             For  a  few  days  of  staying  on  Ron's  property, Xena
          learned  even  more sophisticated trick of sneaking over his
          electric   fence.  When  it  happened  the  first  time,  we
          presumed   that   by   some   chance  the  electric  circuit
          malfunctioned  and  repaired  a  broken  insulator. The next night  Ron  got a telephone call from his neighbours that two camels  are  wandering  along  the  road.  We  run  out with torches  and  found on the road a few cars, whose passengers were  amusing  themselves  with  watching  my  mates grazing along  the  road.  Ron  was  very  upset  by concern about a possibility   of  traffic accident, inflicted by camels with no  insurance.  Apparently,  Xena managed to make a shortcut across  the  fence  by  making  a short circuit. She was the beast.
             Finally,  we  were invited to visit a Peter's farm, which was  just  a  mile  from  Ron's  place. He was raising camels  to  participate in the most prestigious in Australia the  Alice  Springs  Camel  Race.  Matching  with  a family-oriented  brother,  Ken, he was a "bete noir" of the family, never   being  married  and  changing  his  girl friends  as working  gloves  in  his  occupation  of an electrician. But with  years,  Peter  was getting less seductive and more squatty.  When  we  came,  he  was on the way of meeting the girlfriend,  whom  I  met with him in Picton. In a meantime, he was busy with digging fundament of his new house.
             Peter  was  happy to show his best bull, Chamberlain, who was  the  father  of  three calves in a herd of 17 camels. I was  flattered by the size and might of this wild beast, who was  kept  in a separate paddock, because he could very easy kill  any  younger camel bull. At least, I would never allow him  approach to Vanya. In her book "Tracks," Robin Davidson described  her  fear  of  meeting with wild males in a heat, when  she  was  crossing Australian desert with four camels.  She  barely  survived  their attack on her camels. But there are  no  wild  camels   in  this  area  and  my Vanya is the mightiest camel on the road.
         
          URALLA
         
             Ron  completely  equipped  my expedition and decided with Ken  to  drive me with camels across the most dangerous part of  the  road  between  Tamworth  and  Bendemeer. Instead of horse  trailer,  they  loaded  camels  on Ken's truck, where Xena  right  away  kneeled herself on the floor, but foolish Vanya  decided  to  stand. It was a very picturesque road to ride  by  car,  but  definitely, not good at all for walking with  camels.  By  its  dangerous  conditions, this road was similar   to  10  miles  of  a  serpentine  causeway  across Kindarun  Mountain  on  Wollemy  National Park, which I also crossed with camels in a horse trailer.
             My  two  mates  unloaded us at show grounds of Bendemeer, and  after  short  farewell  vent  buck  to  their  "City of Light,"  as  Tamworth  is  referred because it had the first electric  street  lightning  system  in Australia. This town has  also  its  history  in  folklore,  and when I asked the origin  of  the  town's  name,  grounds  keeper  told me its humorous  version. In last century Queensland banana growers managed  to  produce  only straight-shaped bananas. On their way  to  Sydney market, farmers used to stop at this bend of the  road,  saying:  "Bend  `em'  `ere',  and  after bending bananas, proceeded farther.
             Bendemeer   happened   to  be  the  most  saved  by  time Australian  town,  with  an  old  style post office, butcher shop,  bakery,  two pubs, and grocery store. The postmaster recommended  talking  about  history  of this town with her father-in-law,  Peter  Dixon. With his wife, Faith, he lives close  to  the  post  office, and I paid them a visit after finding a good paddock for my camels.
             Peter  was  a  Pommy, descendant of English settlers, who came  in  this region in last century. His ancestors built Town of Bendemeer, and many Peter's neighbours are in distant  relations  with  him.  Faith is his second and very faithful  fife who takes care of fragile Peter. They invited me  for  a dinner, and in a meantime talk about their recent travel  around  Europe  and a few months of life in England.  They  liked  everything  there  but  missed  Australian open skies,  spaces,  and  their  friends.  It  was  also hard to travel  with  Peter's  inability  of taking care himself, he suffers  of  Parkinson's  disease. I was pleased seeing, how Faith  helps  he husband to eat his food and sweeps saliva from  his  rigid face. I have nobody to take care of me, and have  no  right  to be in such a vegetable state of body and mind.
             After  coming  to  my lodging, I was pleased to be a host
          to  family  of  Ballards,  Mark,  Karen, and their children,
          Katherre,  Michelle, and David. Karen brought also a loaf of
          fresh-baked   bread   and   a   homemade   jam.  They  were 
          publishers   of   a   very   glossy   magazine,  "Australian
          Bowhunter,"  two  issues  of  it  they  gave  to me. All the family  was  extremely  talented, especially with drawing of my  camels.  David decided, instead camels, to draw Titanic, going  to  bottom  of  the ocean, and expressed regret, that Titanic  was  not Australian ship, and was not on its way to this  country  to  sink.  All  the best and worst happen in America, David lamented.
             I  already  found, that if you see on the map the name of any  village,  it  doesn't mean that it really exists there.  When  I sighted the sign of Rimbanda, it was no other houses around   but  a  farm  with  a  pretty  name  of  Edenfield.  Approaching  to  the  farmhouse,  I  was  attacked  by a big Doberman,  after  that  his  owner  came  out and called him back.  Janine  Vargas asked me to stay outside of the fence, until  her  husband  comes back from work. I unloaded camels and had no choice but to wait until his return.
             Naturally,  Gaehan  gave  me a permission to pitch a tent
          close  to  his house and even brought me later a big bowl of
          a  vegetable  soup  with  a  meat  pie.  Step  by  step, our
          relations   were  getting  better,  and  in  awhile,  Gaehan
          suggested  me  to  sleep  in  a small guest house, where was
          much  wormier  than  in  my  tent. It was getting colder with
          each   day  of  coming  winter,  besides,  I  was  going  up
          mountains,   and   at   higher  altitude  temperature  drops
          sharply, especially nightly.
             Janine   and  Gaehan  Vargas  were  double-immigrants, because  their  parents  firstly  emigrated  from  Spain  to France.  But they never felt comfortable and at home in that country  of  prejudice.  Only  after  coming  to  Australia, Vargas  found their place at the earth. He was working as an independent  contractor  and  Janine  was  a  housewife. She supplemented  their  income  by  making  a  homemade jelly, "Edenfield"  labelled,  and  sold  it  in  local  stores. She donated me a jar, and it was good!
             The  next  morning  Vanya  was  unruly again, and most of time  I was walking, not riding. At one of my resting stops, I  noticed  a big truck pulling over across the road. On his side  was written: "Camel Rides around Australia." From that truck  came  a man of late 30s and waved to me with a smile.  I  recalled  a  conversation  with Ken that his old friend, Erchard, was planning to stop at his place on the way around Australia.  Erchard's  business  was giving rides to children  in small towns along the way. Apparently, Ken told him  about my expedition and Erchard decided to chat with me and give some advises.
             I  complained  him about Vanya's misbehaviour, and Erchard checked  gears  and saddle. He found the saddle too long and suggested  to  switch  saddles  with  Xena. He invited me to take  a  look  at his camels in the truck. Erchard travelled with  his  wife and two teenaged sons, and, apparently self-educated  them,  because  it  was no way for them to stay at any  place  for  a  long  time.  I recalled, that my friend, David  Grant,  travelled  around  the  world  with horse and buggy.  His  two  sons travelled with him, and his wife used their  wagon  as  a  classroom. For my knowledge, he already finished his trip and returned to his beloved Scotland.
             Erchard   was   also   a  foreigner,  from  Austria,  but considered  staying in Australia and raising his children on the road.  I  was  impressed  by  the  order in that truck, where,  besides  people,  eight  camels  were  squeezed.  We wished  each  other  a good luck and he departed. I was pity not  having such a family with such camels. It is hard to be a loner.
             Gaehan  Vargas  told me, that a few miles south of Uralla on  the  side  of the Highway I will see a big rock known as "Thunderbolt's   Rock,"   named   after   the  last  of  the bushrangers,  Frederick  Ward.  I  found  that  big  boulder surrounded  by  fence  and  covered  by  graffiti of people, desperate  to  leave  their trace in history, even in behalf of that bushranger.
             Frederick  Ward  was  a  poor  cattle-thief,  named  also Coocato Islander," and, definitely, outlaw. He was active in  the  mid-1860s,  robbing  coaches and stealing cattle of local  farmers.  His  last  crime  happened on the 20th May, 1870,  near  this  rock, when Frederick stuck-up a salesman, taking  10  pound  sterling  from him. Thunderbolt was more than  foolish,  staying in this area after robbery, and soon sheriff  Walker  came  from  Uralla  to  chase  him up. Poor Frederick  left  all  his  ammunition  in a pouch of his own horse,  while riding a stolen horse, which got knocked up at the  edge  of a bog hole. Thunderbolt, watching that sheriff was  getting  close  to him, jumped off horse and decided to cross  over  bog  to other side, but he got stuck in the mud up  to  his  waist.  Sheriff  Walker  came  right  up to the unfortunate  and  helpless man and shot him in the chest and in  the head. This cruel murder attracted sympathies of many people  to  hapless  Thunderbolt.  With  passing  years, his image  was  transformed  from  a  petty criminal to romantic figure  of  local  Robin  Hood.  Captain  Thunderbolt  was a lonely  person,  apparently, biographers invented for him a half-Aboriginal  female  partner. William Monckton named the girl   as  Sunday, but Jack Bradshaw, however, gave her name as  Yellow  Long.  In  his  book,  "The  True History of the Australian  Bushrangers,"  he  wrote: "Thunderbolt continued on  his  journey  towards New England. He met a companion on the  way  who  was sympathetic with him in all his troubles, watched  for  him,  shared  his  miseries,  and  proved  his faithful  friend until death. This was poor Yellow Long (not Sunday,  as  Monckton  calls  her).  No bushranger that ever lived had a mate so serviceable or more devoted."
             I  was coming to Uralla, the homeland and burial place of Captain  Thunderbolt  and  very  soon I found, that to me he was  dangerous  even  being  dead. Marlon Dalton, from local Prime  TV,  decided  to  make  a few snapshots of my camels, when  we  were  approaching  to   bronze monument of Captain Thunderbolt  riding  his horse. As soon as my camels noticed that  monument,  they  got  berserk  and  run away. I barely managed  to  keep  them  off traffic at the main road of the town and swore that bloody Thunderbolt.
             At  Uralla showground, facility officer, Max Schultz, was happy  to accommodate me and to show his beautiful town. Max gave  me  ride  to that old courthouse, where a dead body of Captain  Thunderbolt was brought. After that we stopped near his  grave,  the  main  tourist  attraction of the town. His dead  body  and  legends  about him are the biggest asset of  Uralla.  Max  quoted a few lines of poem about this romantic figure of Australian life:
          There's legend in New England
          Thunderbolt has newer died
          Still he hunts the Monbi Ranges
          And the lovely country side
          Folk declare, that
          They have seen him,
          When the moon is on the wane
          Riding like a flash of lighting
          To Uralla once again.
ARMIDALE
         
             All  the  night I was disturbed by some mysterious noise, and  even thought that Captain Thunderbolt decided to pay me a  visit. But when I was drinking my first cup of coffee, my neighbour  came  out to greet me, it happened to be a possum, who was living in attic of office building.
             Maria  Schultz,  wife  of Max, brought me a breakfast and wished  a good luck on the way around Australia. Definitely, without  such  a  people  I  would never go very far down my road.  In  appreciation,  I gave a ride to her four sons and Vanya  didn't mind to do it, especially after receiving from them a lot of apples.
             Max   made  a  call  to  his  friends  on  showground  in Armidale,  and  they  agreed  to  accommodate me there for a night.  I  was  surprised  by  quantity  of  museums in that University  City, as Armidale is called, because of location there  of  the  University  of  New  England.  After passing Military  Museum,  I  noticed  an  Art Gallery and Museum of Aborigines  Art,  both brand new, with not so many visitors.  It  was  a long way around outskirts of the city, and it was hard  with  camels  to  enjoy  peacefully  the beauty of the Cathedrals  of  St. Peter and St. Mary. Camels wanted to eat and didn't care very much about Armidale's architecture.
             Unfortunately,  when  I  came  to  showground,  it was no grazing  field there at all, but racetrack with just patches of  grass.  I  had  to  put  my  camels in a cattle paddock, because   horses  around  were  very  nervous,  sighting  my beasts.  But  it is impossible to have everything wrong, the good  materialised  in  a shape of Waugh family, who came to showground  to  participate  in  the  1  May  parade.  Their patriarch,  Colin Waugh, approached to me, puffing his pipe.  He  was  the  first  pipe  smoker  I  have  ever seen in the countryside.  Definitely,  he shared his tobacco with me and called  his son, Tim, to chat with me. As soon as they find, that  I  was  out  of food for camels, Tim brought a sack of grain, which they brought to feed own horses.
             Family  of  Waugh  raise  cattle  and grow wheat at their
          26,000  acres  of  Bollaranga  station  in  southern part of
          Queensland.  Neither  Colin,  nor his son Tim, knew how many
          cattle  they  have,  somewhere about 4,000. Colin complained
          that  he  is  paid  just $1,20 per kilogram of beef, but in
          shops  it  is sold between $8 and $9. I was almost sorry for
          him,  and asked how he managed to survive, Colin smirked and
          said,  that  they  live quite comfortable. He donated me $50
          and  invited  to  stop  at his station, if I happen to be in 
          area of Yelarbon
             More  and more people were coming with horse trailers, to
          participate  in  the  1 May parade, which also was the light
          horse  parade, dedicated to opening of Light Horse Museum in
          Armidale.  Charles  Allen  with Milton Sweedman brought with
          them  an  old  uniform,  which used to wear soldiers of 12th
          and   24th   light  horse  squadrons.  They  were  proud  of
          Australian    military    history    and   participated   in
          re-enactments  of  some  battles of their army. Perhaps, New-Englanders  decided  to  stuff  this town of Armidale with real army stuff.  But  what  I  was  surprised about, is a quantity  of  military  museums  in  this  area. Not only in Armidale,  but  also  in Uralla I found the Military Museum, in  front  of  which  they  installed  an American bomber of World War II times.
             Actually,  this  is  natural,  that  the young Australian nation  needs  to  cherish  own  heroes, and if it could not find  enough,  it  makes  the  heroes  from  the anti-heroic bushrangers:   the  Captain  Thunderbolt,  Ned  Kelly,  Jack Donohoe,  the Whitehead's gang, Ben Hall, Dan Morgan, or the Clarke  brothers. Most of time they were villains, but these men  also  practised  a  courtesy  towards women, flushness, disrespect   towards  authority,  loyalty  to  friends,  and courage.   Historian  John  McQuilton  in  his  notes  about bushrangers:  "To  their  supporters  they became symbols of resistance  and  protest,  and  with  death they passed into legend  and  folklore....Their  existence  suggests not only that   Australian   bushranging   and  its  legends  reflect something  of  the  Australian character, but that our rural settlement  history  was  a more contentious process that is generally  realised."  I  am positive, that the recent death after  police  ambush  of  Rodney  Ansel,  whose  bush  life inspired  the  movie  character  Crocodile Dundee, saved his name in the Pantheon of Bushrangers and Australian heroes.
             Unfortunately,  I  could  not  participate with camels at the  1  May parade, because they would destroy all the human and  horse  order  of  that  celebration.  So,  I decided to bypass  the downtown of Armidale going down Kelly Street and was curious, whether it was named after that bushranger.
             Northern   suburbs   of   Armidale   were   occupied   by
          Aborigines,  for  whom  were  built a Government houses of a
          standard  architecture.  Their  dwellers remained me similar
          black  people  of  New  York's  area  of Harlem or any other
          American  neighbourhood,  occupied  by  blacks. It was only 9
          A.M.,  but  many  people  were  still  or  already drunk and
          dangerously  approached to my camels to pet them, or even to
          ride.   Obviously,   they   were  not  responsible  for  own
          behaviour  and  I warned them, that camels could kick off or
          spit  on them, which I shouldn't say, because Vanya and Xena
          were   very   friendly  creatures.  These  people  were  not
          responsible   for   own   behaviour,  being  under  permanent
          influence  of  drugs or alcohol and reminding me those white mates in shelters of Melbourne or Sydney.
             I  have  a very ambiguous attitude to blacks, considering many  of  them  more  honest  and  openhearted,  than white folks.  My  first  girl friend  in  the  U.S.A. was Dorothy, black  women, who hated whites, calling them, "white foxes", or  "white  louses."  When  I asked, why she was making love with  me  with  me,  Dorothy  used  to  say, that I am not a white,  but  Russian.  Obviously, from intellectual point of view,  black in general are well behind whites and there are not  so  many  the Nobel Prize winners between them. Because their  more  developed right side of brains, responsible for an    imagination    and   musical   skills,   many   blacks distinguished  themselves  in art and, especially, in music.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  their bodies developed better than minds  and  in  this aspect they have advantage over whites.  Not  so  many  whites  could  challenge  blacks  in athletic achievements, as box, football, or basketball.
             But  those  people,  who I met in Armidale, actually were not  Aborigines,  but  the half-caste people, who decided to be  black  because, being like that, they have easier access to  government  handouts,  for free housing, food, and beer.  Actually,   I   was   surrounded   by  bunch  of  half-blood parasites,  which  had  nothing  to do, but eat and drink. The same  time,  they  were  the victims of government policy of communism for Aborigines.
             Since   the   1970s,   government  launched  land  rights regulation,  according to which Aborigines, who can demonstrate a historical link with it, or its sacred importance to them, can claim public land. But there are almost no  the  full  blood  Aborigines  left,  and self-designated indigenous  people  make  claims  for  such  a sacred sites, which  they  have  nothing  common  with. These detribalised people  have  neither  white,  nor  black culture, they also have  no  respect to that sacred sites, which they fill with beer  cans.  But  political  bastards make careers on sacred feelings of real Aborigines.
             After  ten kilometres of the road I met another victim of government  policy.  While  resting  near  a  motel,  I  was invited  by  its  permanent  tenant for a cup of coffee with sandwiches.  Kevin  was not black, but white, bearded man of 54-year-old,  already  retired  after 30 years in Australian army  service.  His  pension  allowance  was $1,200 a month, which  was  enough  to pay for housing and food. Kevin lived in  a  small  two-room cabin, crowded with basic pieces of furniture  and  household electronic. He didn't need to work and  decided  to  be  idle,  having  nobody  around, but TV-personalities.  I was sorry for this man with no stars in his eyes and no future, dead after 54.
             Farther  down  the  road  I was greeted by two women, who informed  me,  that  I  was  close  to "Captain Thunderbolt" cave where that wicked outlaw used to hide from police. I am  dubious  about his personality, more sorry, than charmed by  his  style  of life. He was not free more than I am now, and  he  had  no  desire or imagination to get out from this region  and  rob  people somewhere in Queensland or Northern Territory.  Perhaps,  he  was  too  dumb  for  making such a movement.
             My  next  stop  was  near farm of Gerald Hicks, who after noticing  me from his house, came over and suggested helping me  by  any means in his disposal. I asked him to bring some hay  to  my  camels  and very soon we all had our food, even more  -  Gerald  phoned  to the Black Mountain Roadhouse and Motel  and negotiated about my staying there. With each step I  was climbing up towards Black Mountain, which slopes were scattered  with big sandstone boulders, weathered in variety of  shapes  and  colours  and  reminding  ruins  of abandoned cities,  where  local  giants  used to live. This region was named  Highlands  of  New England, probably, after Highlands in  Scotland and for generations was populated by immigrants from  that  country.  Near  The  Devil's  Pinch of scattered rocks,  they  even created a Stonehenge Park, replicating to some  extend  the  park  in  England.  Local self-proclaimed Druids  congregate  here  for  worship, but mostly for beer-parties.
             Looking  at  that concrete slabs, making an appearance of
          real  Australian  Stonehenge,  I  recalled  my meetings with
          Brooklyn  Stonehenger  on  banks  of  East River in New York
          City.  Every  weekend, Michael Abelman had been coming to an
          abandoned  pier  to  make  his  sculptures  made from broken
          fragments  of  concrete  and  brick, shaped in a Stonehenge-
          like  circle.  Difference between his private Stonehange and
          that  in  England  was  not  only  in an age but also in the
          ideas.  If English Stonehenge was dedicated to worship gods,
          Brooklyn   one   was  dedicated  to  Michael's  mother,  who
          committed  a  suicide  in  age  of  38.  Each weekend he was
          creating  38  pillar-like  sculptures  and  during  weekdays
          somebody  was  destroying  them. It was Sisyphean-like labour
          of  placing  heavy  rocks  up  a top in two days and finding
          them  again  in  rubbles, vandalised by people, who disliked
          those  sculptures.  That  part  of  Brooklyn was named Green
          Point  and  was  frequented  by Polish immigrants, coming to
          the   river   bank  for  fishing  and  suntanning.  For  his
          perseverance,   Michael   was   called  Sisyphus  of  Polish
          Riviera.
             I  was  curious  about those people, who had such a habit of  destruction  of  quite  gracious sculptures, and finally found  one of them. That man of my age called himself Gydeon and  was  regular  visitor of that bank, because he liked to swim  in  East River. Being Polish extraction, he was living on  government  welfare  and had a lot of leisure time. Once he  admitted  me  that  he  was  destroying  that sculptural Stonehenge  on  a  regular  basis.  On my question of reason doing  that, Gydeon said, that he plays the role of God, who used  to  prevent Sisyphus of finishing his labour. I was not hesitant  by  calling him just a skunk, but it didn't change anything.  For my knowledge, Michael still been creating his Stonehenge  on  the  riverbank across Manhattan, and Gydeon has  been  destroying  them on regular basis. They know each other very well.
             Theo  Span,  the owner of Black Mountain Motel, placed me in  a  separate  room  of  his  motel and suggested to graze camels  in  fenced  paddock,  which used to be a part of old stock  trail.  It was no stock grazing there, but a herd of gray  kangaroo, which jumped out in panic from my beasts. Theo happened  to  be  a  very  friendly  and  free  in  his body language  and  sounds,  in  this aspect Aussies more natural than Americans do.
             Theo  ordered  to his cafe employee to feed me whatever I liked  and  left with his wife, Janet, for good, perhaps, to visit  his relatives. At this height of 1,300 meters above a sea level, people are not very talkative.
             It  was so cold outside and warm inside of roadhouse, the place  of  rest  and hospitality for anybody, but especially for  truck  drivers.  Eating  my  fish and chips, I asked my next-table  neighbour,  how  much  he makes in a day, driving his  truck.  He said, that a company pays him 25,7 cents per kilometre,  and  he  drives  daily about 1,000 kilometres. I found  it  not  so  bad, but I make just 20 kilometres a day and  nobody pays me per kilometres. The same time, I have an advantage of free lodging and food in this restaurant.
             I  also  met a couple, Rob and Pat Forbes, from next town of  Guyra,  who  were proud of living in the highest town of this  state,  1,320  meters.  In  Banbai Aboriginal language Guyra  stands  for,  "where fish can be  caught," but not so many Aborigines left in this area of tablelands to fish.
             The  gas  station attendant was a man of 30s, whose right hand  was  partially  paralysed,  but  with help of his left hand,  Brian  masterminded  the  art  of  calligraphy.  In a course  of  our  discussion,  we  reached an agreement, that stupid  people  are  happier, than those smart-pants. In logbook   Brian   calligraphically   inserted:  "WELCOME  TO BLACKMOUNTAIN  WHERE  STUPIDITY  DEFINITELY  HELPS, KNOWN TO MOST TRUCK DRIVERS AS THE COLDEST PLACE IN AUSTRALIA."
             The  next  morning I met Theo to drink cup of coffee with cake  before  departure, and he also made a short comment in a  diary:  "As  they  say  in  Guyra,  `will ye no come back again?'"  Perhaps,  I  will  visit these bushmen to give the book, which I now writing.
             Guyra  looked  like  abandoned town with no people on the street  and  many  shops closed, as I found later, people of this  town  were left with no income after closing of a meat processing  plant.  Younger  folks  left for better place to find  job,  but elder generations stayed here, idling. Forbs couple  lived  in centre of the town and were happy to serve me  cup  of  coffee with huge amount of very rich cake. They both  were  very  much overweight and I was sorry, that they don't  pay  attention on their biggest foe, everyday's food.  Rob  worked  as  a fireman and proud of his secure and well-paid  job,  but  his  wife  had nothing to do, spending her time  with  watching  TV  and  eating.  They  were people of exceptional  hospitality  and  even  suggested  placing my camels  for  overnight  in their backyard, but I had to make this  day at least 10 kilometres more. Rob phoned to village of  Llangothlin  and  made  an  arrangement of my staying in household of a craft shop owner.
         
