Thursday, July 31, 2014

THE EARTHRISE DIARY (July 2014)


THE EARTHRISE DIARY (July 2014)
Don Diespecker
© Text Don Diespecker 2014

With surgical precision he pulled out the details he needed from the Gazetteer’s descriptions, rephrased them so they expressed the point of view of a teenaged stowaway instead of an academic or bureaucrat, and worked them into his own text. It was magic – or, more accurately, it was the magic trick explained. This, I suddenly understood, was how you achieved historical verisimilitude, how you looked at the landscape of the past from its own perspective. If your main source didn't give you the information you needed, you took it from someone else.
In Work in Progress. The Latest From The Front Lines Of Literature presented by Farrar, Straus and Giroux,” (originally published in Biographile, July 22 2014)

The sun was in our eyes. We sat and sweated. The speedometer needle went up to 110-kph and stayed there. Sometimes Mercedes taxis passed u, packed with Abadan and Ahwaz merchants. But nothing else passed us. We dozed off in the heat and glare. Only Hossein was as alert as ever. The road shone like black water. Sometimes we slowed near a road gang re-oiling the road and once we skidded for 2-km through the black, sticky syrup of ‘fresh’ crude oil.
Don Diespecker: From Khorramabad to Abadan on the Gulf. In London John (June 1957)
CHARIVARI

Some Historical Moments
July 31 2014. It seems I’m running out of time at a time when I want to leave a few more stories behind so that they might later be seen as literary footprints of some kind. Anybody who writes every day does so because he or she feels bound to. While, Yes, writing is a choice it often feels like a duty or a commitment: we can’t avoid writing because we’re hopelessly addicted to writing.      
It’s been one of those months, still is. Some days have been better than others, of course. Winter is still here yet its sunny for most of the time, sunny and quite dry (at lunchtime it was 23-24˚).  The river at my doorstep is low and is getting lower and although that’s nothing new it’s still painful to behold. This month has also been a time of winter ailments that have included the dreaded flu (or should I write, perhaps, a new strain of the dreaded flu that seems determined to lay me low). I hasten to add that I’m not the only one being laid low: this particular flu has not been deterred by an otherwise effective vaccine, the one that this March was kindly injected into my arm. Having gained entry this flu seems very reluctant to Go Away. Having been laid low for about a month I’m considerably more aware of Time’s Winged Chariot, of my mortality.  What with one thing and another and with time passing at warp speed, your otherwise benign diarist has been struggling rather more than somewhat: I’m running out of Good Writing Time. I also want to let you know that The Diary is not the only writing I’m devoted to: I’m currently self-publishing other of my writings: non-fiction essays, military history, a critique or two, as well as fiction and caprice. I’ve added another three anthologies this month to my growing ‘list’ (see below).  Because my writings are important to me I tend to pound the computer keys for long hours and to spend not quite sufficient time doing housework, garden work and all-important exercise, viz., I’ve not been doing enough physical work intended to ensure a reasonable degree of fitness. I’ve therefore been making choices not entirely suitable for my happy and healthy progress and have now to make better choices.  All things considered, the first new choice is that The Earthrise Diary will continue but its continuation will depend on smarter decisions that enable posting (i.e., publication) at irregular intervals rather than ‘on the last day of each calendar month.’ I’ll continue to send out a friendly email advisory each time a Diary is posted and I’ll continue encouraging all Diary Readers to themselves write creatively (if only because Time Passes). –I especially want to encourage members of our greater family to write what they will, those who are still impressively young and bursting with energy (I even suspect that there’s not only a gene for writing, but that our family have it in spades)!.