          SHEEPSHEARER
         
             Sometimes,  Vanya  could be very generous, giving me ride with   no   objections,   as  it  happened  on  the  way  to Llangothlin.  I  was amused by two L in this word, recalling just  one  more word with two L: llama, I used to meet these stupid animals in America.
             My  perspective  host in the village was a bit overweight woman  of  early  50s, who didn't know, where accommodate my camels.  To  assure  her  in safety and good behaviour of my mates,  I  decided to give her ride. It was foolish of me to do  it  with  Xena.  Barely  that  woman mounted Xena, as my shameful  camel  rolled  over  her  left side, squeezing the woman's  foot  between saddle's frame and ground. Poor woman screamed  of  pain,  but  could  not release herself until I whipped  Xena  in haste. Woman waked up and managed to walk, which  a  bit  relieved  my  concern  about  her conditions.  Besides,  I  was  very  concern that she could make a claim about my camel to police, and also call to emergency service.  I  had no insurance coverage to pay for any damage done  by  camels  to anybody. But the woman was not hurt too much  and  limped  to her shop. Good Lord, I was very sorry, but what else I could do?
             During  this  turmoil,  small  truck  pulled over, packed with  children, who wanted to ride also. I was hesitant, but finally  gave  them  ride  on  Vanya's  back.  Their father, James,  decided  to  invite me for overnight to his home and found  a  very  good  grazing field close to the shed with a fire  fighters  equipment.  James was voluntary fire fighter and in charge of that shed.
             With  their  three  children, James and Oudett lived in a small  house with three bedrooms, but they moved children to one  room,  just  to place me in another one, which was very touchy.  James  occupation  was  a  sheep  shearer, the most known,  typical  Australian  profession,  and I were eager to find out about it as much as possible.
             James  was  not  a  good student in the school, where his mother  was  a  clerk,  and  not  graduating  a high school, decided  to  work  as  a stockman and sheepshearer. His more educated  mother sent James overseas, to Europe, for opening his  mind  for  new horizons  and  for wakening in him a desire  of  more knowledge. James spent his summer vacations wandering  not  around museums or theatres of Paris, London, or  other big cities of Old Continent, but working part-time as  a farmhand at variety of farms and making some money. He had  no  desire  to  stay in Europe more than six months and returned bask to Down Under for raising cattle.
             James  found,  that  it was easier to make money, killing animals,  than  raising them, when he was hired to work on a meat-processing  plant.  It  was a good, well paid, secure, five-days-week  job,  with  a guaranteed paycheck of $500 a week.  He  met  there  Oudette,  married  her,  and soon she delivered  him  first  child.  They  life turned upside down after  closing  their  obituary  by  that  sinister American company,  which  closed  all similar plants around and moved all  cattle-processing  business  in  Queensland  because of lover taxes there.
             James  was one of more than hundred people, who were laid off  and  had no perspective to find any job in this region.  Fortunately,  he saved those sheepshearing tools, which were given  to  him  by  father.  It  was  hard  to start such an arduous  work after that relatively easy job at the factory, but  he  had  to  support  a family. At the beginning, James used  to  shear  just  50-60 sheep in eight hours, but being young  and  strong, he soon had been shearing 130-150 sheep, and  even  up  to  200  in eight hours. For each sheep he is paid  $1,62  and,  as  I presume, by the Union regulations, could not work longer, than 8 hours a day.
             James   demonstrated   me   his   piece-of-art   electric scissors,  made  in  Sweden.  But  what I was more surprised about,  it  was  finding  that a sheepshearer doesn't hang a sheep  on  any  kind  of  suspended  rope,  but   himself is suspended  on  a  spring,  attached  to his belt. It is hard work  to hang resisting, 100-pound-weight sheep and shear it with  no  omissions  or skin cuts. Farmers never forget  any mistake in a shearer's work.
             James  family  surrounded  me with so much of hospitality and  generosity,  that  I  will  never  forget  it. Cloe and Brandon  made  very  dynamic  drawings  of my camels, Oudett prepared  fantastic dinner, and James took care of my camels and  bringing  them grains from his neighbour. It was no book to  read  in  this  home,  when I vent to bed, but it was so comfortable to sleep in it.
             James  phoned  his  mother,  Hazel,  in  Tenterfield  and negotiated  with her about my staying there. She promised to meet  me on outskirts of that town, but it was a long way to there.   I  decided  to bypass New England Highway and go to Glencoe  through  village  of  Ben Lomond. While I was going down  main  road  there,  a retired stockman came out of his house  and  suggested  to share a cup of coffee with him and his  wife.  In the course of our conversation, he complained about  acute pain because of his chronicle arthritis. I knew for  sure  a  remedy  against arthritis - just four weeks of fasting  and  he  could start running around with no pain. I knew  about  it,  because I have been practising fasting for many  years  and yearly I fast for forty days. I don't know, whether  I persuaded him or not, most of people would rather suffer forever, than live without food just for a months.
             My  host  asked  me  to visit a primary school, where his grandson  was  a student. It was a bit off my course, but I always  happy  to  meet  with  young  people  and  share  my experience  travelling  around  the world. About 20 students came  out  of  schoolhouse  to look at my mates and ask some questions.   I   am  not  surprised  any  more,  that  young Australians  don't  ask any questions about Russia, for them it  almost  doesn't exist, or at lest, less known than Japan or  Indonesia.  Poor  Russia,  it  is sinking in oblivion as Atlantis.
             It  was  long  and  beautiful  road  from  Ben  Lomond to Glencoe,  with many stops and conversations with farmers and passers-by.  Farmers  took  care  of  their  stock not riding horses,  but  four-wheeled  motorbikes.  As  matter of fact, bushland's  beauty  is  very  hidden  and it takes a time to immerse  yourself  in  its  stillness.  But these tablelands were  vibrant  with  colours  and  sounds  of  wilderness and cultivated  fertility  of life. I was passing herds of sheep peacefully  grazing  on  slopes of hills, cattle was looking at  my  camels  and  following us along the fence, kangaroos were  jumping  across  the  road  and  staring  at us from a forest.  This was the land to live without so many neighbours around,  but I knew, that with this new government policy of almost  unlimited  immigration,  this  unpopulated  land  of animal   diversity   will   be  changed  into  the  land  of Multicultural Diversity.
             The  main  attraction  of  Glencoe  was  Red Lion Tavern, which  was  built  from  redbrick,  in  style of old English Inns,  with  two  fireplaces  and  two separate entrances. I approached  there,  when  schoolbus  brought  children home.  Many  of  them wanted to ride my camels, but I refused to do it  without  parents  around.  Exception  I  made just for a partially  paralysed  boy,  who  was staying separately from those  happily  healthy  kids. In some way, I felt something common  between us, both were pariahs between normal people.  He  was  so  happy, being chosen just one from that crowd to ride  my  camel and look at his schoolmates from the top. He didn't  know  that  his  disadvantage gave him advantage, at least in my eyes.
             Second  exception  was  made for a woman in late 30s, who had  no parents around to get their permission for ride, but she  had  her  own  grown  up  children around, who gave her permission  to do it. Something intriguing was in her boyish appearance  and  I  decided  to  speak with her later, after establishing myself on those surroundings.
             I  have  got  permission  to  pitch my tent close to that tavern  and  place  my camels in its backyard with burned by first  frost  grass,  it  was not so much of stuff to graze on.  While  I  was putting my stuff inside tent, young woman approached  me  and asked, whether I was serious sleeping in a  tent, when night temperature will be well bellow freezing point.  After  finding,  that  I  was deadly serious with my plans,  she  brought  me  knitted  from  wool  a ski cap. It happened to be very useful.
             After   sunset  temperature  dropped  very  fast,  and  I decided  to  come  inside  tavern,  even  having no funds to support  my  drinking  habits.  But  it  was  homey and worm there,  and  fireplace was filled with huge logs of firewood of  exotic  to  me  a  gum trees. Barman was a young man of 20s,  who  knowing about my arrival served me schooner of VB beer,  free of charge. Brett Navmann was a Corporal of Royal Australian  Air  Force,  being  on  vacations, he decided to help  his  relatives  with  attending clients. It was a busy night,  because  for  5  P.M.  it was scheduled a meeting of Rotary  Club.  I  used  to visit such meetings in Russia and the  U.S.A., and even was invited for a meeting of this club in Melbourne.
             About  forty  men  and  women congregated in two halls of tavern,  and  after  singing hymn of Rotarians, accommodated themselves  around dinning tables. Current Club's President, John  Tregurtha,  introduced  guests  of the Club, including me.  As matter of fact, after President's introduction, some of  club  members  give  a  long  speech about new laws and business  regulations,  but at this branch it was different.  After  discussing  some  financial  matters  and  collecting charities,  John  announced  about  tonight  concert of "The Ceilidh  Singer," Colin Douglas. Colin came from Springfield for  a  weeklong celebration of Gaelic culture and history.  As  I  found later, next-door town of Glen Innes, was chosen as the Centre of Australian Celtic Heritage.
             Colin  Douglas  was  a  very  imposing  man with artistic hairdo  and  evening  dress,  long  gray  hair  covered  his shoulders.   He   was   singing   Gaelic   songs   under  an accompaniment  of  encrusted by mother-of-pearl guitar. Many of  audience  were  definitely  of  Gaelic  origin, but they hardly  understood  most  of  ancient words, which Colin used  in  singing  of  old Scottish ballads. But it was much more  enthusiasm  and  appreciation, when he sung the famous Waltzing  Matilda.  As  I  mentioned earlier, Banjo Paterson dedicated  this poem to a desperate swagman, who committed a suicide  being caught by a squatter for stealing a sheep. In Collin's  version,  the  swagman was substituted by Scottish soldier,  who  after  loosing  his legs in one of battles of World  War  I,  immigrated  to  Australia and was unable for "Waltzing" with a beautiful "Matilda."
             It  was  a  very touching song, after which I went to bar and  made  order  of  VB  schooner. That woman, who I gave a camel  ride before, approached to me and decided to tell her also  tragic  story.  Diana  was  a teacher of local primary school  and  lived  with  her  husband  and  two children in Glencoe.  She was married her husband by her parents because of  his  parents' money and influence in squatter community.  She  sacrificed  her  private  life  in behalf of family and children,  but  for  last  14  years  couple was sleeping in separate  bedrooms,  and  it  was no way to restore love and sexual  drive  between  them. She even hated him, but had no choice  but  to  live under the same roof. The village mores were  very  strict  and  rumours  even  more  contagious  and widespreading.  She dedicated her life to children, but they already  grown-up  and  planning  to live in a big city. Now she  had  a feeling of wasting her life with no perspectives for any future.
             I  was listening to her, knowing that she decided to tell her  life-story  to  a  stranger and to discharge herself. I could  not  help  her by any means, but noticed her husband, sitting  on  opposite  side  of  a  pub. Perhaps, he had own version  of  this  story,  and  not  less tragic, than hers.  There  are  no complete villains or saints in our real life.  They  both  were  responsible for a mishap of their life. As famous  villain, Ned Kelly said before his hanging, "Such is Life."

TUG-OF-WAR
         
             My  tent  was covered by ice crust, when I came out early morning.  The  worst feeling was coming out of warm sleeping bag  and  finding  yourself  under influence of elements. My new  woollen ski cap kept my head warm, but my numb palms had no  protection  of  gloves, flying to Australia, I could not imagine  finding  myself  in  such  weather  conditions. My camels  were  in  much better conditions, but hungry because that old grasses in backyard had no nutrition quality.
             Lyn,  the  owner of Red Lion Tavern, called me inside and made  a  good  breakfast with fried sausages and coffee. She even  apologised  not  placing me inside of her hotel, which was  completely  booked  up.  It  didn't  matter  very  much because  I  had  to used for low temperatures, anyhow. Vanya gave  me  just  two  kilometres  of  ride, but I decided not fighting  with  him  for  awhile  and  warm  up  myself with walking.  On  the  way  I was stopped two times by passer-by, who  donated  me  some money, sandwiches and fruits, which I sheared with camels.
             Close  to the town, Denis Chellingsworth,  editor of Glen Innes  Examiner,  took  interview  from  me  and promised to contact  with  a showground committee about my accommodation there.  The  main  task  of  my  staying there was to find a veterinarian  for taking a blood test of my animals. By last Government  regulations,  each animal crossing the border of Queensland  supposed to be tested for an infectious disease.  Test's  evaluation  takes about a week to process, and I was planning  to  cross  the  border  in  about  this time. John Tregurtha,   the  President  of  Rotary  Club,  promised  me contacts  with  a  veterinarian  and  asks  him  to  come over Showground for a blood test.
             Rob,  the  Showground  keeper, not only placed me in more or  less  warm  building, but also surrounded a grazing field for  camels  with a temporary electric fence. After setting up, I decided  to  write  a  letter  to  my girlfriend Xena, whose birthday  was  exactly  this  fifth day of May. It will take about two-week  to  reach  St. - Petersburg, but it didn't matter  as soon as she was faithfully waiting for me as that Odysseys'  wife, Penelope. Only on the way to post office, I realised,  that  for  two months I didn't send any letter to my  dear  mother, so, I returned to my place and wrote her a short  note  about  my  well-being. Shame on me, I have been sending  letter  to  Xena  twice  a  month,  even  having no response  from her, but mother had nobody but me to send her letters.  Xena  had an access to E-mail, but I never got any letter  from  her  since  my departure from Picton. I didn't know  yet,  that she was planning to set off for Belgium and had no time for me.
             With  my  logbook, I arrived to City Hall for placing its seal  in the diary and meeting with Mayor, Robert Dwyer J.P.  Just  less  a  week  ago,  he was the Grand Master of Celtic parade  on  the  streets  of  Glen  Innes  and was wearing a Scottish  kilt. The 42nd Highland Regiment (Black Watch) re-enactment  troop  officially  presented  its  colours  to the Mayor.  Now Robert was wearing his regular business suit and greeting  me  in  lobby  of his office. While discussing his appearance   in   that  outfit,  I  didn't  found  him  very enthusiastic  to  evaluate  the  topic of Celtic heritage of his  town-folks. I thought, that such a celebration by white men   their   cultural   heritage  could  be  offensive  for proponents  of the multicultural society, for whom the fair-go  European  tradition  is  an  obstacle.  Thanks God, they don't abolish yet English language in behalf of Esperanto.
             Robert  offered as a gift his fountain pen, but I already had  one  and  refused to take it. I headed for a bottleshop to  buy  some  Port  and celebrate my girlfriend's birthday.  Walking  down  wide  and  well-made streets of Glen Innes, I found  that it was a good idea to make this town the capitol of  Celtic  Heritage.  Its  founder,  Major  Archibald Clune Innes,  contributed  a  lot  for attraction to these district Scottish settlers,  he  also  bestowed Scots' names to many settlements  around.  I  always  believed  that  capitol  of Scotland,  Edinburgh,  the  most beautiful city in the world (not  only because I was in love there with Jean York). Glen Innes   was  the  second  most  beautiful  Scottish  capitol because  I  was  in  love  with  two Xenas - my mate, and my girlfriend.
             I  made  good bonfire close to my dwelling, opened bottle of  Port and filled my billy with that bloody liquid. It was 7  P.M.  by  local  time,  in  St.  - Petersburg it was just midday. Happy birthday, Xena! I missed you very much.
             In  blinking  light  of  bonfire  I  sighted  two ghostly shadows  going  down  the  road  to exit from Showground. Oh gosh,  it  was  my  mates,  who  broke  electric  fence and decided  to  find some grass on streets of Celtic capitol! I had  no  choice,  but catch them and place in a paddock with no grass, but a brown board fence enclosed it.
             On  the  way back home, I sighted a group of men, pulling a  rope,  which  other end was going over a wheel on the top of  crossbar  and  down  the ground. A heavy concrete weight was  hanging  on  it. Those three men were pulling that rope under  command  of  the forth one. He was calling: one, two, three  and  pull;  one, two, three and pull; etc. Fascinated by  such  a  strange  performance,  I approached to them and asked  -  what's  hell  going  on. The instructor explained, that  three  times in  a week the men's team of a tug-of-war contest  has been coming here for two hours of practice. In 1969  Australian  Association of Tug-of-war was founded, and since  then  many local associations were founded. Each year they  participate  in tug-of-war contests between Shires for a  prize  to  go  for  a State championship. Those champions contest   with   champions  of  other  States  for  an  all-Australian  grand  final.  Last year, Glenn Innes team won a second place at a State championship.
             A  team  could  be  made  from 3, 6, or 9 people of total weight  of  520,  560, and more kilograms. The highest weight of  men's  team is 720 kilogram, higher weight team is named the  Open,  with  no  weight  limits.  Each member of a team supposed  to  wear a standard Army boots with horseshoe-like taps, no gloves allowed to wear, when competing.
             While  we  were discussing all these regulations, women's team  of tug-of-war came for practice. These housewives came after  making  laundry, or after making a dinner and placing their  children  to bed. My eyes were wide-opened, because I never  expected  to find such kind of sport, and even more - such  kind  of fanatic competitors. In Russia, we compete in a  tug-of-war  only  spontaneously,  and,  especially, after drinking  a  bottle  of vodka. The life expectancy in Russia is very low.
             I  found  camels  the  next  morning outside of that very secure  paddock  and  had  no idea how they managed to sneak out.  The  second  line  of  my  defence  and assurance - an electric  fence,  didn't stop them either. I tied up Xena to the  top  of  railing  and let Vanya to wander free, knowing that  he  will never go very far for his mate, they were too close  to  each  other  for  going long distance alone. Only loners such as me can afford to go as far as they like.
             That morning Ted Laglitt, the principal of a high school invited me,  to  lecture  his students. We met each other  at meeting of Rotary Club in Red Lion Tavern and made this  arrangement.  I  came  to his office with big desk, on top  of  which  were  piles of some documents and books. His wife's  and  children's framed photos were standing in front of  him. Ted had a secure, prestigious job, people respected him,  and  I  had  nothing but my camels. What I could teach his students about?
             They  were staying in a schoolyard, about 150-strong, and I  was  talking  about camels and freedom to be on the road, challenging  yourself  and  elements.  I  was  talking about Russia  and  Australia, about suffering of my people because they  don't  know  how  to live free. I doubt, that too many appreciated,  what I was talking about. Their youthful world was  different  from  mine,  and  we  belonged  not  only to different  countries,  but  also  to different epochs: I was finishing  to  live  in  this millennium and most of my life was  behind,  their  life  was in front of them. They had no questions  to  ask  but gave me a loud ovation by request of their principal. I felt that I failed.
             It  was so great to see finally two veterinarians pulling over  their four-wheel-drive truck in front of my barn. Doug and  Ted  came  over  after  finishing their rounds and were ready  for absolutely new experience of working with camels.  These   two   men   were   in  late  30th,  well  build  and enthusiastic  about  their  occupancy.  I  met  across  this country   many   young  people,  who  were  dreaming  to  be veterinarian and these men realised their desire.
             Perhaps,  Dug  was in charge and Ted  assisted him in the task  of taking blood of my camels. Dug informed me that his father  was  also  veterinarian and a month ago departed for Kyrgyzstan  to teach local stockmen how to treat some exotic diseases.  Dug  also  desired  to  go there or to Russia for finding something new for himself and his trade.
             The  men  brought  all  necessary  equipment for taking a blood  samples,  even  an electric scissors to shave camels from  a  neck  area, where usually they insert a syringe for collecting  blood. I assured them that camels don't spit and kick  and  Dug  approached  to  Xena  who was tightened to a fence  railing.  As soon as he begun shearing her neck, Xena kicked  Dug,  but  he  was  ready for such a normal animal's reaction  and  jumped  aside.  I  was  ashamed  by a naughty behaviour  of  my mate and kneeled her down. Knowing that she will  jump  up  again  as  soon  as  Dug start his procedure again,  I tighten her legs and wrapped a rope over her neck, similar   procedure   I  made  with  Vanya.  Now  they  were completely  secured,  but  I was denouncing myself for being so sloppy and not doing it in a first place.
             After  that  veterinarians  had  no problem with taking a blood   test   and   promised  to  fax  its  result  to  the veterinarian  inspector at a place, where I will be crossing the   border  with  Queensland.  They  were  humorous  about camel's  kick,  and Dug noticed in a diary: "Anatoly, thanks for  providing my first veterinary experience with camels! I was  warned  that  camels  can  kick  forward  and now I can verify  this  as  true.~  Tim  added: "Anatoly, best of luck with  the  camels  -  don't spit, don't fight. All the myths about  camels have been dispelled." They even didn't take 30 dollars  for  this test, saying that make it as the donation to my expedition, which they already watched on television.
             I  was a bit hesitant before taking with me two discarded burlap  bags  but it was nobody around to ask permission for taking  them.  I  decided  to  use them as a cushion between saddle  pads  and  back  of camel. It did help a lot because Vanya  gave  me  a  ride  of  five  kilometres  without  any objections  and  tricks. It was so comfy to ride on his back and  wrap  my  cigarette, and puffing it, to discover almost English   countryside   with  magnificent  trees,  pastures, orchards, and gentle hillsides.
             Finally,  my  mate  decided  that  enough  is  enough and despite  all my attempts to steer him, headed through a gate towards  house  with  no people inside. After not succeeding with  squeezing me against a gate, he walked close to a roof edge   hoping  to  unsaddle  me  squeezing  against  a  roof gutters.  Witty  boy,  he  knew house architecture better than I did.  That  day  I decided to ride on front part of the saddle  and had no stirrup for a legs support. Vanya smartly used  my  temporary disadvantage and stopped instantly. Very ungraceful,  I  wen  topsy-turvy to the ground, but Xena was merciful not kicking me in her turn. Mucho gracia, seniors!
             Last  leg  of  my  way to village of Dundee I was limping and  cursing myself for not using stirrup. In that village I found  just two houses with pastures and turned towards one, freshly  painted,  with  tall  chimney  of a fireplace. Most households  in  this  region  have own names, and "Rosedale" was  the  name  of  this tidy place. Fred Sloman, its owner, came  out  of the shed, where he was welding some machinery.  It  was  drizzly  and  cold  outside  and Fred understood my desperate  conditions.  He  let  my stay under the roof of a sheep  shed and placed camels behind fence of sheep pasture.  After that he returned to his task of welding.
             Before  long I smouldered a cigarette, Fred called me from his  barn  and  indicated  at  my mates, who overstepped his fence  and  were  walking  fast  towards  green banks of the creek.  It  was  hard  to  chase  them  with my hurt leg and tricky  Xena  was  in  lead  of  this  hungry  couple, but I happened  to  be  wise taking a slice of white bread to lure them.  It  took  me  an  hour  to bring them back and hobble Xena,  but  even  being  hobbled,  they  managed  to run out again.  It was no chose but to hitch them to the fence pole.  Fred  brought them a bale of hay with lucerne and only after that  I  was  free to make my bed on the pale of sheep wool.  Rain  was  pouring  down  but  I  was  safe  and  worm after changing my clothing.
             Fred's  wife,  Margaret, made a good dinner with lamb and invited  me  share  it with them. Slomans were in early 50th and  most  of they life have been living on their sheep farm of  800  acres.  Once  in a year, usually in November, Fred calls  sheepshearers and together with them shears his 2,400 sheep.  Prices for wool could fluctuate, but in average he makes  25  dollars from each sheep's coat. Sheep's life span is  about 4-5 years, and each ear Fred sells 400 sheep for meat  and  makes  12  or  13 dollars on each. So, his yearly income  about $ 55,000. Being good engineer and welder, Fred supplements  his  income by selling invented and made by own hands machine appliances.
             After  good  dinner,  Fred invited me in a guestroom and brought  a  few  bottles  of  homemade  beer. After that he opened  a  box  of  very  expensive cigarillos and suggested them  for  smoking.  I appreciated it very much, knowing how dearly  expensive  in  Australia  this  commodity. We talked about  his children whom  he managed to give higher education. Elder son  works  as an engineer in Sydney, and younger one, after graduating  a  college  in  hotel  business  administration, practising  now  in  England.  I was wandering, whether Fred and Margaret are typical Australian sheep farmers?
         
          DEEPWATER
         
             It  was incredibly comfortable to sleep with sheep wool under  and  around my aching body. Pounding on the roof rain sounded  as  an  old, childhood's times lullaby and I almost overslept.  After Margaret's breakfast we came out to saddle camels  and give ride to neighbours' children, who especially came  for this rare occasion. Fred also decided to entertain me  with demonstrating of work of his sheep dogs Elly, Jack, and  Coba.  Especially  good  was Jack, who in a few minutes rounded  up a scattered herd of sheep and brought them close to  us.  Fred told me that without dogs he would never raise his 2,400 sheep, they are his biggest and honest friends.
             Margaret  also  phoned to Deepwater Inn and negotiated my
          staying  there  overnight.  By  radio,  they  informed about
          Parliament  elections  in Wales and Scotland and about high
          possibility,  that Scots will vote for the independence from
          United  Kingdom.  Local  Scots  are very joyful about such a
          perspective.  I  wander,  whether  in  future they decide to
          separate   their   New   England  from  last  of  Australia.
          Democracy   in   this   safety-net  society  is  guarded  by
          government.  I  remember  as  in  the Soviet Union elections were   compulsory  and  people,  who  didn't  want  to  vote considered  as enemies of the system. But it was shocking to find  that  in  this  country people could be fined up to 50 dollars  if  they failed to exercise their democratic rights to  vote. I presume that it is the legacy of convicts past of this  country, when their guardian knew better how to manage better  those  sheepish outlaws. Compulsory vote, compulsory ban    on   smoking,   compulsory   multicultural   society, compulsory life and death?
             After  crossing  Severn  River, the road climbed up hills and   proceeded   across   green,   not  typical  Australian hillsides.  It  took a lot of ardent work of settlers to up-root  or  burn-out native gum trees and substitute them with pine,  fir, or maple trees. They succeeded to make this land look-alike  England,  more  productive and diversified, than before.  This  is  the  British-made country. Whether future immigrants decide to make it look-alike Bangladesh?
             Deepwater  Inn  happened  to be at north side of the town and  was  managed by Pat and Colin Bright. They already were waiting  for  me  and  chased  own  horses out of paddock to place  my  camels  there.  It was no grazing grass there but Colin   phoned  to  NORCO's  company  Rural  Store  and  its manager,  Ray  Cummins,  send  his employee, Daniel Skinner, with  a  bale  of hay, as the donation from his company. So, could  tight  my  camels  to  prevent their wandering around this peaceful town.
             Colin  also  opened  room  of his small hotel, but didn't give  me  any  key; perhaps, it was no option, that somebody will  ransack  my  room.  After  placing  my  luggage in and switching  electric  mattress  on,  I decided to walk around this  tiny  town  of  Deepwater.  It saved those entire getting nostalgic small  `mom  and  pop'  shops like Shields Family Butchers,  where I met beautiful Liane and not so beautiful, but  pleasant her boss, Bill. Definitely, I was attracted by Liane's  bloom,  but  Bill  expressed so much of hospitality and  generosity,  that  I decided not taking Liane from him.  He  suggested giving me a pound of fresh-made sausages, but I  had  no  stove  to cook them. Bill promised to broil them and  give  me,  when  I  will  be  back after visiting other shops.
             In   bakery,  an  old  couple greeted me with a homemade meat  pie and Godspeed wishes. The owner was strained in his armchair,  he  used  to work as a stockman all his long life and  was  sorry that could not ride my camels now, as he did half  of century ago. There are so many folks in this region suffering  after  arthritis  and  having  no  remedy to cure themselves.
             The  owner  of  a  craft  shop,  which  was  right across bakery,  was waiting for me in front of her building to give me  as  a  souvenir a teaspoon with figure of a sheep on its handle.
             It  was  no  library in this town to check my E-mail as I usually  do in libraries on the way. But even this problem I solved  by  stopping  at  electronic  repair shop, where its owner,  Mark, had Internet access on his computer. It was so nice  of  him checking my address and finding no letter from Xena.  But  at  lest  I  have  had another Xena to take care about.
             In  the  way to my hotel I stopped at butcher shop, where Bill  already  broiled for me a pound of tasty-looking brown sausages.  Liane's lines also flattered me: "Best wishes  and  good luck in your great attitude and experience by travelling across Australia. Regards!"
             Jo  Williams  came to Deepwater Inn to help her relatives with  cooking  dinner  for many tonight guests. She happened to  be  a  guide of "Pub Crawls on Horseback" which business was  giving  to  groups  of  tourists  horseback  rides down National  Trail,  mostly through mountainous area. They were riding  daytime  and stopped for a night at such places like this,  with  pub,  restaurant  and  hotel.  According  to Jo description,  this  trail  is  very  rough,  with many water crossings   and   narrow   roads,  squeezed  between  rocks.  Apparently, I could not go there with camels.
             Looking  at  Jo, with her tall and sturdy body, I thought that  she was immune for any kind of sexual harassment. Such a  woman  could  kick hell out of any man, I would feel safe being  close  to  her.  She  even suggested joining her next trip  with  group  of  five tourists, but I have had no safe place to keep my camels.
             At  backyard of the hotel I noticed a trailer with couple of  senior  citizens  inside.  I  noticed  their  Queensland license   plate  and  decided  to  enquire  about  the  road conditions  on  the  way  to  that  state.  Floyd  and Maree Griffiths   lived   in  town  of  Deception  Bay,  north  of Brisbane,  and  were  on  the  way  to Victoria for visiting their  son's  family.  All  his  adult  life Floyd worked on railroad,  and only after retirement he fulfilled his life's dream  to  be  a  singer.  Floyd had a pleasant tenor voice, which  he practices in his trailer and around. He supplements his  pension  with  concerts  in nursing homes as well as in churches.  The owners of this Inn let him stay free in their backyard as a payment for his concert tonight.
             Big  hall of a pub was getting crowded with people coming here  after  work  to  fill themselves up with beer. Even my last  night  hosts,  Fred  and Margaret, came over, bringing with  them  one  more bail of hay for my camels. I was happy to  meet  them  again  and  drink  my beloved ( because it's strong)  VB  beer.  But  what  was strange, that meeting the second  time, we didn't feel so close and open to each other as  yesterday.  Perhaps,  we  exhausted  ourselves  and  had nothing new to tell.
             Two  men  in  early  50th  were  watching  TV  screen and betting  on  horse  races.  They kept separately from locals and  quietly  discussed their health problems. I happened to overheard  their conversation and decided to intervene. Both of  them were veterans of Vietnam War and believed that Agent Orange, which was used by Americans as defoliant, poisoned them.  By such a way of exposing Vietcong, who were hiding  in  jungles  from bombardment, Americans chased them out.  For many years nobody knew about a side effect of this chemicals  on  human  health, until some veterans complained about  their  health.  After that some scientists decided to blame  that  Agent  Orange  for veterans' health failure. As soon  as  it was broadcasted, thousands and thousands of new complains  were  reported.  Veterans  blamed  Government for failure  to  find  the  health  hazard of those chemicals and required money compensation for their failing health.
             I  don't exclude some health hazard of the Agent, but the main  effect  was psychological. If somebody decided that he is  sick,  he  is  already  sick.  It  is  similar  with the stigmata,  or  palm  marks  resembling  the  wounds  of  the crucified  Jesus Christ. Those religious fanatics who suffer and  demonstrate  bleeding  holes  in  middle of their palms believe  that  Christ  was  crucified  with nailing down his palms.  As a matter of fact, the crucifixions were performed with  nailing  down of people through wrist area, to prevent body's  sliding  down  from the cross. So, these poor people are stigmatic wrongly.
             Brian  Willis  and  Geoff  Wyatt  believe,  that mercury, which  was  one  of  chemicals  of  the  Agent Orange spray, resided  and  poisoned  their  bodies and there is no way to rid  it  off.  I  didn't  tell them about my suspicions, but recommended  to  fast  at  least  40  days  to cleanse their bodies  completely. They looked at me as on idiot and stated that  in  such  a  poor state of health, they could dye even after  one  day  of fasting. Later on, noticing how heartily they  were  eating  their  steaks  I  decided not making any advises. People have an inherited right to dye.
             Colin's mother also served me with a steak and she decided  to  share  my  company  and speak about her beloved son.  For  many  years  he  had  been working on a coalmine until  collecting  money  enough  to lease this Inn. Seemed, that  his mother was not at good terms with her daughter-in-law  and  had permission to come here just for a short time.  Pam  was in charge of everything and Colin was her masculine shadow  and  his  mother  was not very happy about that. But they  had  a  son  and an adorable daughter, who supposed to perform tonight for an audience.
             Floyd   brought   with   him   a   tape   player  for  an accompaniment  of his singing. His repertoire was built from opera's  arias  and old romances, which most of audience was not  very  much  familiar  with. Definitely, his tenor voice was  very  pleasant  but  with  an  age it aged and cracked, also,  it  was not enough winds in his lungs. It was pity of looking  at  this  old  man,  who was trying to re-enact his best  years,  not  realising  his  mockery. But audience was grateful and gave him a modest ovation.
             After  Floyd  it  was turn of six-year-old daughter of my hosts  to sing that famous "Waltzen Matilda," but she forgot the  text and managed to sing just two lines. She also got a loud  ovation.  Concert  was over and I decided before going to  bed,  enquire  locals about the best way to Tenterfield.  They  warned  me about dangerous road conditions up hills of Mount  Bajimba.  Colin  suggested  to use instead an old and abandoned  railroad  track  with  less  steep  levels and no traffic  at  all. It would a new experience and I decided to try this option.
             It  was  freezing outside and cold inside of my room, but I  was smarty beforehand, switching on my electric mattress.  I  dived  under  the  blanket and felt there so comfortable, that  reminded  to  myself  that Princess, sleeping in a bed with no pea under her mattress.


BUSHWOMAN

I could pay for hospitality just by giving the ride to children of my hosts and I happily did it. They younger happened to be more courageous riding with her father on Vanya’s back than her older brother. That boy was unlucky beng the brother of such pretty girl because all love and attention of his parents were dedicated to her and he felt miserable and being abandoned.
After couple of kilometers of walking down New England Highway, I made a sharp right turn and found railroad tracks going along the highway. The railroad was abandoned more than fifteen years ago and wilderness was claiming back its space. A tall grass was growing between rotten sleepers and young gum trees were popping up along shoulders. Very soon I found that the main obstacle was walking on sharp edges of gravel’s bed of the tracks, even through thick leather soles of my boots I felt it, but my camels had no boots or horseshoes, their feet were protected just by own leather calluses. I noticed trace of blood gushing from Vanya’s left foot.
As soon as tracks traverse through the mountain hills and high rocks surrounded sides of tracks, my camels got especially nervous and uneasy. Water seeped from the rocks and covered sleepers and my boots were soaked with it. I decided to turn back to the highway after sighting a huge brown snake which was resting on a rusty rail. It was the moust venomous snake of Australia. We turned left and after half of an hour of wandering through bush, found ourselves back on the highway. It was foolish of me listening an advice of people who never walked themselves down that tracks and had no knowledge of their surroundings.
Resting after that arduous experience, I was awaken by pulling over car with two female passengers. In a course of greetings I distinguished their Slavonic accent and asked, what country there were from. The elder woman came to this country from Czech Republic a few years ago and already got Australian citizenship, but her younger sister was just visiting her and they decided to make a picturesque trip town this road from Brisbane to Sydney. It was so nice to meet the first time for many days such pretty European women. Definately, the European charm is different from from bushy captivation of lokal female Antipodes. I also missed European style of food, which my guests decided to share with me, especially tasty was was a brown bread with a blue cheese. They even handed me a bottle of red wine, which I decided to open on my next stop. Godspeed girls, enjoy this Down Under country! I would be happy to share your company, but I have my own Xena to think about. 
On my map it was written the name of village Bolivia, but no Bolivia, Peru, or Chile was around. On the left I noticed a small and weathered billboard with a sign: “Secreterial Consultancy, Spelling,” with no telephone number to call, but with blue arrow directing somewhere across the hills. I made the next available turn and soon, down a ground road noticed a closed gate with mailbox on which was written: ”Hillview Park”. Far uphill, corrugated iron roof of small house was shining under the rays of setting sun.Small kelpi was running towards gate, histerically barking. Soon a property owner came out from fron a small gate on top of the hill and slowly wlked in my direction, helping herself with a rough wooden stick. She was tall and loked fragile, being in late 40th, she appeared tiresome and strained in her movements. That woman was outfitted in man’s clothing and covered with baseball cup, no traces of make up were on pale skin of her formerly pretty face.
After listening my explanation and request, she opened the gate and let me walk up the hill. She chased seven horses from close to house paddock and let my camels to graze there. I intended to pitch my tent near by, but Jan suggested to sleep in spare room of her house. Her dilapidated clapboard house, barns and sheds knew a better times, but now wee in disrepair and neglect. All instrument and tools in her garage were rusty and covered with a dust and decorated by spiderweb.
On the way to house I payed attention on clothesline, where she hanged he laundry to dry. It was completely male’s clothing exept a few brassieres. Inside of her house it was dumpy and cold, with smell of moldy synthetic carpets, rotten floors and mice droppings. Fireplace in living room was not in use, warmth was coming from kitchen, where she kept a wood stove permanently burning. My bedroom was not in use for years and also was covered with a spiderweb and fly marks on a discolored, fadded wallpaper.
After placing my stuff and making bed, I came outside and suggested my hand to do whatewer necessary for her household. Jane pointed on pale of firewood ready to be chopped. It was always my pleasure and a good exercise to chop a firewood, doing this I always feel as the real man. I was doing this in fading light of sunset and didn’t stop untill finishing. Jan helped me to store it in discarded rainwater tank and proudly informed, that herself logged old gum tree with a chainsaw and cut it in pieces. On the way back home I noticed a small rifle leaned to the wall near entrance door. With a smile, Jan informed me about big brown snake living under the house since last summer, she hoped to kill the snake as soon as she will sight her, but I found no cartridge in the rifle.
I was surprised finding a shover in operating conditions and washed myself before dinner. Jan made it from piece of defrosted lamb and vegetables, and I was happy to open bottle of red wine given to me by Czech women. Finally we could seat and talk about our so differenl lives.
Jan’s husband used to be an electrician, for many years working for a goverment company. But he was always psychologically unstable, and after one rough conversation with his supervisor came home and commited a suicide with that rifle, which I already noticed. Since his death ten years ago, Jan has been living by herself, with no man arount to help. In he childhood Jan survived polio, but with age its effect on her health has been getting worst, and now she lives on public assistance. A few years ago Jan decided to open a secretarial course for girls in hope, that her students would come here for a workshops, but nobody showed up. Besides, she had no computer and any knowlege of modern wordprocessing. Jan even has some kind of allergy towards computers.
Her main preocupation for last few years was her court case against Shire Council, which without her consent constructed a road across her property. They advised her not going against the Government because she will loose her case and make officials angry on her, but Jan decided to fight anyhow. On her 300 acres she had just 7 horses and about 30 heads of cattle which was wandering somewhere without her attention because the fence around her land was in disrepare and her neighbours graze their cattle on her property.
Besides this activity, Jan was busy that day with writing a letter to “Tenterfield Star”, challenging editorialal article about an assistance of local people to victims of recent hail, which ruined a lot of roofs and windows in Sydney. Editorial stuff wrote, that it was not worthwhile to send volonteers for repair that buildings because it was already done with own resourses of Sydneysyders. Jan wrote about big help, which this area received from Sydney during last spell of drought. That time she participated in distribution of hay and grains, which were sent by many Australians to help local farmers.
Jan was also active with teaching children the art of English style of horse dressage. She was planning to go next morning for giving lesson those children, whom I met yesreday in Deepwater. Considering this I decided to stay one more day at her place and give camels some rest.
Before going to bed, I asked her to give me something to read about Australia. Jan handed me “The Forky Stick” written by her friend, Brian Taylor, who spent years coordinating the establishment of the National Trial, which  opened in 1988, and vent along the Dividing Range. His selfpublished book was dedicated to his childhood in bush and people, who managed to survive despite all obstacles of their harsh life. I would like to quote some lines of it: “The humbleness of the bushman does not necessary categorize him in lesser state. For the principles that guide his life are fundamentally - honesty, sincerety, justice; with a dedication of purpose to produce from the land. All these combine to give him in his own way a spiritual fullfillment and unique peace of mind. He doesn’t have to cover his life’s tracks;  “near enough’s not good enoughs”, “the proof of the pudding is in the eating”, or, “by their fruits you shall know them” - all mean the same to him...
There are two four letter words that have come down to us, ones which we should accept with pride - WORK and GUTS. In time, others may look back and say, “Or was worship and determination?” So here’s hoping the man on the land can reach a level of attainment and production, that the Great Australian Bite may never be in vain, and dry gully (as the saying goes) be something of the past.
The heat of the grease is getting flung wider from the hub of the city wheel - further out into suburbia, where once an old Duncan Pump supported a family, a couple of cows and a pen of geese. The tipical Australian family farmlet is now being swallowed and encompassed by the perimeter of this cancerious wheel. Gone are the hamlets of home made butter, farm fresh eggs; gone too are the basic tools of these trades. Yet further out one has to go these days to say  “gidday” and pass the time under a shady tree and witness and enjoy the humble pleasures of the Australian way of life of yesterday. I am not saying go back - I say take it with us”.
Reading Brian’s book about his childhood, I recalled my own in Russian countryside with a similar games and hard work of supporting our small family with no father. I learned to make hay being just fourteen/ We had no horse and used to use our only cow to plow and plant potato. I also used to make my sling from the forky stick, but only after reading this book I found, that in Australian slang the sling is called the shanghai.
The next morning I asked Jan an opportunity to contact with Brian Tailor and she gave me his telephone number in Queensland. I immediately called him and made an arrangement for our meeting as soon as I will be close to hometown Toowoomba. In a meantime, Jan was busy with preparing herself for that dressage lesson for children in Deepwater. When she came out of her bedroom outfitted in a formal uniform for English dressage, I gaped my mouth: that humble bushwoman, who I criticezed yesterday, looked now like the noble lady of English gentry. Only with this tight trousers and jacket, I realized how well her body was built. She was the real woman, who decided to burial herself in bushland, a bit aged Cinderella waiting for her Prince. I considered myself as knight of Camelot but my pincess was very far from here.
While Janice was out, I spent my time reading a book about her ancestor, who was brought to Sydney on the board of a ship and, being convict, served as an assistant ardener for Governor Lachlan Macquarie. His tickets-of-leave were rewoked twice for selling rum to his mates. John was married three times and had a lot of children, one of whom was Jan’s grand-grand-grandfather. She was last one in this line, having no children to keep going, but she was shearing her experience with children whose ancestors not necessary came here with the First Fleet.
After reading those memories about her ancestors, I was happy to meet Jan again, blooming after the day of her best performance. Those children recalled my visit with camels and sent theirs wellwishes. Jan decided celebrate her usefulness with a cask of wine which she bought on her way back. We drunk for her ancestors, about whome Mary Gilmore wrote:

I am he
Who paved the way,
That you might walk.
As your easy to-day;
I was the conscript
Sent to hell
To wake in the desert.
The living well,
I bore the heat,
I blazed the track -
Furrowed and bloody
Upon my back.
I split the rock
I felled the tree.
The nation was
Because of me!!!

TENTERFIELD

Jan was also going to Tenterfield for setting her case with Shire Council and I was sure, that it will keep her busy for many years ahead. After breakfast with coffee and cake I concluded that Australians haveno idea that a cup of coffee could be made from grounded beans, percolated or boiled in Turkish style. These Antipodes know just an instant coffee and I am getting used to its detestable taste.
Camels made some damage to Jan’s garden, nipping branches of apple trees, but she decided to keep her disfatisfaction inside, just hugging me and saying farewell. I hope to visit sometime in future and take her workshop of English dressage.
I was not in rush going down the road because knew about already guaranteed place for camping in Tenterfield. When people living along the road waved and invited to stop for a cup of instant coffee, I with pleasure accepted such invitations. It was especially nice of them giving my camels some hay  and cigarettes for me.
Hazel Pillar, mother of sheepshearer James, was waiting for me on the road afew kilometewrs south of the town. She was a tiny woman about my age, energetic and ready to help byany means. She asked what I was in need before reaching of or destination place, and I asked her for a smoking tobacco. She immediately drove to the town and brought soon tobacco and meat pie.
Near gas station I was greeted by Arthur Ramsay, reporter for  “Tenterfield Star” , whom Hazel phoned in advance. He was curious, why in my age I decided walking with camels instead of sitting home in armchair and enjoying watching TV and drinking a beer. It was too complicated question and I just said, that prefer drinking beer along the road.
Arthur told me that Tenterfield is the hometown of Henry Parkes, five times Prime Minister of New South Wales, before Australia claimed its independance. On 24 October, 1889, he gave the  “Tenterfield Speech” , which set in motion the activity for creation of the Federation of Australian Colonies into unified country. Fourty yers before that he was one of initiators of the Boston Tea Party of Australia-style in Sydney, when its citizens revolted against importing to their colony not a tea but convicts brought on 11 June, 1849, on board of  “The Hashemy”, transport ship. He drafted the first antitransportation resolutions which triggered the revolt, which resolted in ending of transportation system, at least in New South Wales. But that time he was careful writing, that colonists:  “...were not at a state of advancement to bebenefited by separation of from the mother country, even we had a cause to desire separation...We posessed little of the stern and sturdy spirit of the old American colonists.” He was right and wrong the same time because it was the first attempt for the independance of this country half century later.
Because of his personality, Tenterfield was on the founding fathers list to be the national capitol. But  they  finally decided to build completely new city with apparently Aboriginal name, Canberra, meaning  “meeting place.”
If Canberra was designed by American visionary and vegetarian, Walter Griffin, Tenterfield is definately of British descent, with it quite humble architecture of colonial period. The founding fathers were right not choosing Tenterfield as the Australian capitol because I would newer walk so easy through it with camels.
Hazel directed me to nortern part of the town, where we met our prospective host, Ray Dowd, who came with daughter, Bronnie. I instantly fell in love with that fourteen-year-old of virgity, humor, and common sense. She immediately mounted Vanya and rode him up hill to their house, where Ray  helped
 me unsaddle camels and placed them to a very good fenced paddock.
Ray was in early 40th, but already on disability pension because of job accident, which happened with him an year ago. He kept himself busy with making addition to their house and with raising herd of deer for their antlers. The breadwinner was his wife, Julie, who runs an antiques and craft shop close to their house. They restore an old farmhouse with veranda and named it the  “Tanglefood Cottage.” She was busy there giving workshop to local women and came to greet me only for dinner party.
Besides own children, Bronnie and Paul, Dowds family fostered Jan, young man about 18, who was abandoned by his alcoholic mother. Actually, he was not exactly fostered, but temporarily accepted to the household by request of child abuse authority. Jan was a bit mentally challenged and slow in his expressions, however, Ray found hip quite helpful in construction of the house and fencing their pastures. He also helped Ray to cook dinner and serve it.
Julie came when dinner was already on table and greeted me with a big smile and hug. I felt right away that she accepted me as a member of their family, like Jan. It was a heartily dinner with enormous pieces of broiled beefsteak and pumpkin, red port was served after coffee. I was already not surprised, that Australians, even of families with children, don’t say Grace before dinner, as it is customary to Americans. But here I found a lot of books about Australian history and culture. All the members of Dowds family happened to be talented artists: with a few pencil’s strokes Rade made for me a drawing of coala bear with cub. Paul pictured kangaroo and Bronnie crayoned me with a three-humped camel. On that picture I was as young as Bronnie herself and looked very cool.
Certainly, Julie was a really professional with her acrylic drawings in my diary of gum nuts, flannel flower, wattle, bottle brush, banksia, and waratah. After looking at her masterpieces I even more appreciated the beauty of Australian flora. I also appreaced these people’s surroundings, when came out the next early morning and contemplated at the hazy green and gray farmland in the distant  valleys. Patches of morning mist washed it out and were slowly dissolving under the sun.
Ray decided to dedicate all his day to show me his beauteful town of Tenterfield. First of all, we gave a ride to Paul and Bronnie to their school, where Hazel made an arrangement for my  three lectures about camels, ecology, travels, and something about Russia. It was a great pleasure to speak out in front of those neat and attentive teens, who didn’t pierced their noses and ears. They are more interested in horses, than in drags and acohol. Morgan, one of them, made such notation: “You are an inspiration to those afraid to go against the normality of society!”
We could not avoid stopping at the High Street Saddlery, which famous customer was A. B. “Banjo” Patterson, who used to live in Tenterfield for a short while and married a local girl. The Saddlery got even more fame after the song of internationally acclaimed singer and songwriter, Peter Allen, who is grandson of  “Tenterfield Saddler” and author of this song:

The late George Woolnough
Worked on High Street and lived on Manners
Fifty two years he sat on his verandah
And made his saddles.
And if you asked questions about sheep, or flowers or dogs
You’d just ask  the Saddler who lived without sin.
They’re building a Library for him.