Having made the decision to post future Diaries irregularly the relief is palpable: I already feel better. To explain that: I once was inclined toward journalism and although I don’t mind deadlines or even urgency I very much mind pressure, particularly when I’m the guy self-applying it. I need to be responsible for all my choices, especially the sillier ones. I enjoy doing writing of all kinds and I especially LOVE writing fiction: once the stories’ early images begin to slip into my awareness I would rather sit and write at speed than attempt anything else: eating, drinking or sleeping. Getting elements of that first draft onto the page or on to the screen is pure excitement. Although I always have several ‘stories’ or narratives going at much the same time (and that means I can also move conveniently from one to another and enjoy varied motivations) some of the novel writing is necessarily interrupted by that almost essential duty to switch to a Diary deadline or to write regular emails. It’s easy to follow so intensely an idea, a notion, a partial scene or some likely words of dialogue, all jostling in one’s mind that excitement may abruptly become stress, as in self-imposed stress. It’s perfectly easy, as Sharon Snir once reminded me, that some writers (Morris West, as I recall) actually die in mid sentence, expiring in the act of writing a story. See? Excitement is good, up to a point; over excitement is neurotic. Balance is all.
There! Enough already: the more I wax lyrical about literary deaths, the less time I allow myself to progress the protagonist, Martha, in a new sequel novel (and not forgetting the other characters)! And for that kind of reason, I’m about to surrender space to Peter Thompson: his Outback memoir has reminded me, as it has reminded him, of past times whilst driving vehicles of one kind or another.        
You may recently have read or have heard that The Australian newspaper has figuratively been celebrating its 50-th birthday. I heard and saw some of the ‘festivities’ on TV and was reminded that I was, in a way, connected to that occasion in the 1960s: having offered to review any South African books that the fledgling Australian might require to be reviewed I duly received two from the new newspaper and then sent my reviews to, I think, the Books Editor who was pleased to publish them both. These are the references:
(1965) Review of: A King Of Butchery. The Australian, February 17.
(1965) Review of: Death in the African Bush. The Australian, February 17.
I had thought that the two reviews were published in the first edition of the newspaper, or perhaps in the first of the weekend editions. Perhaps after 50 years my memory has deceived me? Or, to put that somewhat differently, perhaps there are not too many writers, journalists or reviewers who can make a similar claim (the sound of one hand clapping is Yours Truly patting himself on the back). In those distant times I ‘wrote’ on my Olivetti Lettera 22 typewriter. It was a reliable machine: I even carried that typewriter with my luggage (inside a backpack) in the early 1950s when Pam and I were traveling in Italy, Yugoslavia and Greece, i.e., more than 60 years ago. I no longer have the old Olivetti. I wonder what became of it? And I wonder what became of my father’s old Royal typewriter, that lightweight more or less portable machine that I learned to use in the 1930s?
There’s an ABC TV program titled ‘For the love of cars’ that usually doesn’t interest me until by chance I happened on one recently that reminded me strongly of a particular machine: the Series 1 Land Rover. It was eerie watching what was an effective short documentary: the Series 1 Land Rover was stripped, cleaned and re-built. While watching this re-assembling of a most effective 4-WD (and Readers may read the historical details Online) I remembered my many journeys in those reliable vehicles: in Iran in 1956-7. On one occasion near Isfahan our driver showed us what the machine could do: he intentionally drove the loaded vehicle (including two of us as passengers) directly up a very steep mountain slope that entirely lacked a road of any kind. Trying to sit up straight enough whilst hopefully avoiding being rolled over on a very steep slope and then battered to death was hair-raising. I remember too that after returning to London the Managing Director, on reading my article (see extract above), asked if it was true that the Land Rover could travel consistently at 110-kph on an oil road I was happy to say, ‘Yes, absolutely it can!’
Here’s another 1957 excerpt: “We hurried across the plains and into more mountains. We slithered around the mountain bends through an ever-present blanket of dust. We would look down and beyond the dust to the next bend and watch for trucks. We passed roaring diesels, some of them lurching under 20-ton loads of construction steel: all of them heading up the road to Tehran from the Gulf. Their drivers were always red-eyed with fatigue. Sometimes we swerved through the dust-fog to avoid a broken-down truck that had slumped in the middle of a bend with a smashed axle or broken springs. And we saw accidents. There was the tanker that had missed a bend and lay battered in the river and a 20-ton Mack that had overturned at another bend. It was a road of disaster. Drivers had to get to the capital as soon as possible and they often drove day and night. It was a chance they were all willing to take.” (DD: 1957).