Time is a traveler, Tenterfield Saddler, turn your head
Ride again jackaroo,
Think I see kangaroo up ahead.
...
Oh time is a meddler, Tenterfield Saddler, make your bed.
Fly away cockatoo, down on the ground, emu up ahead.
I doubt, that time is a traveller and a meddler, we are the travellers across its boundless field. We are just a sparks in darkness of time, as somebody said:  “A sweet-sad awareness that all fires of our life must die. Which makes the present flames more precious.”
In Peter Allen’s song: “I  still call Australia home,”I especially admire following lines:

I’ve been to cities that never close down.
From New York to Rio to Old London Town.
But no matter how far
Or how wide I roam
I still call Australia home.

I’m always travellin’
And I love bein’free
So I keep leavin’the sun and the sea
But my heart lies waiting over the foam.
I still call Australia home.

I also have been travelling around the world, but despite all my admiration of the countries, which I passing through, my heart belongs to Russia. The country of now desperate people who don’t know what they are doing, just struggling for survival. I hope honestly that my books about  other countries and peoples would help Russians to understand their own identity, and, which more important, to gain back the self-respect.
Ray decided to show me restored Tenterfield Railroad station which was not in use for many years. Before creation of single united country, Fustralian colonies didn’t care about their neighbours’convenience of travelling and freight transportation by railways. New South Walles set its railway four feet, eight and half inches apart. But Queensland decided it would be cheper to built its railroad on three feet, six inches apart, and this standard was accepted by Western Australia and Tasmania. But Victoria was concern about passengers comfort, than construction cost of railway, choose the fancy five feet, three inches. This railway craziness created such a mess, that freight from Brisbane to Perth had to be transshipped five times.
I could not say, that Russians were much better accepted their railways standard with rails wider apart than those in the European countries. Perhaps, they were thinking about foreign invasion with using for this purpose the railway. It didn’t stop the German invasions in the First and the Second World Wars.
Ray recalled that times when passengers used to use more railroad for transportation than cars and buses. Sometimes, as it happens in America, some private companies in this country restore not only railroad stations but also railwais and use restored steam engines for pulling trains with tourists. But until then nothing is special with these restored and standard in their ageing elegance railroad stations. But what is good, that with an age theyare getting more elegant and desirable to look at, which distincts them from us, human beens.
The crown of our wandering around the town was a visit to Paul Petrie’s coach station. As soon as we pulled in, big, smiling man came out of his farmhouse and shook our hands. My tiny palm was lost between his iron fingers and I looked up him being amazed by that noble power of the bushman. They were friends with Ray for many years, who told me that Paul used to be a regular truck driver until his wife died after breast cancer. Before long, Paul got a heart stroke and was disabled for a long time. After recuperation, he decided to change his life-stile as well as his occupation. For last of his money Paul bought a coach, similar to those used by Cobb and Co., horse drawn company, famous as the first Australian public transportation company, which opened new routs around this country. For this coach pulling, he also acquired huge draft horses and started his new business of  “Paul Petrie Tours”for tourists. Since then he gives horse rides down Rocky River with a breathtaking views of the Timbarra Plateau, Bullyrimba Forest and Washpool Range, which all are not far from Tenterfield. Besides, his coach is popular to be hired for weddings and other special occasions of this town.
I felt in Paul my soul-mate, because also drove with my horse and buggy long way across America. Now I thought after finishing my trip with camels to come back here and pursue Paul for going with me around Australia with his coach and beauteful Clydesdale horses. But for a time been he was busy with construction of new stables with adjacent playground for children and dancing hall for adults. Weexchanged addresses and telephones, but Paul excused himself not writing in my logbook, handwriting was not his strong point. See you later, Big Paul!
But handwriting was big forte of beauteful and joyful Bronnie who was waiting us for dinner. Her mother was busy giving workshop of flower arrangement to local women. While Jan with Bronnie were busy  with broiling lamb, I kept myself busy with sipping a red Port, which didn’t avoit Bronnie’s attention in her poem:

ANATOLY

There once was a man,
Whos travelling the land.
He has two camels
Which are big animals.
He rode into towWith his police gown.
Now his here, safe and sound.
Tomorrow his leaving
Which isn’t very pleasing.
We rode the camels
Which was very high.
We could nearly touch the sky.
He loves his Port, cofee aswell
Now he’s travelling farewell, farewell.

Dear Bronnie, thank you very much for your poem!   

THE BORDER
             All  the  Dowds family came out to wish me a Godspeed and
          make  some  snapshots  together.  I  felt  myself  as  their
          stepbrother  and  promised  to keep in touch. Ray decided to
          guide  me  for a next stop on the border to stay with family
          of   Cusack.   He,  beforehand,  phoned  them,  and  Brendan
          promised to meet us on the way.
             Passing  green  fields  of  broccoli,  I noticed group of
          seasonal  workers  congregated  around a refrigerated truck.
          They  were mostly European appearance and couple of men even
          looked  like  Mexicans.  I  used  to  sight Mexican seasonal
          workers  in  Texas  and California but never expected to see
          them  on  the  border  of  New  South  Wales. The same time,
          neither  in  the  U.S.A.  nor in Australia, I have ever seen
          Chinese  immigrants  working  on  the fields. They prefer to
          stay  in  the  cities,  even  being  predominantly  of rural
          descent.  I  already met quite a few former seasonal workers
          in  hostels  of  Melbourne and Sydney and knew, that farmers
          paid them 8 dollars per working hour.
             Brendan  Cusack, my future host, was staying close to the
          truck,  talking  with  plantation  owners. He was around 60-
          year-old,  broiled  under the sun and weathered by elements,
          farmer,  who  knew  what he has been doing on this earth. Of
          medium  height,  he  had strong body and sinewy arm, which I
          felt  when  he shook my hand. Brendan was busy with levelling
          his  land  for  a  future broccoli field for its growers. He
          didn't  grew  broccoli  himself  but leased out his land for
          planters.  He  already made an arrangement for my staying at
          his  "Border  Park"  estate, but asked me beforehand to stop
          by  at  primary  school for giving pupils a lecture about my
          travels.
             With  a  pleasure, I accepted this proposal and proceeded
          further   down  the  road  towards  small  school  building.
          Brendan  brother was a teacher of that school, and he waited for  me  with  about fifteen students between seven and ten-year-old.  What  should  I  say them for not sounding boring and  deductive?  As always, my best bet to talk about camels and  their role in exploration of this country. I told them, that  expedition  of  Robert  Burke  and  William  Wills was doomed  after  they  killed  and  ate  their  last camel. My camels  were  still  in good shape and I had no intention of killing them, I even had no idea how tasty are they.
             My  beloved  mates  found  a  good  hospitality  from Pat Cusack,  who  placed  them in paddock of former obituary, as meat-processing  factories  are  called  in  this  country.  Cusack  bought it on auction from that sinister or pragmatic American Company  which  closed  all  similar obituaries in this  region.  It  was sold very cheep because nobody wanted to  be involved with a meat-processing business, but Brendan Cusack  bought  it  for  more  important  reason - the water reservoir  up  the  hills, which used to supply that factory with  a  fresh  water.  Now its water being used by broccoli farmers,  who  lease  Cusack's  land,  besides,  the town of Wallangarra  use  his  water supply in case of emergency and pays money for this assurance.
             Pat  placed  me  in  former  dormitory of factory workers with  still  working  showers  and  even TV-set blinking and showing  some  fade  pictures.  I  was invited by Pat to her house  to  socialise  before  Brendan's coming for a dinner.  She  was  busy  with  cooking  and I with sipping coffee and chatting  about  our  lives.  They  used for living a former meat  factory  office  and  living room was also served as a kitchen.  Family photos covered all the walls, but I paid  attention  at  especially  interesting photo of young woman  with  a dog and asked Pat about her. Pat's face got a bit  strained  and she hesitated before telling me the story about their beloved daughter, Terry.
             She  was  born with a cleft palate, congenital fissure of the  roof  of  the  mouth  and  upper lips, which especially common  for  girls. Parents have done everything possible to make  their  beloved  daughter  comfortable with herself and her  surroundings.  She  was  under  constant observation of physicians  and  during  her growth was operated a few times to  make  her  face as normal as it was possible with art of cosmetic  surgery.  In  a  meantime,  Terry  graduated  high school  and  after  that,  medical  college, with  degree in registered nursing.
             She  got  a  job in hospital somewhere in western part of
          the  state  but  the  state  of  her mind was not steady and
          quiet.  Terry could not stay long time at the same place and
          became  some  kind  of  drifter,  changing  jobs and states,
          where  she lived. She was in contact with mother not only by
          telephone  but  regularly  sending  he  letters,  where  she
          expressed   her  dissatisfaction  with  herself  and  people
          around.  Her  barely  visible facial defect tortured her and
          was  kind of stigma external and, mostly, internal. Finally,
          she  decided  that  it  was  not  worthwhile to live on this
          earth  and  hung herself. It happened two years ago, but for
          Pat  it  was  as yesterday and she was sobbing while telling
          me  about  her  beloved  daughter.  Until  now she could not
          understand  why  Terry  did  not send her a letter with last
          words   or   even   phoned   before  committing  a  suicide.
          Obviously,   Terry's   parents   succeeded  in  healing  her
          external  scars, but her internal defect could not be abated with cosmetic surgery.
             Finally  Brendan  came  after  his  rounds and we sat for dinner  with  meat  loaf  and  again  with  pieces of boiled pumpkin.  I  hope  to appreciate its taste sometimes but for the  time  being  I  consider pumpkins are good just for the Halloween  decorations. After dinner Brendan demonstrated me an  aerial  photo  of  his  3,000 acres of bushland where he pastured  2,500  sheep and 200 cattle. For last few years he was  busy  with  consolidating  of  his land, selling remote parts  and  buying  those,  close to his water reservoir. He suggested  me  to  stay  a  few  days  until his return from business  trip  to  Brisbane  and after that to drive around his  property.  It  was a good idea but I already knew, that hospitality has its time span and I should not abuse it.
             I   returned   to  my  comfortable  dormitory  with  warm
          blankets  and  even  electric  heater  on, but I didn't feel
          there  relaxed. Perhaps, it was my craziness, but I felt and
          almost  heard  the  sounds  of  thousands  and  thousands of
          cattle  brought  for butchering in this animal's Oswenzim. I
          would   never   stay   here  for  a  long  time  because  of 
          nightmares,  which  I  perceived  that night. I even thought that  poor  Terry  who  grown  up here was chased by similar nightmares and finally finished her own life.
             My  beasts  have  had no such woolgathering while grazing on  fertilised  by  cattle  remains  80  acres  of  the back paddock  of  obituary.  Only  with  help of Pat, who gave me ride  around,  I managed to find them and pull back to front yard.
             Pat  phoned  to  the  border  quarantine  patrol and they informed  her  about  receiving  a fax from veterinarians in Glen  Innes  with  negative  result  of  blood  test  for an infectious  disease  of my camels. State border was crossing through  Cusack's  property and I could cross it with camels just  going  through  an  open  gate,  but  the  regulations required  of going with camels to that quarantine office and show them my healthy mates.
             Brendan  phoned  to  post office in village of Ballandean
          and  asked  them  about taking care of my expedition. Later,
          on   the  way  to  Brisbane,  he  pulled  over  to  hand  me
          sandwiches  with  coffee  which  Pat  made especially for me.
          What  was strange to observe along the way, that right after
          the  border  plants  looked  differently  than  in New South
          Wales,  as  they  decided  to  stress  by  their  appearance
          differences  between  tropical  the  tropical Queensland and
          more  cool New South Wales. It was especially strange to see
          curiously  shaped bottle trees and varieties of another palm
          trees  along  the  road. But I never expected  to see and to
          be ridiculed here by even more exotic animal.
             After  coming  to  Ballandean,  I  walked  with my camels
          towards  post  office  where supposed to see the post master
          for  negotiating  of  my  camping.  I  was so preoccupied by
          looking  for  better  place  to hitch my beasts, that didn't
          pay  any attention at other side of the road. Foolish of me,
          I  neglected  to  notice  a  huge  plastic  sculpture  of  a
          dinosaur,  which  was placed in front of gas station, but my
          camels  sighted  it  before  me  and  were  spooked as never
          before.  They jerked a leading rope from my hands and ran in
          opposite  direction  against  road  traffic, frightening car
          drivers  and  being  frighten  themselves. After that camels
          turned  right  and ran across  football field, towards green
          pastures  of  a  Showground.  Running behind them, I proudly
          noticed  my  packing  skills  - not even one part of luggage
          was lost while they were galloping from that damn dinosaur.
             Cursing  myself  for  such  a neglect of paying attention
          towards  local  fauna,  I pulled camels now not in front but
          behind   a  post  office  and  introduced  myself  to  Peter
          Watters,  husband  of  the postmaster and owner of own Vine Management   Service  company  (these  Antipodes  are  quite liberal  with  a  spelling  not  only  this word - Wine). He suggested  placing camels in a paddock behind post office, where   I   could  also  pitch  my  tent.  Our  conversation overheard  a  young woman in her late twentieth years of age and suggested me to stay in her house across the street.
             Jackie  Maher  had  very  pleasant and youthful face but, unfortunately,   was   overweight,  which,  however,  didn't obstruct  her  vivid energy. We loaded my luggage in her car and  brought  it  to  her  overcrowded  house.  While Jackie cleared  out  my  perspective bedroom, I came out to look at her  fantastic  aviary  filled  with variety of exotic birds and  some  rare  breed  of Chinese chickens with curly white feathers. Jackie fed them with a special mixture of seeds.
             Soon  came  her  boyfriend who was working on his parent's farm  and  helped Jackie to maintain her aviary. She was not very  much  felicitous in making our dinner, just taking big piece  of  meat  from  freezer  and  boiling it for an hour.  While  it  was  cooking, Jackie told me as ten years ago she with  her  friend, Phil Skilton, and couple more people made a  trip  with  camels  from  town of Stanthorpe to Sanctuary Cove  in  suburbs of Brisbane. That trip was organised by an endeavour  foundation  "Sunday Mail Wine Race" and subsidised by  "Granite  Belt Winery." To go with four camels, they had an  escort  of  two  cars that were driven one in front and another  behind  of  their caravan. All of them were already trained  in  camel's  handling, especially Phil Skilton, who used to raise his own camels.
             Luckily,  Phil  happened  to  work  in  next-door garage, where  he was fixing Jackie's car. He was in mid-40th of age and  looked  like typical Aussie with his hat a la Crocodile Dundee  and  big  smile  of his white natural teeth. Phillip was  happy  to  look at my camels and suggested making next stop  at  his  household in town of Stanthorpe, which was on my  way  to Brisbane. He vividly recalled that great race to the  Coast  and  didn't recommend me to use the same Warrego Highway  with  sharp  turns and heavy traffic. At some parts of  the  race  it was necessary to transport camels by truck and I had no truck for my disposal.
             Jackie  dinner  of plain meat with broth and crackers was the  real  hors d'ouvre of Australian cooking. I used to eat meat with varieties of spices but only now found that the simpler is the better. Jackie was the real cook.
          MUSEUM
             I  was awakened early morning by calls from outside, that my  camels  overstepped  the  fence  and wandering along the highway.  Barefoot,  I  ran  down  hill towards post office, where  found  Vanya  staying  on the sidewalk and Xena still inside  paddock because she was hobbled. They drive me crazy with  these  regular  escapes, thanks God, that it was early morning and no so much traffic down the road.
             I  started  my trip earlier because it was nothing to do, when  you  are  awakening  and  you  hosts also could not sleep anymore.  Surely, I was sorry not only with Jackie, but also with  Peter  Watters,  the owner of the paddock. He could be hold  responsible  for  whatever  happened with my camels on the  road,  and I had had no insurance of camels. But Peter didn't  mind very much, especially with a happy end, he even gave me bottle of wine to support my humour down the road.
             It  was  just  fifteen  kilometres  to  Stanthorpe  and I
          already  knew  my  place to stay, so being Russian I was not
          in  rush.  It happened to be exceptionally pleasant and tidy
          town,  perhaps,  named  after  former  tin  mine, because in
          Latin,  stannum stands for tin. In northern part of the town
          Three houses of old colonial architecture  attracted me, they were  made  the  museum  of local heritage. I
          hitched  camels  around  and  greeted  museum attendants who
          came  outside  to  pet my mates. These two women were almost
          ecstatic petting camels and feeding them with apples.
             They  invited  me  inside  and  it  was  my  turn  to get
          ecstatic  with  their  collection of old books, photographs,
          knives,    scissors,    telephones,    tractors,    harness,
          agriculture  equipment,  printing shop, blacksmith shop, and even  some  art  pictures. It reminded me similar museums in the  U.S.A.,  especially  in  town  of Flat Table, Nebraska, with  collection  of  50  varieties of barbwire or a private museum  in  Oregon  with  collection  of  150  varieties  of agriculture  machinery seats. Certainly, this museum was not so  much rich with antiquity, but it had many volunteers who collected  and  catalogued  new exhibits. The main source of its  exhibition  was  coming  from  retiring people, selling their  houses and mowing to their children places or nursing homes.
             I  came  to  Phil house well before his coming after work and  was  greeted  by his wife, Rosa. She was busy before my coming  with  her  parents,  who  came  to  talk about their diseases  and  their  plans to sell their house and relocate themselves  to  the  coast area where they found inexpensive nursing home to stay for the rest of they life.
             Rosa  looked and behaved as Italian, being born in Sicily and  brought  in  this  country by her parents, her brothers were  born  already  here.  With  her ten-year-old daughter, Kasey  Leigh,  we  vent  to my hitched camels for giving her ride  together  with  mother.  A man in his early 30-th, who introduced  himself  as  Arthur was busy with fixing his car at  their  backyard.  He  was  in  some  kind  of transition period,  not  having any job and planning to go somewhere in a  bush,  where  he  planned to raise a cattle, but when and how  -  he  had  no  idea.  I  already happened to meet such dreamers  in hostels, who were planning about starting a new life  but  living  on  government  support. After meeting so many  dreamers  across  this  country, I begun to understand why  the  government  decided  to bring more immigrants. But with  such  a generous programs of social support even these immigrants could loose their desire to work.
             It  was funny to find, that Phil was receiving government pension  after  being  hurt at his job a few years ago. Rosa also  didn't  have  any  permanent  job,  taking care of her youngest  daughter,  Kasey. From to time she was helping her brother   in  his  "Il  Cavallino"  trattoria,  waiting  and cooking,  when he had too many patrons to serve. She invited me to dine at that restaurant together with her family.
             Trattoria  was  located  at  High Street close to Central Square  and  decorated   by old photos of Italian cities and paraphernalia  of  "Ferrary"  car  company, which trattoria owner,, Mario,  was  fun  of.  He  found  to  us  the best table and allowed  drinking  the bottle of red wine, which we brought from  home.  While  looking in two-page glossy menu, I found myself  lost in variety of Italian dishes, but Rosa saved me suggested  to  try  Pasta  Laurelia,  named after her second name.   Everything   was   great   but   despite  our  close acquaintance,  I  was not allowed to smoke inside and had to go  outside  to  smoulder  my roller. This antismoking plague reached even bushland towns.
             Two  police  patrol officers stopped to chat with me, not arresting  yet  for  smoking  at pavement. They were locals, who  enjoyed  living and working in this peaceful town with no drugs and violence, which already enwrapped big cities.  Everybody  here  knew  each   other  and  crimes  were rear, mostly committed by outsiders.
             Back  to restaurant, I discussed with Skiltons the family matters  and  was  surprised  that  Rosa  and Phil, being in their  early  fortieth  years of age already had three grown sons  and two grandchildren. I was much elder of them but my only  son  just  recently  married and had no children, yet.  Perhaps,  Russia  is  just single country in the world which population    not    increasing    but    decreasing,    and catastrophically.  Most  of families there have no more than one  child  because  of  economical  hardship,  average life expectancy there even lover, than in China.
             Talking  with  Phil,  I  was  surprised  finding that his younger  brother, Gerry, played the role of pub attendant or customer  in the famous Australian movie "Crocodile Dundee," which  more than ten years ago changed world appreciation of this  country. Finally it gained own epic figure of an Arch-ocker,  Outback  superstar,  Mick  Dundee, which was written for  Paul  Hogan   and  in  part  by  Hogan, to feature that persona  grata.  As  Paul Hogan told once: "The character is an  attempt  to  give  Australia  a  hero.  It's  a  country desperately  short  of  heroes. We haven't got a Daniel Boon or  Robin  Hood. All we ever had Ned Kelly, an Irishman with a  bucket  over  his  head  who  pulled  a  few unsuccessful robberies a long time ago."
             After  that  film  even  the  Prime  Minister, Bob Hawke, identified  himself  with  this  hero.  In his address to an audience  in the U.S.A. he suggested that people had come to see:  "...whether  the  Prime  Minister  of Crocodile Dundee country  has  a  knife  in  his belt or not," but "like Mick Dundee"  he  "was  producing  a  weapon of enlightened self-interest."  For  the  good  or  for the bad, this country is branded  by such nicknames as: Down Under country, The Land of Oz,  The  land  of  Antipodes, but also Crocodile Dundee country.
             Since  production  of this movie, Gerry, brother of Phil, has  been  living  in suburbs of Brisbane, Ipswich, managing own  nightclub and playing roles in less famous movies. We phoned  them  and  he agreed to meet me, if I happened to be in  his  area,  but  I was not sure, whether I am going with camels to Brisbane or overpass it by north route.
             Before   our  going  home,  Rose  brother  wrote  in  his Australian  language:  "Anatoly  dined with us on 14 - 05. I trust  thorough  enjoyed  himself  in company with my sister Rosa  Laurelia + Brother in Law Philip. Anatoly, Good Luck + safe  journey.  Great  to  see  people still following their dream. God Speed."
             Before  going  to  bed,  Rosa  washed  my  clothing and I hanged  it  to  dry overnight. In my journal she wrote: "You stayed  with  us  for one night, but it was preasutible have you  have  you  stay  with  us. We trust that you have had a good  time with us. It would have been nice to show you more of  our town, but we understand that you have to keep going.  May  the  rest of your journey be happy, enjoyable and safe.  Lots  of  luck  + God speed. Aurelia Rosa Skilton." It was a matter-of-factual,    that   wives,   not   husbands   write well wishes in my logbook.
             The  next morning I knew about general direction of going towards  town  Warwick  but had no idea where I will stay on the  way.  Phil  shoved  me  the  old  road  going along New England  Highway and Rosa suggested to rest at her brother's fruit  shop close to the road, but it were quite a few shops along  my  way,  where  they sold fruits and vegetables from own  farms  to  passing tourists. Their prices were not very much  chipper  than  in  supermarket  but hospitality and an openheartness  of  these  people  were more precious. In the village  of  Cottonvale  I  even  was  gifted by bottle shop owner with big bottle of Toohy beer.
             At  one  of my stops, young girl with distinctly English accent approached me  and  she  really happened to be from  Manchester. I happened to visit that great city with a miserable  weather  and  was not surprised that Mara left it for  healthy Australian shores. All the history of the Great British  Empire  was  caused  by  terrible climate of United Kingdom,  people  could  stand  their  surroundings and vent overseas  for  a  better  weather  to  live  with. Even poor Robinson  Crusoe,  after  27  years  of living on a tropical island,  returned  home  to  Yorkshire just for a short time and  departed  again  for  further  travels. I was surprised reading  that  he  even  visited  Russia  with its miserable climate.  But,  for  a  similar reason, we also were great explorers.
             Poor  French didn't manage to build their Colonial Empire just  because  of  their good climate. Weatherproof Napoleon Bonaparte  made  big  mistake  taking over Moscow, very soon after,  he  returned  to France, frostbitten and without his Great   Army.  Australians  also  were  not  great  overseas explorers  because  of  their great weather, but New Zealand with  its  not so good climate, produced Sir Edmund Percival Hillary,  the first mountaineer, climbed on the top of Mount Everest.
             Surely,  these  thoughts  came  to my mind not when I was sitting  with  this  girl  in the middle of clover field and sharing  with her my tobacco. After staying for a few months in  Brisbane,  the  girl  (I  forgot her name) found herself between   drug   addicts   and   alcoholics.  With  a  great appreciation  she  accepted her friend's parents proposal to stay  on  their  farm  here. But meeting me with camels, she again  felt  restless  and  wanted  to join my expedition. I would  not  mind, but had no idea when and where I interrupt my  trip  around  Australia because the numbness of my hands was  irritating  and even troublesome. Money matter was also big  concern  of my expedition. I just promised her to phone as soon as I find what's going on with my life.
             Just  a  few  miles  further (this is a pain in a neck to switch  from  miles  to  kilometres  and  back, because even until  now  some secondary roads here are measured in miles) I  bumped  in rabbit-proof fence, perhaps, it was maintained by  the  Darling  Downs  Moreton Rabbit Board and as I found from  distributed  leaflet,  it was 541 kilometres-long. The fence  was about three meters of height and about one meter-deep  bellow  ground  surface.  It  was  protecting the most productive area of southeast Queensland.
             The  first  seven  domestic  rabbits  were brought by the First  Fleet  of  Captain  Arthur  Phillip in 1788, but most possible  that  they  were  eaten  by  colonists  and didn't escape.  But they escaped and established wild populations a bit  later  with  arrival  of  ships  in  southern Tasmania.
          Perhaps,  the  first importation of wild rabbits was made in
          1859,  by  Mr. Austin in state of Victoria and later in area
          of  Adelaide,  South  Australia. Rabbits spread was assisted
          by  humans as much as natural migration, and they were first
          reported  in southwest Queensland in the 1880's. Since then
          rabbits  became  the  major  agricultural  and environmental
          pest.  Australians  were  helpless with control of this pest
          until   1950's,   bringing   from   America   Myxoma   virus
          transmitted   by   mosquitoes,  which  initially  killed  99
          percent  of  infected  rabbits. But it was temporary victory because  survived  rabbits happened to be immune to this pox disease.  Since  then,  different  strains  of virus and its vector were introduced, the European and the Spanish flea.
             Besides  this  method, Australian poison, fumigate, shoot
          and  traps  rabbits,  or  erect  such rabbit-proof fences. My
          attitude  to  this  pest  is  ambiguous  because  I am not a
          farmer  but  just a world traveller, observing what is going
          on  with  this  planet. For my understanding, the major pest
          of  the  world  is not humble rabbit, Oryctolagus cuniculus,
          but  more  sophisticated  species, Homo sapiens, the man. He
          is  the  main  threat  to  this planet and reproduce himself
          with  better pace than a rabbit. I doubt that six billion of
          rabbits  exists  all around the world, but this is amount of
          human  population.  I  despise and don't respect the God who
          takes  care  in  behalf  of  human  been  and  let  them  to
          eradicate  other  living  species.  I  hate  this  stupid or
          hypocritical    Catholic   Pope,   Paul   II,  who  banished
          abortions    of   his   pastured   sheep   because   it   is
          sacrilegious,  and  he  blessed billions of human rabbits to reproduce themselves without any control.
             So,  I was angry because finished that tooth-rotting beer and  no  bottle  shop  was  around  to  buy  something  more substantial.