Those of us who were contracted to Iran by our parent company in London weren’t supposed to drive Company vehicles in Iran: an accident, we were told, would involve us all in endless litigation. There was an Iranian driver for every Land Rover. I sometimes drove the Land Rover in the desert where there were no roads and nobody to become involved in an accident (other than myself). All of that was 57 years ago. Those were Grand Days!
Motoring enthusiasts are invited to read Peter Thompson’s essay that he’s set in the Australian Outback (below).
CREATIVE WRITING

THE DESERT THONG
(An Outback Memoir)
Peter Thompson
Petrichor (/ˈpɛtrɨkɔər/): is the scent of rain on dry earth, or the scent of dust after rain (Wikipedia). [See Footnote]

We were totally present and completely at one with the moment!
What else could we do other than to absorb the magnificent Outback sunset and to soak it in while we settled around our campfire? There were a few spots of rain. Perhaps it was just passing. It was also December and the start of the wet season Up North. It was really far too late in the year for us to be heading that way. Yet the more we chatted around our fire the more we realized we were encouraging ourselves to start such a trip.  And that was how we made our decision. I remember looking up at the darkening sky to the west and wondering what might be in store for us the next morning when we headed west into the little used, remote tracks of the Great Victoria Desert. There were a few small settlements, a remote weather station and the so-called Track heading west that was often referred to as The Gunbarrel.
During the six months we'd worked at Ayers Rock (better known these days as Uluru), we had met very few people who had driven across the desert from the west: most had all driven 4-WDs. Then one day, while working at the Chalet Motel bar, I met some people who had just driven across from Western Australia (WA) in a 2-WD vehicle. They informed me that the dry sandy river crossings were their biggest challenge and that’s what got us both thinking: if they could do it perhaps we could do it, too…
Significant clouds had been forming on the western horizon, more than we'd seen in many months and they were dark clouds. There had been a little rain at The Rock in the preceding weeks but mostly the tracks were dry now. Would it be a dry dusty and sandy journey, as we had been preparing for or would we be facing the exact opposite: wet, muddy and slippery conditions? We wanted an adventure and we weren't shy of taking on a new challenge. It seemed that if we accepted the challenge we started such a journey it was going to be a challenge indeed.
After dinner we relaxed into the evening, cups of billy tea in hand. While we sat by our small but warming fire the desert sounds seemed to get louder and louder, the stars brighter and brighter but there were also dark patches in the night sky. Then without notice and by the light of the fire, something at the corner of my eye caught my attention, a flash of shiny slithering brown moving rapidly towards us. "Quick! Up with the legs,” I yelled to Dee, as a huge brown snake moved directly beneath our raised and thong-ed feet, past the fire and out into the darkness. Thongs (aka flip-flops) are standard dress code in the Northern Territory. I remember wondering, could that have been a King Brown, one of our most dangerous and deadly snakes? Most likely it was hunting a small animal of some kind and not at all interested in us. Perhaps that was also a warning for us, one indicating that we take care extra care!
In folklore a venomous snake appearing in a dream or even in real life might symbolize strengths such as assertiveness, wisdom, healing power, or even magical abilities; or it might represent weaknesses: such as destructiveness, vindictiveness and cold-heartedness. Perhaps the snake might be a totem animal for one of us? If so what might that mean? After all we'd already had many snake encounters, some of them close calls and we were to have many more in the future.