DINGO
         
             I  crossed  and  accurately  closed  the  gate  because a billboard  informed  me about $ 1,000 fine not doing it. The road  crossed  New  England  Highway  and guided me to small village  of  Dalveen  with  no shops or even gas station but with  post  office  that  was  closed because of weekend. I waved  to  a few girls at playground exercising their horses and  proceeded  to  the  fence for tethering my camels. As I expected,   these   girls,   after  finishing  they  rounds, approached  to  camels  for  petting  them  and I asked them about  any place to stay overnight. The eldest and prettiest one   agreed  to  call  her  mom  and  ask  her  about  such opportunity at their household.
             It  didn't take even ten minutes as pleasant women in her late  fortieth pulled over her light truck and smiled to me.  She  was outfitted in blue jeans with similar jacket and boots,  her tall and gracious figure was crowned with a wide brimmed  cowboy  hat.  Del,  she  was  called,  wife  of Jim Mitchell,  a  sheep  farmer  in many generations. I followed her  car down dirt road and soon came to the gate of her big farmhouse,  across  the  road  she showed me a small paddock fenced  with  brown  board,  perfect  place to keep and feed camels.
             I  was placed in small shack in far corner of the garden, which  was  built  especially for guests. Only after placing my  stuff  inside  and  smouldering  my  cigarette outside, I appreciated  the  beauty  of  this  artificial  Eden.  Their garden  was  built  from  piles of sandstone rocks with palm trees  and  flowering  plants between them, green lawns were accurately  mowed  and  maintained.  It  reminded  me Alpine garden  of  Melbourne  Botanical  Garden,  but  this one was created  just  by strength and dedication of one farm woman, who decided to make her place of life as Eden.
             Her  Adam, Jim, came later just for a short dinner brake, before  changing  his  appearance  for  another  role of his life.  All  the  day  he  was busy mending fences around his property,  but tonight he was scheduled for a meeting of his Masonic  Lodge  of  Rose  Croix chapter, which member he was for  many  years.  After  taking  shower,  Jim putted on his three-piece  black  suit with starched shirt and bow tie and decorated  himself  with  other  paraphernalia Masonic Order where  we  reached  30-th  grade of existing thirty-three. I was  amazed  by  such  transformation  of humble farmer in a nobleman  who  supposed  to  use his sword for an initiation ceremony of a new Lodge member.
             I  decided  to stay with Mitchell's one more day and to go with  Del  the  next morning for checking their sheep flock.  We   left   farmhouse   before  sunrise  and  Del  rode  her dilapidated  truck  through  multiple  gates  that I had to open  and  shut down behind. Grazing fields of this beautiful bushland  looked  peaceful,  with  patches of fog in valleys until  Del  paid attention at magpie birds circulating over one  spot  of  the  bush.  She stopped her car and took from behind  of  driver seat her rifle of 22-th calibre and asked me  to  follow  her  quietly  in  direction of that birds. We stealthily  approached  that place with her rifle pointed in that  direction  but found no predator but its victim, half-alive  sheep with broken hind leg and eaten out rear part of her  body.  Dingos  are  not  merciful  killing  their catch because  they  like  eating an alive flesh, and the predator already  vanished  leaving  its  victim  to  die. Del, half- sobbing,  said  that  she  also  could  not  shut  the sheep because  it  supposed  to be sheared alive and Jim will come here later to shear and kill this poor creature.
             Since  beginning  of  this  year  they  already  lost  to dingoes  more than 160 sheep and were desperate to kill them by  any  means. According to the Rural Lands Protection Act, dingoes  are  declared  unwanted  animals  and  as  such all property  owners  in  Queensland  are required to reduce the number  of  this  wild  dogs  on  their  property.  But  not everybody  follows  this  regulation  and  even in opposite, many  people consider these dogs as necessary part of native fauna.  In  reality,  most  of  them  already crossbred with domestic  dogs and these bastards are even more vicious than dingoes.  Before  white  settlers coming, dingo used to hunt small  species  of  kangaroo or other wild animals, but with growing  sheep  flocks  they  found easy prey and since then completely  changed  their hunting habit in behalf of sheep.  Del  despise  her  neighbour who she calls a vacations farmer because  most  of time he lives in Brisbane, making money in stock  market  and  comes to his farm from time to time just to  check  his cattle. he doesn't care about dingo living on his  property because they are not hunting his cattle having better prey of Del's sheep close by.
             Walking  across  the  bush,  Del noticed some movement in
          Piles  of dry wood and indicated me at a few rabbits crawling
          around  their  warren.  As  soon as she pointed her rifle in
          their  direction, rabbits disappeared from our view. She was
          terribly   concern   about   this  second  menace  of  their
          farmland,  which  supposed to be rabbit-free because of that
          government-installed   barrier   fence,   which   I  crossed
          yesterday.    She   has   had   suspicions   that   somebody
          intentionally  brought  rabbits  to breed and ruin by such a way her property.
             We  came back home with bad news for Jim, and he promptly phoned  to  special  rabbit  control  unit  to come over for eradicating  these rabbits. He decided to mend fence of that grazing  field,  where  we  found  that sheep. Del called to five  girls  whom she was taking care of each weekend giving them  lessons  of  horsemanship.  Those girls were living in dysfunctional  families  and preferred to stay in Del's home than  in their parents. They could stay here as long as they wished,  having  free  food  and  lodging. It was her way of serving  community  and  helping these girls to have happy adolescent years  with  no  drugs  or  alcohol.  They  came promptly  in  a  hope  to spend this beautiful day together, working and playing.
             Del's  brother,  Nevil,  also joined us. He was living in the  next-door  house  with mother, May Pierpoint. I visited him  previous  night and was flattered by his politeness and readiness  to  help  with  any  means.  He  told me that for seventeen  years he was working on his father's farm with no salary  or  permission  to  go  outside and finding a better job.  Perhaps,  his  father's  machismo  suppressed  Nevil's masculinity  because he is never been married and lived with his  mother  and  helped  his  sister  to  take  care of her household.  According  to  his  story,  Nevil happened to be poisoned  by  mysterious  chemical  and  since  then  he was living   on  disability  pension.  For  last  few  years  he acquired  cabinetmaker skills and was busy every day with masterminding  his custom-made cabinets. I was surprised how he  managed  to survive inhaling multiple chemicals used for finishing this furniture.
             We  departed  by  two  trucks  and  four-wheel  motorbike driven  by youngest son of Mitchell's, Mike. Jim was driving in  front  of  us  along electric fence showing us gaps made under  the  fence  by  dingoes and kangaroos. Electric wires were   going   along  top  and  bottom  of  barbwire  fence, preventing  animals  to  crawl  under. But smart-assed dingo managed  to  dig  out  the  ground under those wires and find themselves  at  killing field of sheep paddock. Our task was filling  these  holes  with rocks collected from surrounding pastures.  It  was  a  pleasant work-play not only for girls but also  for  me  with  digging  big rocks and placing them in a proper  position  under  the fence. We found a pleasant site on  the bank of small creek crossing their property. Del dig out  from  her  basket  meat  pies and cakes, hot coffee was served  from  thermos.  Jim was still busy mending the fence when  his daughter, Beardie, twice called him asking to join our   group.  After  second  call,  her  mother  reprimanded Beardie  saying  that  she  should  not persuade a man to do something  while  he  is  busy  with  own  task. "You should always wait for your man,"  Del said.
             Jim  was  busy  with placing traps across dingo's tracks.
          As  he  said,  dingoes eat just a fresh kill, and to lure them for  a  trap,  he  brought a mixture of dog feces with urine and  tuna  oil. Most of local dingoes were "trap shy" and it was  very  hard  to  catch,  he  even  thought  to  bring  a professional   dingo   hunter   to  rid  off  these  vicious bastards.
             Besides  two  youngsters,  Mitchells  had  two  grown  up daughters  and son, all of them lived in Brisbane. Daughters received  higher  education  and  were working in hospitals, but,  as Del, said, their son was spoiled by Jim, who always let  him  idle  when his daughters worked hard on farm or in the  city.  The  son  didn't study in any college and mostly was  fooling  around  the city and asking parent's financial support.
             On  the  way  back  home,  I  asked Jim to drop me at his brother's  place  for checking my E-mail. I was greeted by a middle-aged  man  with artificially coloured to hide his gray hair.  Cecil  Mitchell,  was  living  with his mother in old house,  which belonged to his recently late father. As Del's brother,  Nevil,  he  also  never been married, living under protective  wings  of  his mother, Una. From time to time he used  to  go  for  a  seasonal work of collecting fruits and vegetables,  but  most  of  the time he was staying home and making  a  monkey  business  like  being  an official agent-distributor   of  Rawleigh  Company,  Australian  analogue  of American Herbo-Life Company.
             Cecil  also  tried  himself in video-film business buying Camcorder  camera and advertising himself as a filmmaker for weddings  and  other  events  of local community. Because he never   studied   a   professional  moviemaking,  his  films happened  to  be  of  poor  quality and the business was not flourished.  Since  then  he  acquired a new toy, a personal computer  which  supposed  to  help Cecil make money through Internet.  Looked  like,  that he was not very much familiar with  own  computer  because when I asked him to check my E-mail   address,   Cecil   didn't  succeed  even  after  many attempts.  Finally he blamed a poor telephone connection for his  fiasco. Fooling around with him, I noticed watchful and suspicious  eyes  of  his  mother, who probably envied me to her  beloved  son.  This  life  tragedy  of  mother's sons I observed  many  times before and after and was sorry for its victims  ruined  lives.  Just  one  creature, which Cecil was allowed to play with, was his red parrot. When we came out, the  bird left her wild flock and nested on his shoulder for some fruit to taste.
             Finally  Del  came  to  bring me back home but she didn't pull  over  close  to  the house and waited me inside of her car.  It  was  obvious  that  she was not on good terms with mother-in-law.  On the way, she pointed at distant hill with a white cross on its top. It was burial place of her father-in-law,  Jim  Mitchell,  Sr.,  who  for  many  years was the Council  President  of  Rosenthal  County.  She  hopes to be buried  also  on  the  top  of  that  hill and her soul will observe all 1,200 acres of her beloved bushland.
             Jim  already  sheared  that  poor  victim  of dingoes and killed  her  with his hunting knife to make her meat part of our  dinner's  dish,  but he had already more than enough of sheep  carcasses in his freezer. The precious fleece of this sheep  was  saved but it was of secondary quality because it was  too  short  before  the  proper  time,  he was breeding Merino  sheep of super-fine fleece, 17 microns. But his farm could  be  ruined  if he will not manage to get rid of those bloody dingoes.
             To  our  dinner  party,  Norma  Marsh joined, she was old friend  and  Mitchell's  neighbour, who proudly called herself the  member  of  Neighbourhood  Watch Group, who watched from her  window  what's  going  on  at  the  street. Norma still remembers  hard  times  of the Great Depression and saved her skill  of  a  wool handspinning. Even nowadays she spins the wool  produced  by  Del's  flock  of  sheep  with variety of colours,  which  priced by sophisticated weavers abroad. As a true  old-timer,  Norma lamented that Australians don't make anything  from  their  sheep fleece but import wool clothing made from their exported wool.
             To  my  dismay,  I  found that actually dingo hunted down not  one  but  two sheep. Before going to bed, we drove with Jim  to  his  neighbour,  police officer that had many dogs to feed.  He  appreciated  Jim's  donation of sheep carcass and promised   to   hunt   down   those  dingoes  together  with professional  hunters  who  Jim wanted to invite for hunting on his land.
         
          WARWICK
         
             The  next  morning, Del and I again drove to that killing sheep  field and found no dingo trapped by Jim's device, but at least those wild dogs hunted down no sheep. Dale also  asked me before departure to stop at her son's primary school  for  a  short  lecture  to  its  pupils.  It  was my pleasure  and  even  obligation  of telling young Australian about their history connected with camels.
             Del  already  phoned  to  her neighbour, Donald White, and asked  accommodate  me  overnight while I will be on the way to  town of Warwick. As promised, Donald wrapped his mailbox with  plastic bag and it was no problem finding his property along  the  road.  As  soon  as  I  passed the gate, barking chorus   of  multiple  dogs  informed  its  owner  about  my arrival.  I noticed on top of the hill a man who was limping in  my  direction surrounded by seven dogs of multiple colour and variety of breed.
             Donald  happened  to  be  in  his late sixties of age and limped   because  stopped  yesterday  on  sharp  nail , which pierced  his  rubber  shoe.  He  already  prepared his guest house  for  my  staying,  bringing there bedding, fruits and coffee  to  make,  but tonight I should not be concern about my  food  because  Donald  decided to make a barbecue party, inviting his young friends.
             Finishing  with  unloading  and  hobbling  my  camels,  I joined  the company. The first to come was big and fat young man  in  early  twentieth who barely walked. Jack has been a prisoner  of his body since teenage years and his conditions barely  improved  after relocating to Brisbane where he used to  take  illegal  drugs and marijuana. Jack finally reached such  a  stage  of  his  life,  that he was on  the brink of dying,  when  he  met  Donald and asked him to come here for doing  any  menial job for permission to stay and recuperate after  all  those narcotics. He was getting better but still in need some medications and consulting with his physician.
             The  second  guest  came later with his two 5 and 7-year-old  daughters.  He  also  used  to live at Donald's station after  divorcing  his  wife,  but  relocated back to Warwick after  the  court  decision  to  be  single custodian of his daughters.  His  ex-wife  was  found not capable to be their custodian  and  effective  mother  because  of her alcoholic habits.   He  didn't  work  having  government  support  for raising  daughters.  It  is  amazing  how many people whom I came across live on this government paycheques.
             After  his  guests  leaving,  Donald  invited  me  to his library  with  fireplace  and round table decorated with two burning  candles,  so  familiar  to me by visits of American homes,  but  rare  for Australian dinner-parties. He told me that  his  ancestors  came  to  England from Normandy with a fleet  of  William  the  Conqueror  in  1066.  In  1915, his grandfather,  the  Infantry  General, successfully conducted the  evacuation  of  ANZAC  soldiers  from Gallipoli. Donald shoved  me  the  book  written about general White (I forgot his first name).
             Donald  also  for  many  years  was  in  service for RAAF helicopter  squadrons  or  wings. He used to fight in Korean War  and  also  was  a  military advisor in times of Vietnam War.   After  retirement,  Donald  earned  a  very  generous veteran  pension  and  bought  this Rokeby station, where on 5,000  acres  he  raise  just  300  cattle.  He  recalled my staying  at  Mitchell's sheep station and asks his attitude to dingo's  problem.  For  Donald  they  were  not  the problem because  they  even  not  chased  his  young  calves,  so he thought,  that being the native animals, they should be left to  live  in  their  natural  habitat.  I just reasoned that there   is   no  natural  habitats  left  in  this  part  of Queensland.
             The  next  morning  Don phoned to Daily News, the Warwick newspaper,  and  in  two  hours  I was surprised meeting its chief  of staff, Daniel Sankey. To my amazement, he happened to  be  just  22-year-old  cherubic  boy, by my standards. I used  to meet the chiefs of staff well after forty, but this one   was  exceptional.  He  happened  to  be  a  very  good photographer  even  with Vanya's rejection to let me sitting on  his  back.  These  camels,  even  hobbled, managed twice cross  the  fence  and  come  to  the main road and I had to confine  them  to  a  small paddock with little of grass but with high and strong fence.
             I  requested  Donald  to  give  me  a ride to Warwick for negotiating  of  my  staying on its Showground. As matter of fact,  Shire Councils manage showgrounds, but this one  belonged  to private Show & Rodeo Society Inc. In their office  I  got to stay the next night and graze my camels in a  cattle  yard.  On the way back, Donald decided to stop at Westfarmers  shop  for  buying  hay for camels and boots for me.  He  paid attention that my old suede boots almost fell in  parts  and  decided  to  buy typical Australian boots of Blundstone  Company.  I  always dreamed to have them but the price  was  not  affordable - 60 dollars. So, Donald made me fantastic gift.
             He  again  invited me for dinner party in his library and opened  bottle  of  good  red  Port  that didn't dissolve tooth enamel, as most cheap Ports do. Donald didn't want to discuss  his  divorce with wife after which he had no desire to  be  remarried. Besides the young men whom he helped with housing  and  temporary  jobs  of  mending fences and taking care  of  his  cattle,  he  had a permanent company of seven dogs.  They  slept  inside and outside of his big house with multiple  bedrooms  or  wander  around Olympic-size swimming pool,  never  being  filled  with  water. I just felt a deep bitterness  of  his  filling towards women who betrayed him.  In  this respect he found in me a good soul mate, especially after  he  checked  my  E-mail  and  found no letter from my second Xena from St.- Petersburg.
             Donald  made  a  good breakfast with fried bacon and eggs for  me  but  only  cereals  with  milk for himself. He also promised  to  bring  me  lunch while I will be on the way to Warwick.  Being  so  long  on the road, I could not help but being  surprised  by  quantity  of kennels along my way, how they  manage to find so many four-legged patrons? Even along this  country  road  I  counted  two  looking very expensive kennels  with  variety  of  other  animals  grazing  in  the fields.  But  my  camels  aren't  used  for  kennels  and we proceeded further.
             At  one of my stops, an old woman came over and handed me the  fresh  issue  of  Daily  News with my portrait on first page.  I  already  used  to  such  coverage  but was pleased reading  in  Daniel's article: "Mr. Shimansky's time with the Mitchell's  at  Dalveen  will provide an important section of his  book, as he will highlight their fight against dingoes.  `When  you only have 2,000 sheep and you lose 160 head, like they  have,  it  is  terrible,'  he  said. Mr. Shimansky paid tribute  to the Mitchell's and Mr. White, who he said typified the generosity of Australians."
             It  was  very  nice  of him to mention my appreciation of Australian  hospitality  and  generosity and Mr. White didn't forget  to  bring  me  lunch and flock of hay for my camel's lunch  as  well. After finding that there is no grass in the paddock  of  Showground, Donald vent to a rural supply store and  brought  from  there two more bales of hay. That time I already  unloaded  camels  and  pitched  my  tent  close  to showground's  office  but had no time to relax. Sally Nicole, from  ABC  Radio  branch in Toowoomba came to take interview with  me.  After  speaking with her, I begged Donald to give her  interview  as  well.  From  the beginning he was shy to speak  out  but  Sally  happened  to  be a very professional journalist  and  managed  to  converse  with  him  at  least fifteen   minutes.  Later  on,  it  was  broadcaster  around Queensland  and  I  had an opportunity to hear my stuttering voice  and Donald's story about our meeting in the middle of bushland.  In  my diary Sally wrote: "Anatoly, what a joy to find  someone  doing  something simply for love + enjoyment.  Happy + safe travels."
             A  Showground  keeper  told  me  about  location  here of women's  corrections  facility  and  I  decided  to visit it right  away. It was placed just hundred meters from my tent, in  a  small  one-story building with no walls around and no bars  in  windows.  Couple  of young women was sitting near entrance,  smouldering their cigarettes, they show me the way to  the warden's office. Middle-aged woman behind desk named herself  Suzan  and granted me an interview with reluctance.  Under  her supervision eleven young women were serving their term  for  petty  crimes.  Because  of  their good behaviour, these  women  were  relocated from a regular prisons to this minimum  security  camp where they spent nights, but daytime they  worked  on  variety  of  Warwick community projects of cleaning  parks  or working in nursing homes. It was strange to  see  these  possible  descendants of convicts brought to this  country  centuries ago. In their way, these women kept outlaw  tradition  of  this  country.  Their  warden was not hospitable  and responsive for my request to sign my ledger, but  allowed  her inmate to write: "In behalf of the Warwick Corrections  Women's  Work  Camp I would like to wish you the best  of your travels. We hope that the people you meet will welcome  you  while  you  rest your weary feet. May you days and  nights be free of any trouble. Just remember that every home  is  well  welcome  you  no matter how humble. From the girls  and staff, from Warwick women's work camp." Their home was  not  very  welcoming  and  I was even more stupefied by good  relationships  between  these  inmates  and their she-warden.  Anyhow,  I  left  this  establishment  being  a bit puzzled.
             Even  more I was surprised sighting near my place a truck with  a  billboard  sign  "Moscow Circus." What's hell going on?  My curiosity was satisfied after meeting a truck owner, woman  of  late  fortieth  who  was  walking around with her small  dog.  Bev  Bryans  was  sent by her employer, Michael Edgley's  Moscow  Circus  Company to place billboards around Warwick  to advertise oncoming performance of this circus in the  town.  It  was  the  last show of Moscow Circus in this country,  after  which  most  of them were returning back to Russia  and  Bev's  contract  will  be over. She had no idea what to do next.
             While  we  were sitting and drinking coffee in her moving  house,  she  told  me  her  life story of living her parents home  just  being  fifteen and joining to travelling circus.  Since  then  all  her life was dedicated to flashy but hardy life  of  trapeze  acrobat.  The walls of her dwellings were decorated  with  multiple  photos of young and beautiful Bev performing  her  gymnastic  feats and swings up the air with trapezes.  She  used be called the Flying Princess. But with an  age her body's flexibility was getting stiffer and her face  was  gaining  some  unwanted wrinkles, until she found herself being off stage.
             For  all  her  life  Bev  didn't  manage  to make her own family  and  home.  Last year she stayed as a home attendant in  house  of  her  former  French boyfriend who instead her married  Chinese  juggler.  Both  of  them  have had a great satisfaction  in  mocking  her. Since then Bev returned to her  mobile  home and lives with her Pekinese dog, her just friend and partner.
             Listening   to  her  I  was  sparkled  by  good  idea  of
          introducing  her  to  my  friend,  Donald, who's home was in
          disarray  because  no  woman  was  attending it. Using Bev's
          mobile  telephone, I called him and suggested hiring her as
          an   home attendant.  Donald  was  in  a  bad  mood  because
          shuttling  between his homestead and my place he lost one of
          his  dogs, but at least he promised to return a call as soon
          as possible.
             Before  going  to  bed, Bev made entree in my logbook: "I
          am  passing  over  night. I meet Anatoly and his best friend
          Xena,  Vanya  (camels)  as  I work for Moscow Circus putting
          billboards.  My main work before was Flying trapeze for many
          years. Wishing you all you best on your travel."
         