We'd had a most eventful afternoon: more precisely, we’d had a slight brush with death! Just before we headed west to the Olgas (Kata Tjuta) to find an overnight campsite we had decided to pull into the Uluru Motel for a bag of ice and as we had only to drive a few hundred meters we decided to leave our fridge running on LPG gas. Unfortunately as we pulled into the dusty car park KABOOM! There was a big explosion inside our van. It very nearly sent us through the windscreen, setting the inside rear of the van on fire. Dee jumped out even before I could pull up. She reefed open the sliding door and grabbed the fire extinguisher. The fire was extinguished rapidly and damage was only minor with some scorching here and there, and we were considerably shaken. Evidently there had been a small leak at the gas connection. The lesson was learned. DO NOT DRIVE with a gas fridge running on gas!
Petrichor—the smell of the earth after rain!
It was sunrise at 'Kata Tjuta' when we awoke to the smell of fresh rain on the earth. The grey skies now stretched westward as far as we could see and had also darkened a little more. It had been a hot, humid night camping in the van and there had been a few drops of overnight rain. Would or should we head west today or should we wait for drier conditions?  We' had earlier estimated that under normal dry conditions it should take us about four days to drive the 1,200-km of dirt and gavel tracks, but with wet and muddy conditions we might not get very far at all or, even worse, we might get stuck in some remote location for days and compelled to wait for help.
The plan was to head southwest across one of Australia's most remote desert regions into Western Australia to Kalgoorlie and then turn south and head for the ocean at Esperance. Then we would head up to Perth and spend Christmas with friends.
We'd enjoyed a beautiful six months experiencing all that the dessert life had to offer. This was something that we'd wanted to do for a long time. Having spent most of our lives living in the city we could only imagine what life might have been like for the indigenous peoples of this region, or even for the early pioneers. We had been fortunate enough to gain employment at one of the four small hotel/motels then situated just a few hundred meters away from The Rock. Ayers Rock Chalet was a rustic collection of corrugated iron sheds known affectionately as 'The Tin Hilton'.
For almost six months we called The Chalet home. With its iron sheds spread over several acres of desert it had a certain outback charm all it's own and we felt ourselves to be part of an authentic outback settlement. In fact there were four small hotels/motels, a store, a police station, a campground, National Parks buildings as well as various other sheds and utilities and an airstrip and they were all spread about the base of 'The Rock'. The locals (approximately150 people) were the workers and staffs of the various establishments and the indigenous population. Tourist numbers during the peak winter season, including campers, were about 250 each night.      
The Ayers Rock Settlement, as it was then known, had grown in an unplanned manner: there had not been taken into account the sensitive nature of the desert environment. Evidently The Chalet had existed since the 1960s when Kerri Williams and Barry Bucholtz had driven a Land Rover across The Great Victorian desert from WA. Theirs had been a photographic expedition and they had apparently stopped to take a photo when their overheated vehicle caught fire and was completely destroyed. With nothing but their cameras in hand they could only watch and take photos of the burning vehicle, including all of their gear and supplies going up in smoke. Kerri and Barry had no choice but to walk the remaining distance to 'The Rock' where, some time later, they were to open the first 'comfortable' accommodation for tourists. The 'Burning Land Rover' photos had pride of place in the Managers Office at the Chalet.
The opening for business of The Chalet was followed by that of other new establishments, The Red Sands, The Uluru, and the Inland motels, all of which serviced the tourist industry through to the late 1980s, when Yulara (which means Howling and Dingoes) was opened to the public.
In August 1983 and during our time at the Settlement, the Inland Motel made international news when Douglas Crabbe, a disgruntled truck driver, drove his 25-tonnes Road Train through the front door of the crowded motel bar, killing five people and injuring dozens of others. Dee and I, having considered visiting the Inland Bar that evening, had fortunately decided to have an early night; and when we woke next morning the tragic event was still unfolding. The driver, Douglas Crabbe, was found wandering in the dessert some 30-km away near the construction camp of 'Yulara'. I had actually spoken with Douglas Crabbe earlier that night at The Chalet bar and had helped him unload his Road Train on other occasions. He seemed like a regular truckie to me. I was later called as a witness in the murder trial in Alice Springs. Douglas Crabbe is still serving five life sentences in WA.