         
          SCARECROWS
         
             Bev  handed  me  the  voucher  for  two  tickets  to  the performance  of  the  Moscow Circus but I decided to proceed further  not  waiting  for its arrival in two days. I hugged Bev  and  directed  my  camels towards small town of Allora.  Along  the way I was many times surprised and my camels were scared  by   scarecrow  figures  displayed in front yards of many  households.  One  of  its dwellers handed me a leaflet with  information  that  town of Allora has “carried on” the Scarecrows  as  part  of the fun and Community Spirit of the town   and   district.  “Not  limited  to  paddocks  only!!!  Scarecrows  have  invaded business houses, front gardens and scout dens to name but a few!!”
             I  recalled  the  nickname  of this country - The Land of Oz.  In  the  fictitious  country  of Oz, a girl from Kansas named  Dorothy  Gale  befriended  a  scarecrow while walking down  the  famous  Yellow Brick Road. Before meeting her, he complained  about having no brains but the trip with Dorothy improved  his  mental  capacity.  I  also  noticed a plastic woman  manikin  in  one  of front gardens, which served as a scarecrow  but  Xena was so spooked by this potential rival, that I decided to proceed further without woman.
             Along  the  road  I  also  noticed  quite a few apple and cherry  orchards  entangled  completely with a net. From the beginning  I  guessed that it was made to keep off birds but later  my  hosts  explained  that  nets  cover  orchards  to protect  them  from  frequent in this region hails. My host, Trevor  Gleeson,  pulled  over his car and suggested to stay at  his  household.  In  meantime, he was on the way to pick his  twin  sons  from  a  schoolbus  and  promised  to  make arrangement for grazing my camels at Allora’s showground.
             After  placing  camels  to  cattle yard with abundance of green  grass,  we loaded his truck with my stuff and came to his  spacious  house  on  top  of the hill. Trevor bought it recently,  after  retirement  from executive position in big dairy   company,   being  only  56-year-old.  He  made  good investment  buying  not only the house but also a dairy farm with  130  milking  cows.  But he didn’t managed or attended the  farm  leasing  it  out  to his brother’s family. Trevor enjoyed  more  attending  weekly  meetings of Rotary Club in Brisbane  and  was  happy  noticing in my logbook a business card   of   my  previous  host,  Brendan  Cusack,  who  also frequented the same club.
             Inside  house,  I was greeted by his wife, Christine, and twins,  Tim  and Jon, 14-year-old. These boys were so clean, white,  with  similar smiles on their faces, that I compared them  with cherubs. Warned about my arrival, Christine had a time  to broil lamb for our dinner on veranda, since there I will   be   travelling   through  a  veranda-house  country.  Queenslanders  distinguish themselves from rest of Antipodes by this elaborate part of their dwelling architecture.
             Our  dinning  table  was  covered  with linen tablecloth, candles,  starchy  serviettes  and silverware of real silver obliged  me  to behave in accordance with this environment - noblesse  oblige.  I  always  mess up with choosing a proper silverware  but managed to finish dinner without big mishap.  After  dinner, Trevor filled glasses with a good port and we discussed  their  country-life.  Obviously, they didn’t have big  financial  problems  with  good investment and Trevor’s generous pension allowance.
             For  last  few  years, Christine, raising twins, involved herself   with   activity   of   Australian  Multiple  Birth Association.  With  development of a new fertility drugs, we witness,  at  least on TV screens, more and more couples who managed  to give birth not one or two, but six or even eight children.  Media  glorifies  these  events hiding the bitter truth  of  the  families with  children born underdeveloped, and  they are doomed to grow with multiple birth defects. To me,  these  new  “fertilizers”  make more harm than good for people  using  them.  So, Christine decided to make research of  this  problem  and  joined  the  Association.  She paid attention  that  her  own  twins,  being  depended  of  each others,  don’t pay enough attention at their surrounding and their development is slower than she would like to see.
             After   buying   computer  and  connecting  to  Internet, Christina  found  a  lot of parents with similar problems or much  worst,  with six or seven siblings. Last year she even participated  in  the  International  Conference of Multiple Birth  in  Tokyo and Trevor paid for it. Many years ago she graduated  college  with  Bachelor  degree in psychology and only  now  she  found  an opportunity to fulfil her dream of making  research  and  gaining  Master of Science degree. My diary  she  filled  with  following  note: “Anatoly, may you continue  to  enjoy  our  country.  As  you  have  realized, Queenslanders  are  great  people. Look forward to your next book  when it is printed in English. Hope to see you one day in St. Petersburg. May God Bless you.”
             Even  bigger,  than that famous actor, Gleeson brought me back  to  camels  and  promised to came later along the road with  lunch,  he  also phoned to WIN-TV station in Toowoomba to  film  my  progress along the road. Sally Wilson with her crew  came  shortly  to  shot  my camels, but as a matter of fact  I  rare  have  an  opportunity  to watch myself on the screen,  being  on  the road or in places without TV. My ego of  being known to many people already satisfied by coverage of  my  trip  through  the  U.S.A.,  but  it  is helpful for finding a camping places.
             Before  long,  I  sighted  a  single  bicyclist  going in opposite  direction  with heavy load of his luggage. Surely, we  didn’t  miss  an opportunity to speak about our travels.  Malcolm   Lambert  was  from  Tasmania  (or,  as  he  called himself,  kiddingly,  - Tasmaniac) and was travelling around Australia  already four months. Physicist by trade, he spent two  years  as  a  research  scientist  at  Australian Polar Station  in  Antarctica. After that he spent a few years  on some  research  project  for  Hobart  University,  but after reaching  his middle-age crisis Malcolm decided to go around this  country   in  search of his soul. To survive, he stops for  making  money  by seasonal work and after that proceeds further.  I’ve  been  on  similar  pace  for a few years and remained  him  Aesop’s  fable:  “Slow  and  steady  wins the race.”
             Such  kind  of  drifters always existed on this Earth and they  will survive even after the Earth cease to exist. What I  mean  is  that  nothing  lasts  forever,  even  the  most successful  species  of  dinosaurs  were extinguished by the time  and  changed  conditions.  The species of Homo sapiens also   will  not  exist  forever,  according  to  scientific calculations,  it will exhaust its potentials in less than 8 million  years,  and  it will be no human been in this solar system.  But  such  wanderers as Malcolm will move for other planets  or galaxies to make the foundation of a new species - Homo wanderer.
             We  exchanged  addresses  and  phone numbers for possible trip  together around South America sometime in next century and  said  farewells.  Malcolm proceeded further south but I was  hold  by  truck  driver  who  decided to stop for quite unusual  request.  His  name was Cris and the reason for his stop  was  to  ask  me  about somebody who would like to buy from  him 12 camels. I don’t know how Cris managed to gather so  many  this  beasts  on  his  farm  but  he exhausted his abilities  to  find any buyer for them and was ready to kill them  if  he  will not find anybody to take them or buy very cheap.  I  have  had  nobody in this region who bred or used camels  but  was sure that very soon I have to find them for my  own purpose, so I wrote his phone number and promised to be in touch as soon as possible.
             My  road was slowly climbing up hill where I noticed huge
          farmhouse  with  perfect  grazing fields surrounding it. The
          house  and  board  fences were brand new which was important
          to   keep  my  camels  from  sneaking  out.  Approaching  to
          property  gate,  I  noticed  a sign “Be aware of angry dog,”
          but  I’ve  been  always aware and had my whip ready for such
          an  encounter.  It  was  no bell or buzzer at the gate and I
          decided  to  proceed  further but could not fide any lock to
          open  the  gate.  Wandering  around,  I finally stopped on a
          wide  bar  which  served as a lever for opening the gate not
          side  way but upside. In amazement, I proceed under the gate
          which  slowly lowered behind me. It was nobody in front yard
          and  I  walked further towards big barking dog but I was not
          afraid  because  noticed  that  he was waving his tale while
          barking.  He  was definitely not angry guardian dog ready to
          kill  himself in defending his hosts property. But they were
          not  home  and I returned to those gates and found them very
          convenient.  If  you drive a car, you don’t need to come out
          for  opening  the gate because the front wheel of car by its
          weight  activates a lever to lift gate and after passing it,
          the  gate is closed by its own weight. It is very useful for
          lazy people.
             After  walking  just  couple  kilometers down the hill, I
          reached  small  village  of  Pilton.  The  main and only one
          community  house  was also memorial to veterans of all wars,
          which  Australia  was  involved  in. I hitched camels to the
          fence  and  decided  to wait until somebody of locals decide
          to  speak  with me and will give me opportunity to ask about
          camping place overnight.
             Time  and  again,  I  am  puzzled  how  much this country
          nourishes  and  preserves its glorious past, which sometimes
          even  not so much glorious, as defeat of ANZAC in Gallipoli.
          Perhaps,  any  country prone to forget its shame and make it
          glorious.  When  in  1812, Russian army lost the battle with
          Napoleon  army  and  he occupied Moscow, for a short time it
          was  considered  as  a  shameful  defeat.  But later Russian
          historians  decided,  that  our  army  was  not defeated but
          retreated  in  a good and heroic order to regroup and attack
          French  invaders  after  they burned down Moscow. Finally we
          prevailed  and  poor  Napoleon  lost  most  of  his army not
          because  of our heroic soldiers but because of Father Frost.
          Americans  also  don’t  like  to  remember  that after their
          victory   over  British  in  the  American  Revolution  they
          suffered  a  bitter  defeat.  In 1814, British army occupied Washington  and  burned  down  the White House, the House of Representatives  and  the  Library  of  Congress.  Who cares now?!
             My  historical allusions were interrupted by pulling over car  driven  by  a  teacher of local school, Terry Ryan, who was  on the way home with two his children. Terry noticed me on  the  road  long  before  and now decided to invite me to stay  at  his place, seven kilometers down the road. I would like  to  go  there  but  my  camels  have  had  a different attitude  and  decided  to  stay at that place. But at least Vanya agreed to give ride to his one and daughter.
             Terry  managed  the situation just asking a local farmer, Colin  Bell,  to  let  camels  graze in his paddock, he also negotiated  my  staying  in  that  community hall overnight.  After  that  he  decided  to invite me for a dinner party in his home and bring me back to sleep close to my mates.
             Colin  mended  fence  around paddock and I hobbled camels before  letting  them to graze. After that his wife, Gloria, unlocked   the  community  hall  to  let  me  sleep  in  the kindergarten  room,  where  I  made  good  bedding by piling their small mattresses on the floor.
             Terry  brought  me  in  his house for barbecue party with his  children  and  wife,  Jenny. She was not aware about my coming  and  a  bit  shocked seeing a stranger in her house.  However,  Jenny  recuperated very fast because already heard about  my expedition being a teacher of Tim and Jon Gleesons who  talked  their  classmates about an excitement of riding my  camels.  Appreciating  her  story,  I  thought  about an advantage  of  my  slow travelling across this country which allowed   people   to   pass  along  their  hospitality  and generosity as in a relay race.
             Terry  also liked Victoria Bitter beer (VB) and quoted to me  Australian  slogan:  “Avoid  Hangovers,  Stay Drunk.” We  drunk  VB,  discussing bombardment of Serbia by NATO forces, which  was  shown  on  TV.  He  supported this action, but I furiously  opposed because knew that an ethnic cleansing was common  practice of both sides of Kosovo conflict, Serbs and Albanians.  Being of Slavonic blood and nominal Christian, I definitely supported Serbs.
             Both  Ryans  teach  English and history in their schools,
          Terry  in  Pilton  and  Jerry  in Allora. We could not avoid
          discussion  of  immigration  problems  and  role  of Pauline
          Hanson’s  party  of  One  Nation  in  opposition  to current
          government  policy  of multicultural Australia. I shared her
          concern  that  with  the  current  pace of Asian immigration
          Australia  soon  will  be  swamped by “yellow sea” of people
          with  no  culture,  with  a  single philosophy and desire to
          find   less   crowded   breeding   grounds.   Liberal  Ryans
          considered   Pauline   Hanson  as  a  white  supremacist.  I
          reasoned  that  indigenous  Aborigines also oppose it. Their leader  in  Canberra,  Charles  Perkins, wants to stop Asian immigration  completely,  but  he  is  in  favor  of African immigration.    Ryans    had   nothing   against   a   black supremacists.
             At   the  end  of  our  party  Jenny  commented:  “It  is interesting  to  hear  your  perspectives  about Australia - politics,  culture,  etc. I hope you have a safe journey and that  experiences in our country are always positive. I look forward  to  reading  your  book in the future. The children enjoyed the camel rides. Thank you!”
             Terry   added:   “Congratulations   on  your  adventurous spirit.  You  prove that people are the home no matter where we  are from. You are doing what most people are not gone to do,  go  out without a fortune and travel the world. Keep up the spirit!”
             He  gave  me  a  ride  back  to Pilton and asked to write about   progress  of  travel  and  book  about  his  beloved country.  I also getting involved in this country’s life and even  was  part its landscape, people already used to see me with camels on the roads.
         
          BROTHERS
         
             I  was outraged but not surprised seeing my camels jumped over  fence and grazed along the road. Colin Bell, the owner of  that  paddock, came out to invite me for a cup of coffee together  with wife. Approaching their home, I appreciated a sweet  smell  of  fresh-baked  bread  coming  from  kitchen.  Gloria  greeted  me  with wide smile and suggestion to taste her  bread  with  butter  and honey from their own bee-hive.  Down  the  road,  I  already  met many housewives making own bread,  it  gained popularity with a new, simple to operate, baking  devices.  Prefabricated  flour with variety of seeds is  easy  to  buy in any shopping center. Before my leaving, Gloria  wrapped   for me one of her loaves. She also noticed my  irritation with blowflies and gave me a new mesh to ward them off.
             Vanya  was  so  nice  giving  me  a ride on flat road but warded  me off as soon as road vent up hill. With their long legs,  camels  feel  uncomfortable  walking  up  or down the road.  They  were  getting  even  more frightened after high rocks  squeezed  the  road  from both sides, each big truck, especially  passing  us  from  behind, made Xena spooked and she  ran  from  it, bumping in Vanya and entangling him with her  leading rope. Most of the times I managed to guide them off  road  shoulder, but once, when the road was bordered by metal   railings,   they   ran  down  the  road  endangering themselves  and passing cars. I ran behind them, blindfolded by  a  mesh,  which  slide down hat over my face. Not seeing anything  around,  I  bumped my knee against a road pole and after  that  kept  running  with  bleeding  leg.  Finally  I managed  to  throw  away  my  hat and to see what’s going on around.  Luckily,  a  trucker  understood  my  situation and pushed  his  brakes,  stopping his enormous B-double cattle-truck.  I  was  lucky  that  it was no car going in opposite direction.  Most  of  truckers  driving  along  this highway already knew me and were careful passing my caravan.
             In   addition   to  these  road  conditions,  it  started raining,  so  I  decided to find a temporary hideout. On the right  I  sighted  a  small  dairy farm with a milking barn.  After  tethering  camels to the fence railing, I entered the barn  and  greeted  two  middle-aged  men  busy with milking cows.  They  barely  nodded  in  response  and kept bringing their  small  and  dirty cows in the barn filled with manure and  swarms of blowflies. I recalled the dairy of my friend, David  Birch,  in  New South Wales, with clean cows and tidy milking  barn and found this one in complete disarray. But I wanted  to  taste their milk and asked one of men to give me some.  Looking  a  bit  frightened,  he  said  that milk was contaminated  with  mastitis  and  was not good to drink. It surprised  me  but  I  thought  that after pasteurization it could be safe for processing if not for drinking.
             Coming   out   to  proceed  further,  I  noticed  an  old farmhouse  on  top  of distant hill and face of old woman in one  of  its  dirty  windows.  As  soon  as she found that I noticed  her,  she  closed  curtains.  It was a very strange farm  with  a bit spooky people inhabiting it, and it was no option of staying here overnight.
             After  crossing  the bridge across Ma Ma Creek, I decided to  ask  about  shelter  in  big falling in parts house. Its front  stairs  were  rotten  down and I decided to go around and  try  to  call  somebody from opposite side of it. To my surprise,  even back entrance barely existed, save of narrow board  connecting  an edge of lawn with an entrance door, it was  a  deep  ditch  around  house fundament. An old man was doing  something  in  kitchen  and  I  called him. Caught by surprise,  he  jerked  and  turned  in  my direction, but at least  didn’t  shut  me. I begged pardon for frightening him and  asked  him  about  any  shelter in neighborhood. It was obvious  that he had nothing own to suggest. Surrounding his house  barns  and  sheds  were in disrepair, piles of rotten boxes  and  pallets  indicated that long time ago its owners used  to grow some fruits or vegetables. Even bee-garden was abandoned  by  honeybees, who refused to live in rotten bee-heaves.
             Darell  was obviously not the person who knew what he was doing  on  his  farm.  The  fence  of  grazing  field was in disrepair  and  could not restrain camels from sneaking out.  He  suggested  to  phone  his neighbor down the road and ask his  permission to stay overnight there. In meantime, Darell decided   to  discuss  politics  and  expressed  sorry  that Russians  speak  out  more  than work, I agreed with him but hide  my  thought  that  he also resembled a typical Russian farmer, who would rather drink vodka than tilt his land.
             Darell’s  neighbor  agreed  to  accept me on his property and  I  proceeded  just  kilometer to meet him. John Collins was  a  tall  and  skinny  man about my age, who came to the gate  of  his  property  with exotic name - “Wirraninna.” He greeted  me  and guide toward his house made from corrugated iron  shed. We decided to place camels for grazing downhill, where  it  was  enough  of  green  grass  and water in Ma Ma Creek.  But  as  soon  as I hobbled them and relieved from a lead  rope,  my  mates  galloped  up hill where no grass was available.  I  again  brought  them  to  the  creek but they refused  to  pasture  there,  being spooked by something. Up hill,  John  gave  them  a flock of hay, which they finished promptly, but didn’t go for grazing on that green grass.
             In  the  house  I  was greeted by Jim’s girlfriend, Joan, and  his  dog,  Tip.  This  former  machinery  shed  was not divided  on  separate  bedrooms  and  kitchen,  but was as a single  living  room.  After  hitching  my  tent  nearby,  I returned back for a dinner and chitchat.
             My  hosts  lived  together already fifteen years but were not  married  for  very  simple reason of pension allowance.  Jim  has  been  on disability pension since being injured on his  job many years ago. Joan also was receiving pension for some  other  reason  and each of them had monthly government check  of  $740.  In  case of marriage, their common pension supposed  to  be much less, so, it was no reason for them to be married.
             I  was  also  very curious about that dairy farm, which I dropped  by  couple  hours  ago.  Joan  was happy to tell me about  that  strange family. The brothers, Colin and Francis Tailor,  in  their  early fiftieth, live all their life with mother,   who  is  now  82.  She  has  always  been  a  good protective  mother  who  didn’t want her sons to fool around with   unworthy  girls  or  women  who  she  knew  or  those newcomers  who  she didn’t know and was even more suspicious about.  To  protect  her  sons  from bad influence, she kept them  busy  from sunrise to sunset taking care of dairy farm of  80  cows.  They  don’t smoke or drink and go to bed at 7 P.M.  to wake up  5 A.M. and be ready for a day-long of work on  their  farm.  But they never had any proper education in farming,  being drop outs after seventh grade. Brothers have no  idea  about how improve their farm’s stock and avoid its inbreeding.  So,  their  cows’ milk productivity is very low and   the  herd  is  infested  by  many  diseases  including mastitis, which I mentioned before.
             Most  of  people in this area are crossconnected and know each  other  and  newcomers, as my hosts, John and Joan, are not  welcomed  even after fifteen years of living here. Joan even  joked, that being so much crossconnected, these people suffer  hereditary  diseases  after  inbreeding, the similar way  as  their cows. The brothers or their relative, Darell, are  tainted with a similar maturation problem and could not reproduce  themselves.  Actually,  Joan  was  not  very much merciful  even to her own boyfriend, saying that it took her a  lot  of time and temper for taking John from household of his  mother.  He used to be a mother’s son until 40-year-old and  even  now his mother lives close by and try to take her son back.
             About  7  P.M.  I  asked  my  hosts  to  switch on WIN-TV channel   for  watching  myself  on  the  screen  as  it was scheduled  for  Friday.  John  disappointed  me by news that because  of  surrounding mountains their TV-set couldn’t get signal  from  Toowoomba.  But  at  least  we  could  make  a telephone  calls  around  and,  first  of  all, to family of Tippers.  John  told  me  that these people have a farm with more  than 40 camels. On my call Gloria Tipper responded and was  happy  to  happy  to hear about my expedition, her farm was  in  area of Whitestone Mountain, not far from here, but she  couldn’t  come  to  see me because of her schedule. For each  weekend  with  husband, Joe, she was going to Brisbane for  giving  rides  to  children  in  parks, it was the main source  of  their  income. So, we made an arrangement for my call   after  weekend  and  our  meeting  to  discuss  camel matters.
             My  hosts  vent  to  bed very early but let my to stay at veranda  with  lights on. It was interesting to find that Ma Ma  Creek  is  named  as  such because the hills in the area look  like  native  huts  (Mia Mias in Aborigines language).  Queenslanders  are  proud  of their beautiful state and even have own “Lord’s Player of Queensland”:
          Our Father who art in Kingeroy
          Hallowed be thy Peanut
          Thine Kingdom be here and now
          Thy will be done (or else),
          Give us this day our duly banana
          And forgive us our trespassers
          And let police arrest those who
          Trespassing against us.
          And lead us not into
          New South Wales but deliver us
          From all Communist infested states
          For thine in Queensland
          The power and the glory,
          Forever and ever.
         
             We  phoned  in advance to Mayor of Gatton, Bernie Satton, who  promised  to  make  arrangement for my staying on their showground.  I  also  called to Brian Taylor, author of “The Forky  Stick”  book,  who lived nearby, in Toowoomba, and he promised to meet me at showground later afternoon.
             We  finally passed Mount Mistake from the right and Mount
          Whitestone  from  the  left  and  were  going down  warm and
          fertile  valley with plenty of grass. This region was called
          the  Vegetables  Basket  of  Queensland  and very soon I was
          walking  between  onion  and  tomato  fields  with plenty of
          tomatoes  rolled  down close to the road. I didn’t miss such
          an   opportunity  to  feed  myself  and  camels  with  these
          delicious vegetables (actually, they are fruits).
             After  making turn from my rural road to Warrego Highway,
          I  very  soon  apprehended  that  I could not go very far by
          this  road.  It  connected  western  part of Queensland with
          Brisbane  and  was  incredibly  busy  with traffic. Perhaps,
          after  Gatton I should proceed further north in direction of
          Esk,  and being there I will make a final decision whether I
          am going to the coast or finishing my trip.
             In  outskirts  of  Gatton I was approached by bearded man
          with  shining  from inside eyes who suggested to stay at his
          community  farm  five  kilometers  east of Gatton. I already
          managed  to  make  more  than 25 kilometers and a bit tired,
          but  also  I  was concern about sanity of the man. He looked
          like  a proselyte of some exotic religion or sect, who would
          be  happy  to  convert  me  in his faith, but I was sick and
          tired of any religion, and physically tired as well.
             I  bypassed downtown area of this tidy and beautiful town
          by  outskirts  and came to showground. Nobody was meeting me
          despite  mayor’s assurance and had no idea where to place my
          camels.  It  was  even no public telephone around and I vent
          outside  to call mayor from any house on the street. Not far
          from  the  gates I noticed a group of people in front garden
          of  house  across  the  street.  Only  being  very  close, I
          guessed,  who  they  were,  because they all hold in hands a
          Bible.  Certainly,  they  discussed  religious  matters  and
          belonged  to  Born  Again  Christian sect. After introducing
          myself,  I  listened  for  awhile  topic  their  discussion.
          Mostly  it  was  about  sinners, living in this town and not
          truly  believing  in  Jesus Christ. Their first question was
          not  about  my camels and how they feel after long road, but
          whether  am  I  Christian  and  believe in Jesus. I answered
          affirmatively  on  first  part  of  question  but decided to
          avoid   its   second  part,  because  I  didn’t  believe  in
          Godliness  of  Jesus.  I  more or less was accepted in their company  and one of them called from his mobile telephone to mayor,   who   promised   to  send  a  groundkeeper  for  my assistance.  I  even  was  suggested  to  take  one of their pumpkins  in  a  truck,  but  I foolishly refused because of having  no fire to cook it, only later I thought that it was good food for my camels.
             Camels  were tired and hungry after long road, but it was no  grass  around  this  tidy showground with recently mowed lawns,  it  was  some grass on football field but I had some doubts  than  they  will  let  camels  to graze there. After wandering  around,  I  finally  found  a  group  of horsemen practicing  in  American  style  of  cattle roping. The were finishing the day and donated me half-bale of hay.
             Finally  came  a  groundkeeper  but  he  had  nothing  to suggest  for my camels and it was absolutely out of question to  graze camels on a football field. After some hesitation, I  asked  him  the  date  of  next  football  game,  it  was scheduled  in two weeks. Then I explained him that manure of my  camels  mostly  half-dry  and  would not deteriorate the field  grass.  Finally,  the  groundkeeper allowed me to put camels  there  after  dusk,  when  nobody  of officials will notice them. I was cheerful.
             Having  nothing  to  do,  I  decided  to  go downtown for exercise  and  bottle of port as well. It was Sunday evening and  almost  nobody  on  the  streets  because  people  were watching  TV or consuming beer in pubs and watching football game.  Townhall  impressed  my gracious fountain in front of it,  which  was encircled by palm trees, the main street was so clean that I was even shy to spit on pavement.
             I  was  carrying  my bottle of port to greet and feast my coming  guest-writer,  Brian  Taylor.  But  he  was  already waiting  for me with his wife, Carene. As I expected, he was a  tall man in late sixtieth, with good smile on his getting wrinkled  face.  It looked like his still beautiful wife was taking  care  of  Brian very well and that they both decided to  stop  getting  older.  So, I was not surprised that they didn’t  smoke  or  drink,  which was O.K. with me, because I already  used  to drink by myself. Brian brought his book as a  gift and promised me to send me another one, which he was writing.  I  already  read  part  of  it in household of his fried,  Jan  Richardson,  who  he  recalled  with  nostalgic smile.  But  only  now  I found that Brian was known to many Australians   as   TV   character,  Carlton  Drover.  Before leaving,  he  wrote in my ledger: “Thank you for inviting us to  visit  you at Gatton. We do wish you well on your travel and  hope  to  see you again one day. Do enjoy my book THE Y STICK  and  maybe you will get to read my next one that I am writing now.”

 COLLEGE
         
             Brian  Taylor suggested me to visit Gatton College, which was  about  seven kilometres east from Showground. I used to visit  similar  colleges  in  the  U.S.A.  and  was  looking forward  to  stop  by  at  Australian  college.  My road was passing   between  green fields of lucerne, which in America is  called  alfalfa,  I  even  stopped  at the edge of one especially  closed to road field and grazed camels for short while.  It  was  a bit early for coming to college and I had phone  there  in advance. So, I decided to stop at farmhouse close to rural road and have some rest with cup of coffee.
             Awakened  by  dog's  barking,  enormous  man  came out to veranda  and  greeted  me  suggesting  coming inside. Neil Cumner  was  the owner of "Ossie's lucerne hay & chaff" farm of  52 acres. By Australian standards, it was almost nothing but  in this fertile valley, where farmers could grow two or even  three  crops, each acre could produce revenue close to 1,000 dollars.
             Serving  me  coffee with almost obligatory meat pie, Neil told  me  that  to  survive he should watch commodity market and  now in advance what he should grow on his fields. Piles of  trade  magazines  indicated  his  interest in variety of agricultural  problems. I even thought that he was under big influence  of next door Agriculture College. We phoned there and  its  secretary,  a  bit  surprised  by  such an unusual guest,  agreed  to  speak  with  her bosses and suggested coming there and waiting for Dean's decision.
             The  college  was situated uphill and surrounded by green fields  of lucerne and gray plantations of ripen corn. I was told  to  come at front lawn of Administrative Building, but it  was  not easy because of bronze sculpture of bull in the middle  of  this lawn. As soon as they sighted it, my camels got  berserk,  but  after  my  experience  of  meeting  with monuments  of  Thunderbolt  and  Big  Barney  (dinosaur),  I managed  to  bypass  this threatening obstruction and tether them to acacia tree.
             From  the  main  building came out smiling John Ternouth, Deputy  Head  of  School  of  Veterinary  Science and Animal Production,  which was part of the University of Queensland.  After  petting camels, John invited me in his office and ask secretary  to  make  coffee  for  us. Professor Ternouth was teaching  food  science  and had not enough time for, asking his  graduate  student  to  take  care of camels and me.  However,  he  decided  to  give me status of honorary guest, which  included free lodging in college guesthouse and free access to student's cafeteria.
             They  decided  to  place  camels  as far as possible from horse  stables  and  guided  us  to complex of feedlots with plenty  of  grass  and  good metal railing fences. They were also  supplied  by  mineral  salt,  which  they were in need because last time I gave them salt a month ago.
             I  was  placed  in  motel  that  used  to  belong to the faculty  of  hotel  management  but  now  was  used  just as regular  guesthouse. I was pleased finding in my room a TV-set,   two   beds,  shiny-clean  bathroom  and  refrigerator already  filled with sandwiches, coffee machine was supplied with  packages  of ground coffee. I also could use a launder room  to  wash my clothing and sleeping bag. So, I felt that finally  I found in Australia the island of Communism, where I  have  had  everything  in  abundance  and free. But I was impressed  even more after coming in student's cafeteria and finding  varieties  of  salads,  fruits,  and  other dishes, which I could eat inside and take extra in my room.
             College  library  was  open  to  me with variety of trade magazines  and  books,  but I was more interested in history of  this  country  and, especially, Queensland. Its capitol, Brisbane,  was  named  after  Governor  of  New South Wales, Thomas  Brisbane,  who  in  1823  sent an exploring party to look  at  Moreton  Bay and surrounding it region for a penal settlement.   The   surveyor-general,  John  Oxley,  was  so impressed  by  variety of plants and birds, by rich soil and plenty  of  fresh  river  water,  that his report encouraged colonial  secretary, Lord Bathurst, decided to open the area for  only  free  settlers.  But  before his decision reached  Sydney,  Governor  Brisbane  had  given  order  to  start  a convict  colony  there.  So, this Garden of Eden was spoiled by  slave  labour,  which,  in  opinion of the Governor, was:
          "...the  best  means  of paving the way for the introduction of  free  population,  as  the  example  of  Port  Macquarie abundantly  testifies."  This  hard-core  soldier  and jailer believed  only  strict  discipline and punishment and blamed his  predecessors,  that: "The Convict-Barracks of New South Wales  remind me of the Monasteries of Spain. They contain a population of consumers who produce nothing."
             I  believe  that  person's  name  in some superficial way express  his  character  and  nature. So I was not surprised finding  in a dictionary, that Governor Thomas Brisbane last name  originated  from  a  hybrid word of Old French brise - `break'  and  Old  English ban - `bone', - `break bone'. And he broke bones of many convicts under his governorship.
             As  usual, I checked my E-mail and found the letter of my friend,   Murray   Johnston,   from  Sunday  Herald  Sun  in Melbourne,  who  informed  me  about being in contact with a journalist  of  Brisbane  newspaper  about  coverage  of  my expedition.  It  was  nice  of  him,  but my Xena from St. - Petersburg was in a silence mood.
             The  next  day, I was asked by Dr. Mark Hohenhaus to give lecture  his  graduate  students  and decided to dedicate it mostly  to  unique  biology  of  camels. About hundred young people  filled  amphitheatre of lecture hall and I was happy to  teach  them  something interesting that I found recently about  my  beasts.  I  guess  that  my  lecture was at least informative  for these future veterinarians, but I was a bit upset  by  absence  of any questions about my beloved camels or  even  about  my  expedition.  Mark  saved my face asking something about the role of humps in physiology of camels.
             After  the  lecture he invited me to visit his laboratory of  Companion  Animal  Sciences, where he studied physiology and  behavioural  patterns  of horses in training conditions.  His  student demonstrated some Thoroughbred horses that she trained  with  more  humane  methodology  than  "carrot  and stick",  in  their dressage she used just first part of this old  approach  to  teach  any humane and not humane creature how  to  behave.  Observing  her gentle commands, I recalled how young bull riders in Muswellbrook trained my camels,  when  no  carrots but sticks were used. Vanya was  finally  broken  for  giving me rides, but only when he decides  to  do  it, but Xena was not broken at all with all means  of  punishment.  Looking  at these girl movements, I thought  whether  with  her passion she could break Xena for riding.
             Each  college student could keep his horse in stables and was  obliged  to  exercise  it as well as to pay for hay and chaff.  Perhaps,  only  well  to do families could afford to give  their  children  education in this college, I thought, recalling  meeting with Towle family. Their daughter, Kylie, was  planning  to be just vet technician, because it was too expensive to study for veterinarian doctor.
             After  meeting with horses and students, I was invited by Mark  Hohenhaus  for  a  cup  of  coffee  in  his office. He recalled  good  times  when  Gatton  College was independent Agriculture College and was not a part of the University of Queensland.  But  now it experiences major reconstruction and fights  for  survival  with  its  rival  in  major  camp  in Brisbane.  Many  professors  and students don't want to work and  live  here, but the same time, as in any small college, there  is  a  lot  of rivalry between members of stuff for a better  position and salary. I recalled similar conversation with  Professor  John  Ternouth,  who  also was unhappy with current disposition of his college.
             Mark  was  helpful with finding telephone number of well known  in this region "Di Camel Lady", who had camel farm in village  of  Coominya,  not far from here. I phoned her from Mark  office, but she was not home, and I decided to contact with  her later. For a well wish Mark wrote: "Anatoly, we are very  pleased  that you visited with us and had some time to contact  with  both  stuff and students of Gatton College. I wish  you  a  very  best with your plans and travels for the future. I enjoyed meeting you. Much regards."
             After   coming   back   to   my   hotel,   I  waited  for  professional  camel  specialist, Gloria Tipper, who after my call  promised  to  come at these premises and socialise with me on camel grounds. She came together with her daughter-in-law  and  one  of tenant of her camel farm "for everybody in need,"  as she later described to me the purpose of her life on  land.  Gloria  was a young blonde woman of mid-fortieth, strong,   energetic  and  making  own  decisions.  With  her husband,  Joe,  she  kept  about 40 camels in a place with a very  appropriate name for camel farm - East Egypt that was located between hills of Whitestone  Mountain.  Besides camels,  they raise cattle and horses, but also take care of young  folks,  who  lost  themselves  to  drugs and alcohol.  Everybody  could  come  to  their farm "Camel United" and be welcomed  with  an  opportunity to live on premises, to cook for  themselves  and  do  any  kind  of  work  with multiple animals  of  this  hospitable hide out. Teppers don't belong to  any  religious  or  charity organisation and help people out  their  open  hearts.  Definitely,  no  drugs or alcohol tolerated  on  their  farm, but fresh air and hard work help dearly  to  those who used to confined establishments of big cities.  There  are  also  opportunities to meet new people, because  many  tourists come there for camel or horse rides.  The  farm  dwellers also go with Gloria or Joe every weekend for  giving  rides  to children in parks of Brisbane and its suburbs.
             Gloria  was  impressed  by  my  camels' record travel from Sydney  to  Brisbane  and  came  to  take a look on them. We drove  to  them  and  Gloria found camels in good health and shape,  she  even  was  up  to  buy  them,  if  I  decide to interrupt  my  trip  in  this area. Definitely, I considered such   an   opportunity   because  was  not  sure  about  my capability  to  proceed  further north of Brisbane, down the coast.
             The  next  morning  I  came  to  John  Ternouth office to express  my  gratitude  and  return  key  and access card to student's   cafeteria.   I   also   phoned  to  Rohan  Wenn, journalist  of  Channel  9  TV  program  "Extra" and we made arrangement  for  meeting  on  my way to town of Esk, northwest  of  Brisbane.  John  wished  me Godspeed and expressed hope  that  I  will  send him my book about Australia. In my book  he  wrote:  "To  Anatoly.  You  are into the beautiful weather  in Queensland. May it stay fine for your trip. Your adventure  is  very  real  to  us here and we wish you avery success  with  it. Here at Gatton we have many ruminants but it unusual for us to see camels on the front lawn."
             My camels were almost ready to proceed further after two-day  rest and ruminating on lush green grass of feedlots. I would  like  myself longer at that Utopian-like place, but I thought,  that I exhausted their reserves of hospitality and had to proceed further.
             After  crossing  Warrego Highway, I found myself on rural road  with  lots of farm on fertile part of the valley and almost  none  after  a  few  kilometres down the road, where soil  was  getting  sandy  and  less productive for farming.  Riding  Vanya down the bridge across small creek, I, as once before,  found  myself  in  foolish and dangerous situation, when  he  decided  to  kneel  down  in the middle of bridge.  Traffic   was   stopped   in  both  directions  and  drivers patiently  waited until I managed to proceed further to more safe place.
             The  television  crew  reached  me right after I passed a big  new  house  with typical Queenslandian veranda and good brownboard  fence  around.  It  was nothing special with it, but  in front of it was placed a billboard with a sign: "The best  house  in  Queensland,"  and until now I have no idea, what  was  the  best with that dull house, but its fence was very  impressive  and  my camels would have some problems to jump it over.
             Rohan  Wenn,  the  anchorman and journalist of TV program Extra,  was  a  very  pleasant  young  man of thirtieth, who masterminded  my meeting with fellow-Australians. He asked  me  to  proceed  through gates of Hamiltons household and  after tethering camels, proceed upstairs of their house and  ask  about  glass  of  vodka.  We, Russians, as well as Irish,  supposed  to  fit a stereotype of drunkards, which I don't  reject  completely,  because  all  my life I have been  trying  to be sober. Even writing this lines, I am not completely   sober,  after  consuming  two  bottles  of  Old English  beer,  the  strongest  stuff, which I could buy any time   across   the  street  in  a  corner  shop,  owned  by constantly  multiplying  family  of Jordanian brothers. They like  my limited knowledge of Islam religion, when I come in their  shop  for  bottle  of  beer  and  proclaim - Allah is great.
             "Extra"  crew  wandered  around me about two hours and it was  getting dark, when I arrived in small village not shown on  my  map.  In  the  middle  of an orchard of very unusual trees  bearing  purple green fruits, I have heard a sound of tractor's  engine  and  noticed  a  bearded man mowing grass under  the  trees.  After  greeting him I asked what kind of trees  he  was cultivating, it happened to be avocado trees, which  I  have  never  seen  in my life. I tasted one of its fruits  and  it  was  extremely bitter, not being ripened yet.  The  orchard owner already finished cutting grass and it was nothing for grazing left.
             I  decided  to  walk  couple  more  kilometres  and found myself  near  old  farmhouse.  Its  inhabitant came out to a doorframe  and  could  not  understand  what  I was asking about.  He  was  an  old  man  close  to eightieth and a bit senile  to apprehend my request for camping at his property.  I  was  saved by his son, who came from his new house nearby and  suggested  his  assistance  of  placing  camels  in the paddock  which used to be used to hold cattle before dipping them  in a ditch with chemicals against common for this area mites.  I  carefully  have  been  inspecting my camels every morning  for  presence  of mites on their skin but in awhile they were free of them.
             Peter  Dolan suggested to stay overnight at his old house with  all  facilities  but before going to bed, he suggested to  share  dinner  with his family. With his wife, Debra, he eight  years  ago  built  this spacious house, surrounded by veranda  and  pristine  bushland. With his brother, Cris, he was  raising  cattle  on  2,000  acres  of their sandy land, besides,  they cultivated peanuts, a very profitable crop. I recalled,   that  former  President  of  the  U.S.A.,  Jimmy Carter,  was  also  a  peanut planter and made fortune after his  peanuts.  Peter  was  not  millionaire  but accumulated enough  money to buy new machinery for reaping peanuts and made  some  additional  money  harvesting plantations of his neighbours.  Besides  bringing  up of her two children, Debra worked  as  a  sales  person in Esk, where I was heading.  Sharing  food  with them, I felt a sense of dignity of these people  working  and  making  living  of  own  land  and not depending  on  government  handouts, as I used to see many times before.
             Debra  phoned  to camel farm of Diane Zischke and we made arrangement  of  meeting  each other on my way to Esk. After dinner  I  retired  to  my  lodging  place and taking shower thought,   how   comfortable  these  farmers  live.  By  our standards,  their old house was Russian's farmer dream, with two  bedrooms,  kitchen and living room. But Dolans found it not  enough  comfortable  and  moved  to  even  more updated house.  How lucky these people, who inherited their land and long-standing tradition of hard work on it.
             As  most of Aussies, whom I met along the road, they were not  religious  and  had  no time to frequent church, asking God  for  his  assistance  in  their  daily  life.  In  this respect,  their  relationships with God reminded me thoughts of  famous heretic and astronomer, Galileo Gallilei. In 1612 he  wrote:  "Whatever  the  course  of  our lives, we should receive  them  as  the highest gift from the hand of God, in which  equally  reposed the power to do nothing whatever for us."
         
          BALARA
         
             Peter  awaked  and  took care of his cattle long before I was  up to share breakfast with his family. I was planning a long  trip  to  Esk,  but  also considered an opportunity to visit  Diane's homestead. Being true camel woman, she chooses to  meet me on wide field off the road, convenient to tether camels  and speak with me. She was in late fortieth years of age,  outfitted  in cowboy boots, trousers of blue denim and broad-leafed  hat  with camel badge attached to it. Her used to  be  handsome  face  was weathered my elements, but Diane was  very  energetic  and  knew,  what she was doing on this earth.  She  explained me that it was no place for my camels at  Esk  Showground  because of oncoming there festival, but suggested  to  visit  her homestead and stay there for a few days.  It was exactly what I wanted, to upgrade my knowledge of  camels  and  their  training  for long travel across the wild  outback. She gave me an instruction how find her place and  left  being  busy  with  preparations for her scheduled safari travel with camels across desert part of Queensland.
             The  way  to Coominya was hard because I had to go across mountain hills:  ups and downs with sharp turns followed each  other for fifteen kilometres. I was a bit rewarded for my  hard  trek  when  came to the village pub and one of its patrons  bought  a schooner of VB beer for me. He also shoves the  way to find Zischke Road, which supposed to bring me to Zischke  Homestead. But what I was surprised about, it was a string  of  new developments along the road of this pristine area,   very   soon   it   will   be  crowded  with  people's paraphernalia.
             Finally  I  reached a gate with big billboard sign Balara Homestead,  as  I  learned  later,  in  Aborigines  language Balara  is the place at the end of travel along rainbow, the promised  land  of an ancient people. Both sides of the gate were  decorated  with woodcarvings of camels, much more live camels  greeted us after crossing the gate and walking along the  barbwire  fence.  Curious  beasts  followed  us  and my camels  were happy finding themselves with one-humped mates.  After  next  turn I finally sighted at the top of the hill a huge  loghouse with verandas surrounding it, barns and sheds were  located  behind  the  hill.  The  noise made by camels attracted  attention  of  the  homeowners,  Diane  and her husband,  Sedrik,  who  greeted  me  with  smiles as a long-waited  guest.  I  was allowed to pitch my tent close to the house  and  stay  during  daytime  at big veranda especially built to accommodate multiple guests of this camel farm.
             My  camels  were  placed in separate paddock to keep them off  the rest of herd, which could harm the strangers. I was allowed  to  stay at camel farm, until Diane's departure for a  safari  across  desert  with a group of tourists who like outback  life.  But  most of time Balara farm served regular tourists  who  come  here  for  camel ride with children, or people  hire  camels for parties, weddings, parades, or even for  making  commercials.  Their  big  kitchen  equipped wit everything  to  cater for big groups of people who come here to  camp  or  entertain  themselves.  I  was  allowed to eat everything  that  I could find in two big refrigerators with plenty of leftover food.
             Sedrik  built  his  big  loghouse  by own hands, together with  dining  hall, kitchen house, bathroom and storage shed and  verandas  paved  with  sandstones,  which  he collected around  his  property.  All  this  complex  of buildings and passages   between   them   Diane   decorated   with  camels paraphernalia,  with  sculptures of camels, picture of them, their  harness  or  richly  decorated  camel  saddles.  Over bookcases  with literature about camels and travels of great Australian   explorers   with   camels  I  noticed  two  oil paintings  of  Diane,  one  with  Diane  riding horse in her British-style  riding  outfit,  and  another  one with Diane riding  a camel. Obviously, both paintings were masterminded by  a  local  artist  and  were  not  the  best  samples  of Australian art.
             Diane  and  Sedrik were preoccupied with preparations for an  upcoming  safari, which included five tourists and Diane in  charge  of  it,  it  supposed to last for two weeks, and after  that  she  was going with safari only for the members of her big family.
             She  was  grown  as regular farm girl but lucky one, when she  married  Sedrik,  who  was  descendant  of long line of landowners  of  German  descent.  He  was the owner not only this  Balara  Homestead,  but also big tracks of bushland in western  part  of  Queensland.  Diane  told me, that she was taking  care  her  of farm management and making rounds with her  children  harnessed  to her back. Such a way she raised two  sons  and  daughter, who all married and produced her lot grandchildren.
             Diane's  interest  with camels aroused after her visit of Alice  Springs  camel race in 1982. Since then Diane decided to  be  DI  Camel  Lady  and pursued Sedrik to build special training  grounds and other facilities for camels, which she bought   from   other   camel  lovers.  She  was  a  regular participant  of  camel  races where she won the first prizes quite  a  few  times. Diane also won her biggest prize being the  first Camel Lady  of Australia. In some peculiar way it was  her  revenge  for  being  so many years just a wife and mother  of Sedrik children. Definitely, he is still the boss of  his  homestead and in charge of his cattle business, but the  real  boss  of everyday life is she. I paid attention, that  she named her company, intentionally or not, Bos Camel Co., missing one s.
             Sedrik  was in charge of all leather ware and harness for a  future  safari,  and  I  was  impressed  with  his skills repairing  old  saddle  bags, which were made, perhaps, more than  fifty  years  ago  but  they were still useful, but in need  some stitches or rivets to fix them. This old man knew everything  what  he  was  doing,  and  not only with such a men's  work  as fixing harness, but also he knew how to cook or to make a blackberry pudding for his grandchildren.
             The  next  day we were busy with deworming all the camels herd,  part  of  which  was  grazing  on  separate  part  of Ziscke's  farm,  near the lake. We came there to court about twenty  camels  in  a  cattle yard to feed then grains mixed with  worm-killing chemicals.  On  the  way there Sedrik paid  attention  at  single  camel that was not grazing with last  of  herd.  He  rightfully  guessed  that something was wrong  with  him  and vent to check. It happened that a poor beast's  leg was entangled with barbwire and camel could not release  itself  without  human help. Sedrik was prompt with taking  his  pliers  and  cutting  wires around its leg. The poor  creature  runs to the lake for drinking water, which it was without for many days.
             I  was  surprised how it was easy to bring all the camels to  cattle  yard.  As soon as we separated a few camels from the  rest  of herd and directed them to that yard all others followed  them.  Eventually, the chemical, which supposed to rid-off  worms  was very bitter but mixed with tasty grains, it  was  consumed  by  most  of camels, but choosy ones were treated  with  pouring  chemical  to  their  throat  with  a syringe.
             We  separated  five camels, which were chosen for going to safari,  and  guided  them  back  to farm. Only walking down that  road across bush I was almost knocked down seeing that Diane  was  walking barefoot. I noticed earlier that she was walking  around her devilling without any shoes or slippers, but  it  was not so dangerous as here. We were crossing bush with  no  roads  and  oriented ourselves just by position of moon.  It  was  a  rough  track  with  multiple sharp rocks, thorny  weeds,  barbwire  fences  and  other  obstacles  not visible under moonlight.
             Diane  explained  that since her childhood at her parent's farm  she  used  to walk around barefoot and found it useful and  healthy.  She  putted  on footwear only for official occasions  or going to city for shopping or other matters. I read  the  reports  of first explorers of this country, that Aborigines  have  had no knowledge about footwear and always walked  barefoot,  but  since  then  most  of  native people changed  their  habits  and  walk around in white men shoes, consume  white men's handouts. Diane reversed this trend and accepted   some   of  Aborigines  habits  not  only  walking barefoot  but also acquiring the knowledge of survival in desert, which  most  of  indigenous  people  lost.  In  some way she reminded  me  Crocodile Dundee in female image, I would like to  call her Camel Dundee, even if she called herself Di the Camel Lady.
             The  next  morning  came  three  members of safari party.
          Garry  was  in my age but much better of being the executive of  big  car's spared parts company in Sydney. By weekends he was  bicycling  around  Sydney suburbs, but vacations he was spending  travelling  outback  by  his  own  or  in  Diane' safari.   He   came   with  own  swag  and  other  outdoors' equipment,  which  was  an  object  of  my envy. I have been travelling with substitutionally less of stuff.
             Two   doctors,  husband  and  wife,  were  South  African extraction,  who  escaped their country and joined thousands of  their  fellow-citizens who immigrate to Australia to get off  from  their new country of black majority. They told me about  high  crime  rate and reverse discrimination of white citizens  by blacks. There is no future for young generation of white people in South Africa.
             Diane  headed  their  group  to  go for shopping to buy a food  supply  for  their safari and was amazed by amounts of foodstuff , which they purchased, spending 1,500 dollars. Dry soups,  rice,  flour,  sugar,  salt,  tea,  coffee, cereals, powdered  milk,  candies,  vegetable  oil,  canned  meat and other  stuff were packed in two big barrels and saddlebags.  Six  members  of  this safari will travel with eleven riding and  pack  camels  for  who about hundred bales of hay were bought.   Looking  at these preparations  I  thought  about absurdity  of my idea of travelling across desert by myself.  I  wanted  to  join  the  safari  with my camels but Diane's charge  of  150  dollars  a day for each participant was not affordable  to me. Besides, I was concern that it will be a disaster for me to stay for two weeks under guidance of such domineering woman as Di. She used to be in charge of everything  as  much  as I did. It would be inevitable clash between  us  in  the middle of desert, even worst than clash between  explorers  Burke  and  King  on their way back from Gulf  of  Carpenteria to Melbourne. (King survived that ill-fated  expedition  but  Burke  decided  to  pass away in the history,  which, in retrospect, was not the worst decision.) Diane  was  planning  to  re-enact that expedition, the next year and I would like to join with some bit of hesitation.
             The  next  morning  we  all  departed  Ballara Homestead.
          Diane  with  Sedrik  and all other members of safari vent to western  Queensland  for beginning their trip, but I decided to  go  north  in direction of Esk. In my diary Diane wrote:
          "Anatoly,  good  you  could  call  on us. If we were not so busy,  we  could  have  spent  more time alone with you. The very best of wishes to you + may your journey be safe. Di."
             My  travel  to  Esk  was a bit sluggish because I lost my steam  of  desire  to go around Australia and not only after seeing  how  Di's  expedition was better equipped than mine, but  because  of  hand's  numbness.  It  irritated  me and I decided  to  interrupt  my  trip for about a year to repair my financial situation and myself.
             In  Esk  I dropped to town council for gaining permission to  stay on their Showground. Col Brian was in charge of its maintaining  and  he  met  me  with  a  hint  of reservation because  of  his  hangover.  I  apprehended  his  disastrous situation  and  diluted  it  with  a  glass  of  port, which immediately  improved  Col's state of mind. He was living in moving  house by himself after divorcing with his wife a few years  ago.  She  could  not  stand  any more his compulsive gambler's  habits.  The main disaster happened with Col when he,  betting  on  horse  races,  won  a  few years ago about 60,000  dollars.  He spent them on travels and gambling just in  a  year.  Col  wrote  about  himself  in my book: "Cal, addicted  to  gambling for at least 40 years. My last win of $60,000 , which lasted for 12 months for which I gambled away again.  My  wife  and children left me because of my habits.  At present I am caretaking the Esk Race Course."
             I  used  Col's  telephone   to  call  Gloria  Tipper  and
          negotiate  with  her   selling  my  camels  for  $1,000 each
          together  with  saddles, but she agreed to buy them just for $300  each,  saying  that  I  was overcharged, when paid to Kevin  $800  for  each saddle. I had no choice but to accept her  proposal.  She promised to come next day with truck and pick camels with saddles and gears.
             I  was  celebrating  with  Col  the end of my expedition, when  our  party  was  interrupted by visit of young man. He called  himself Paul Webb and worked in local bakery, but he also  knew  Gloria,  being frequent guest of her camel farm.  After  meeting  me  with  camels  on Main Street of Esk Paul decided  to  forget his career of baker and to start his own expedition  with  camels.  I was happy to hear this news and to  gift  him  all  my expedition's equipment. Besides, Paul was  perfect  person  to  give him telephone number of Cris, the  trucker,  who  kept 12 camels at his farm and wanted to sell  them  or  to  slaughter,  if nobody buy them. Paul was happy  to  contact with Cris for discussing this matter, but I  asked  him  to  keep me in mind, when I will come back to Australia  for  travelling  with  him  or  separately. In my diary  he  wrote  in not very perfect English: "I planing to go  around Asse by camel wagon for the rest of my life. Need to  make  a  living  by going to school and telling children about  camel and the bush. I think life is to short to west in working to someone else."
         
         
          BRISBANE
         
         
             Gloria  came  with truck driven her son, she also brought
          Paul's  girl-friend,  who was planning to go with him around
          Australia  with camels. They met each other at Teppers farm,
          rehabilitating  after  drug  addiction  and  taking  care of
          camels  helped  to  take  care  themselves.  In last century
          camels  were  used  by  this  land's explorers to survive in
          hostile  environment of desert. It was Ludwig Leichhardt who
          said  that  the  continent  would  never  be  fully explored
          without  camels.  Without  camels the overland telegraph and
          railroad trails could not have been built.
             I  was  observing  with  aching heart how Gloria with son
          were  loading  my  camels  on  their cattle truck. Vanya and
          Xena  were  calm  and didn't express any regret emotion that
          they  will  miss  me,  but  I  will  miss my dear mates, who
          helped  me  to  travel  across this beautiful country and to
          meet   so   many  generous  and  hospitable  people.  Gloria
          consoled  me  saying  that  they will be happy in company of
          fifty  other one-humped mates and I am welcome to visit them
          any time.
             They  gave me a lift to Gatton, from where I was planning
          to  take  bus for Brisbane. My pocket was fat with $2,600 of
          Gloria's  payment  for  camels  and  saddles,  but  I should
          consider  my expenses of returning back to New York City and
          living  there indifferent time while writing this book about
          Australia.  I  already  used to live in hostels of Melbourne
          and  Sydney,  so  it  was  natural to phone to St. Vincent's
          hostel  in  Brisbane  and  make  arrangement with my staying
          over there.
             Commuting   by   comfortable   bus   equipped  with  air-
          conditioner   and  bathroom,  I  was  sighting  the  Warrego
          Highway  which  I  refused to take for travel with camels to
          Brisbane.  Surely,  with  such  a traffic I would never make
          it.  What  left  to  me  it  was  possibility  to  find some
          contacts  in  Brisbane  and  make preparations for my future
          travel  around  Australia, perhaps with the same camels, but
          with better equipment and dependable partner.
             I  left  luggage  at  bus  station and crossed the bridge
          across  Brisbane  River  and  find  myself in South Brisbane
          where  my future lodging was located. It was no problem with
          negotiating  of my staying at St. Vincent's Homeless Persons
          Hostel,  they  even didn't ask my passport but I voluntarily
          surrender  it.  Geoff  Roberts,  who  was  in  charge of the
          hostel,  watched  me  recently  on  TV  program  "Extra" and
          decided  to  treat  as a VIP bum, promising to place me in a
          separate  room  at  third  floor, where just member of staff
          lodged.  I  already  informed  my  readers  about  rules and
          regulations of previous hostels, so now about this one:
         
          NEW GUESTS MUST SEE WELFARE OFFICER FOR INTERVIEW
         
          1. Breakfast: 7 a.m. Lunch: 12.15 p.m. Dinner: 5.15 p.m.
          2. Mass times available on request.
          3. Guests must shower and obtain pyjamas (sic) at bed call.
          4. Blankets issued each night must be returned each
             morning.
          5. NO alcohol or drugs are a;;owed on the premises.
             All bags may be searched.
          6. NO smoking in Hostel.
          7. Day Centre open 7.00 a.m. - 5.00 p.m.
             Morning Tea 10.00 a.m.. Afternoon Tea 3.00 p.m.
          8. Showers and shaves - non-residents - morning only.
          9. Clothing exchange open 7.45 a.m. - 11.15 a.m.
         
             These  regulations  were  similar  to those in hostels of
          Melbourne,  but  it was substantial difference. After dinner
          and  taking  shower  all  guests  supposed  to give up their
          clothing,  which  was  placed  in  storage room. In exchange
          they  obtain  pajamas,  which  should  be  worn  until  next
          morning.  For  12 hours they stay locked in this comfortable
          prison,  watching  TV, playing cards or sleeping in cubicles
          with two beds in each.
             The  manager  gave  me permission to go out and come back
          any  time  before  11.00  p.m., which I used immediately for
          going  around  the  city. South embankment of Brisbane River
          was  occupied  with  new buildings of State Museum, Library,
          Opera  and Theater Houses, it was also pedestrian walk along
          the  bank.  After crossing Victoria Bridge I found myself in
          downtown   with   multiple  sky-scrapers  overshadowing  old
          buildings  of  Victorian  and  post-Victorian  era. The main
          attraction  of night life was the Treasure Casino which near
          the  bridge  occupied   an  old  Conrad  Building of elegant
          architecture  which  was  built  at  the  beginning  of this
          century.
             Each  time coming to such a place I can't help but amazed
          by  craziness  of  that  people  who come to casino to catch
          their  fortune.  I  knew  that  Brisbane  was  founded  as a
          settlement  for  convicts who committed a second crime after
          bringing  them  to these shores. But in these casinos people
          legally   commit   offences  against  themselves  and  their
          families  by  gambling.  Actually,  I should stop moralizing
          because I also fool myself all the my life.
             The   downtown  was  empty  but  disturbed  by  overnight
          construction  works  on  Queen  Street which was gaining its
          face-lift  before  the  Olympic  Games.  On  steps  of  Myer
          Shopping  Mall  I noticed couple young people drinking their
          cheap  white  wine  from  cardboard cask and decided to join
          them  with  my  bottle  of  port.  Mark  and his girl-friend
          Nicole  happened  to  be  foreigner, British and New Zealand
          extraction.   In   England  Mark  was  making  living  as  a
          bricklayer  but  considered  himself  as a musician and came
          here  to  establish  himself  as guitar player. Nicole was a
          drummer  and also came to Australia from her provincial Kiwi
          country  to  start  a  new  life.  They  already  finished a
          performance  in a small downtown restaurant and came here to
          celebrate  it  with  wine  and  couple  of joints. No police
          chased  us off that advantage spot in front of shopping mall
          letting  us  celebrate  our new lives in this country. In my
          diary  they  wrote: "Please keep flying brother. All my best
          wishes. Gypsy King Mark, Drummer Girl Nicole Phoenix."
             It  was a long queue or line of people for getting a free
          breakfast  in  our  shelter  and  I waited until it was over
          because  I  feel very uncomfortable being in any crowd. Most
          of  them  were  definitely  in  need  of  public  assistance
          because  of  their  physical  or mental disabilities, but it
          was  a lot of customers who came here just to save money for
          buying  a booze or tobacco. It was a lot of extra food to go
          and  people  were  taking  with them leftovers with Vegemite
          sandwiches  or  even hiding in plastic bags jars of Vegemite
          and  peanut  butter.  I  noticed couple of families of mixed
          breed  -  white father, Aborigine mother and mixed children.
          In  colonial times such kind of marriages were considered as
          a  crime  and  both participants used to be punished or even
          jailed,  as  it happened with native girl-friend of poor and
          unsuccessful  bushranger,  Captain Thunderbolt. Perhaps, the
          colonial   rulers  were  right  objecting  such  intercourse
          because    nothing   good   resulted.   Winnie   Quagliotti,
          spokeswoman  for  the  Wurundjeri  tribe  once  said to Ross
          Terrill,  author  of  "The Australians,": "Our race is dying
          out,...you  people  are  marring  us," being herself married
          Italian.
             I  frequently  noticed mixed group of white and Aborigine
          men  and  women  alcoholics  consuming  their cheap booze in
          front  of  St.  Vincent  Cathedral. It didn't look like that
          they desired to make any children.
             On  my  way  to  the  city  I  decided to visit office of
          Brisbane  Legacy, charity foundation for widows and children
          of   Australian   Army  soldiers.  I  was  attracted  by  an
          impressive  arms  of  it  - flaming torch with laurel wreath
          decorating  it.  I  figured out that it's possible that they
          have  also  a  badge  for  my  collection  and  came  in. It
          happened  a  very  prestigious  establishment  with  a  desk
          attendant  and many clerks, busy-beeing around and shuffling
          their  paperwork.  Stuart,  their  manager,  came out of his
          office  and  greeted  me  with  open hands, especially after
          looking  through  my logbook, where he wrote: "Anatoly, have
          one  heck  of a trip! All the best wishes in Russia! Stay in
          contact!"  And  we stayed in contact after he gave me a nice
          badge  of  his company after  Stuart invited me for a cup of
          coffee in next-door French cafe.
             I  was a bit shocked by his question after we were served
          a  coffee-expresso.  Stuart nailed me down asking: "Anatoly,
          you  seems  as an honest and sincere person. Do you have any
          objections  to  be rich and travel around the world?" Surely
          I  have  had  no  objections to it, but right away I thought
          that  it  could  be  some kind illegal activity of smuggling
          drugs  or  laundering  money  crossing  the  borders. But he
          added that my future activity will be absolutely legal.
             My  brains  bursted with color pictures of my future life
          of  the rich and famous person staying not in hostels but in
          hotels  and  eating  only  in  expensive  French  or Italian
          restaurants.  Whether  I  really  came  to  the promise land
          where  dreams  become  reality  and  Stuart  is  my Guardian
          Angel,  whom  I  missed so much since our last meeting three
          years  ago  in Quakers' house? Oh, yes, yes, yes! I am ready
          to be rich and famous, Stuart, only tell me right away how?
             Stuart   fished   out  of  his  brief-case  two  colorful
          prospects  of  "Interlink"  company  distributing cosmetics,
          household  chemicals  and clothing. He explained that he was
          looking  for  an  appropriate  person  to open the company's
          office   in  Russia  and  to  sell  its  merchandise  there.
          Interlink  already  has  its  branches  in  more  than fifty
          countries  but not in Russia yet. I will be get rich as soon
          as  I  find  more  distributors  who in their turn will hire
          more distributors for selling the merchandise.
             I  checked out the catalog prices of goods and found them
          even  higher than in retail shops, and this company reminded
          me   American   distributing   company   Herba-Life,   which
          merchandise  I  distributors  I  used to meet in Russia. All
          its  business  is built on pyramid-like structure of finding
          thousands  of  distributors who are ready to buy samples and
          sell  them  to  green-horned clientele. Once in the state of
          Nebraska  I  found  myself  in desperate situation of buying
          from  such  distributor  some kind of insects repellent. She
          sold it for two times more than an across counter price.
             It  was  no choice but to tell Stuart about my suspicions
          about   his   company.   He   was   very   upset   about  my
          characteristic  of  his  activity  saying  that  the pyramid
          structures  are  outlawed  in  Australia and his company has
          nothing  to  do  with  such an activity. I apologized for my
          suspicions  but  felt  that  Stuart  lost  any  interest  of
          further  contacts  with  me.  And  I lost my future money as
          fast  I  found  them.  Sic  transit gloria mundi. (So passes
          away the glory of the world.)
             I  could  not  say  that  everything was getting bad that
          day.  I  enjoyed concert of Aborigines music played by self-
          proclaimed  indigenous  men  who  painted  their  bodies  in
          variety  of  colors  and  it was hard to say who of them was
          more  indigenous.  The main advantage of their music was its
          profound  hullabaloo  which  aroused  consciousness  of many
          clerks in surrounding office buildings.
             Going  down  Ann  Street  I was delighted meeting a soul-
          mate  who  was  sitting  on a bench, barefoot, with his swag
          and  knapsack  at  the pavement. Ryan just came from central
          part  of  Queensland where for two months he was working for
          a  project  financed by the Conservation Trust. He dedicated
          his  life for saving indigenous plants and his last research
          was  about  ecology  of  Purple  Daisy  species which almost
          extinct  with  only about 200 plants recorded in Queensland.
          Ryan  hopes to make a sanctuary for them and other plants of
          that  region.  We  were sitting with Ryan in the middle of a
          crowded  city  and  recalled our experience of the real life
          in outback.
             Before  long  I  experienced  the  consequence of my long
          travel  across  bushland  when  I  foolishly decided to come
          inside  in  a  maze  of  Myer Sopping Mall to find something
          inexpensive  to  buy  in  one  of  its boutiques named Camel
          Centre.  In  a short while I found that I couldn't afford to
          buy  there  even  a  tie, save any other clothing, and I was
          just  one  real  camel  man  at  that  premises.  Logan, its
          manager,  admitted  that he never rode any camel in his life
          but  he  was  generous  giving me at least his business card
          with picture of camel on it.
             I  experienced  the  panic  syndrome,  when came out that
          boutique   and   found   myself  in  a  maze  of  elevators,
          escalators,  stairways,  shops,  cinema  theaters, fast-food
          restaurants  and  with  no  idea  where  it was the north or
          south  direction  which  would  help  me  to get out of that
          anthill.  I was not used to ask direction because I knew how
          to  use  my  maps but in that mall I soon gave up of finding
          the  exit  and  had  to  ask a security guard about it. Only
          finding  myself  on  side  walk  of Albert Street I gasped a
          fresh  air  of  engine's  exhaust but at least not that air-
          conditioned  mixture  of  oxygen with human perspiration and
          other  body  functions.  My  dear  Xena  and Vanya, I missed
          yours company and our roads!
             After  three  days  of such city life I found that it was
          not  worthwhile  for staying in Brisbane longer than a week.
          What  I  succeed  with,  it  was  only  my  social status in
          hostel.  On  second  day  of life there I was transferred to
          prestigious  third  floor  occupied  only by shelter's stuff
          and  it  almost  knocked  them  down.  Only  yesterday  they
          sighted  me  between  a  mob  of homeless bums and now I was
          walking  between  them, the cream of bum's society, who were
          in  process  of  recovering after their multiple addictions.
          They  considered  themselves  as  the second to none of this
          society  of  desperate  nones  and  vigorously  defended  it
          against  any intruder. I was approached by many of them with
          warning  that I messed up my second floor, where resided the
          mob  of  voluntary  inmates and only after making complaints
          to  the  management  they found about my exclusive status of
          VIB (Very Important Bum).
             Similar  funny  transformation  happened  with  me  after
          establishing  myself  between  them as an equal. Very soon I
          found  myself  noticing  those  from the second floor who by
          chance   happened   to  come  to  OUR  floor  to  steal  our
          privileged  instant  coffee  or fruits from our refrigerator
          in  our  kitchen,  but  I  restrained myself knowing that my
          mates  will chase out those intruders without my assistance.
          After   these  observations  I  decided  that  there  is  no
          mateship   exists  between  desperate  mates.  Convicts  are
          convicts  and it doesn't matter whether they were members of
          the First Fleet or dwellers of this community.
             It  was  the  time  to  find  how  I  can get out of this
          country  back  to  America.  My  return  ticket expired four
          months  ago and in Sydney's office of United Airways company
          I  was  informed  that  it  was  no way coming back but only
          buying  a  new ticket. But I was in Queensland, the state of
          new  opportunities  and  decided  to  try  my  luck visiting
          office  of  the  same  company  and  found  myself  in  much
          friendlier  environment  than  in  Sydney.  Beautiful  clerk
          checked  my ticket and decided that I am eligible to go back
          to  the  U.S.A.  with  it  after  paying  only  $75  for  my
          negligence  of staying longer after the expiration date. Big
          deal  -  I  payed  this  small fine, knowing that new ticket
          could  cost  me  ten  times  more if I buy ticket from Japan
          Airline  and  fly  with  stop in Tokyo. But for departure to
          New York by United Airways I had to go back to Sydney.
             With  my new ticket I was now free to solve my second the
          most  annoying  problem  of  being  illegal  in this country
          because  my  entrance visa expired two months ago. It was no
          way  to  extend it while I was in bush with camels. I mailed
          a  letter  of  request to Immigration Office for giving me a
          brake  in  such  a  situation but I had no return address to
          get  their  response. Now I decided to visit local branch of
          this  office  and negotiate my legal status being concerned,
          that  I  could  be  arrested  any time when police decide to
          check my passport.
             The   office   lobby   was   crowded  with  mostly  Asian
          immigrants  and  few  white-skinned  customers  who appeared
          being  lost  in this multicolored crowd. To spent my waiting
          time  I  approached to a couple of husband and wife who read
          a  Russian  book.  They  happened to be from St.- Petersburg
          and  came to this country on similar as mine visa which will
          expire  in  a few days. As most of Russians that I met, they
          decided  to  claim a political asylum. It sounded ridiculous
          because  nowadays Russia is extremely democratic country and
          in  this  aspect  it  reminds  me India, where also a lot of
          democracy  and  not  enough  of  food.  The  most  prominent
          Russian   political  immigrant  in  this  country  was  Alex
          Kerensky,   former  Prime-Minister  of  Russian  Provisional
          Government  in  1917.  He  also lived in Brisbane in 1945-46
          and  was  married  Australian writer Nell Trifton. Since his
          departure  for America our Russian influence on political or
          cultural  life  of Australia was minimal. Tania Verstak, the
          most  known  Russian  girl of this country, was crowned Miss
          Australia  in  1961 and after that she won the title of Miss
          Universe.
             Finally  I  was  accepted  by  an  officer of immigration
          service  who  was  impressed  by  my  logbook  of travel and
          agreed,  that  it  was  not  easy to extend my visa being in
          bush   with  camels.  She  even  didn't  fine  me  for  this
          violation  but  gave  me  just  three  day of visa extension
          before  my  departure  to  New York from Sydney airport. But
          after  this  minor violation of immigration law I was placed
          in  a  black  list.  It  was  funny  that my arrival to this
          country  was  noted  by violation of customs regulations and
          my  departure  also  marked  by  violation of the law. But I
          soothed  myself  by thoughts that at least I had no time for
          more serious crimes in this country of former convicts.
             It  was  a  lot  to  see  in  this town and country but I
          exhausted  the  potentials  of my mental acquisitiveness and
          just  physically tired. My custom required to visit Brisbane
          City  Hall,  as  I  used  those  in Melbourne and Sydney. It
          happened  to be curious building, kind of Greek Acropolis on
          top  of  which  was  mounted Aussies replica of London's Big
          Ben.  I already was in contact with office of Lord Mayor and
          they handed following letter:
         
                MESSAGE FROM
               THE RIGHT HONORABLE THE LORD MAYOR OF BRISBANE
                COUNCILLOR JIM SOORLEY
         
          Dear Mr. Shimansky
         
          I  am happy to offer the greeting to you as you pass through
          Brisbane  on  your  journey  of  discovery  and promotion of
          peace.
         
          I  understand  that  you  have  travelled  from  Sydney  and
          visited  many  places  in  our  vast  land. I hope that this
          experience  has  provided  you with many diverse experiences
          through  the people of Australia and that you have been able
          to  spread  a  message  of hope and peace amongst the people
          you have met.
         
          Our  City  and  the  entire nation of Australia is a melting
          pot  of  many cultures. I believe in creating an environment
          of  peace,  tolerance  and  understanding.  It is with these
          beliefs  that  we  can  overcome issues of conflict and work
          towards  a better future. Too often in our world intolerance
          of  the  wonderful  diversity  we have is as the reason that
          peace  and  hope  can  not  prevail  over  misunderstanding,
          division  and  conflict.  I  strongly  support anyone who is
          working  to  produce  and  understanding  and  urge  you  to
          encourage  all  whom you meet to share these ideals in their
          community and life.
         
          I  wish  well  in  your  journey home and every success with
          your book and any other ventures you wish to undertake.
         
                Yours sincerely
                Jim Soorley
                LORD MAYOR
         
             With  this  letter  in  my logbook I left country of Down
          Under  and  with  a hope to come back for continuing my trip
          around it.
         
          End.
          09-29-99
          New York City