It happened that a friend at the time, a young woman from England, had disappeared at approximately the same time: she eventually returned to The Rock. She described herself as one of the lucky ones. Trapped under the truck, with the engine still running and the vehicle still in gear, covered by dust, surrounded by the screaming and dead bodies, her foot had been caught beneath one of the wheels. She had been in hospital recuperating for many weeks without our having known. We had at the time assumed that she had left The Rock and had been in Alice Springs at the time.
Six months earlier, prior to gaining employment at The Chalet, we had set up our camp at the Ayres Rock campground, the very same campground that the ten months old baby Azaria Chamberlain had been taken from by a tent by a dingo in 1982. This was news that had attracted interest across the globe. The campground had even been fenced to keep the dingoes out when we were there. Our view of 'The Rock' only 200-m from the campground was truly awesome, to say the least: it towered 345-m over us and measured 9-km around the base.
To say that The Rock dominates the surrounding landscape would be an enormous understatement. One just can't stop looking at it day and night with its constantly changing colors and shadows of dark and light. Thinking of that now (32-years later) starts a shiver down my spine and brings a big smile to my face. Nowadays the view from a campground 18-km away at Yulara is just not the same experience.

It was 6:30 am at our campsite behind the Olga's. After we had packed and eaten breakfast we started on our journey west under the dark sky. Along that red sandy track there were a few spots of rain and I was again reminded of that beautiful Greek word again, petrichor. We decided to keep going. Perhaps we might drive through and so get beyond the inclement weather but the rain got steadier and steadier. Soon, small puddles became large puddles as we negotiated our way around them or we'd look for the shallowest sections occasionally plunging into a deep unseen hole, one thong-ed foot flat on the floor as we slipped and slid our way through each section.
About an hour into our Gunbarrel Dessert adventure we came across a stranded vehicle and a group of locals heading across to The Rock: they'd run out of fuel. Sadly there was little we could do to help because we were carrying petrol and the other travelers needed diesel. Because we were unable to assist we offered to call for help at the next settlement, Docker River. Meanwhile the rain kept coming and the puddles became bigger and deeper. Before too long there was little or no gravel to be seen at all; there was just muddy water.  This flooded road situation was mainly the consequence of the machine-graded tracks always being lower than the surrounding landscape and their being compacted by traffic: naturally rainwater will always find it's way to the lowest and most compacted point.
Our not knowing how deep these flooded sections of the road were meant that one us would be obliged to walk through each section checking depth and checking for firmness beneath the water. The obvious choice of foot-ware for muddy conditions was of course good old Aussie rubber thongs. Dee decided that she would rather walk the deeper water sections rather than driving and thus avoid the risk of getting the rig stuck in the mud. Driving had now become difficult: we frequently were losing traction and sliding our way for most of the time. Keeping the vehicle pointing in one direction was increasingly difficult. At times we slid sideways; most of the water covering the road was 300- to 400-mm deep with some sections being 500-mm or more. Because our vehicle was two-wheel drive only we needed to be very careful in negotiating each section and as well, ensuring that the vehicle’s (engine) air intake was above water level.
We arrived at Docker River (Kaltukatjara) 204-km from Uluru (population 365). We set about finding some fuel. Usually these little settlements have a general store with a diesel bowser only and seldom one for petrol (i.e., gasoline). Petrol was becoming scarce in some areas and sadly had even been banned in some communities because of petrol sniffing problems. We were lucky on this occasion and were able to top up our fuel supply. The town was basically a scattering of dwellings. Abandoned car bodies and wrecks were strewn about. Some individuals wandered about. And there was of course the General Store and combined Post Office, as well as an airstrip (where many months earlier, while we were still living at The Rock, Dee was lucky enough to have hitched a ride with the Docker River bread run flight: the aircraft that flew bread from The Rock to Docker where it was rushed by locals. The locals had seemed to appear from nowhere before quickly disappearing again. Dee had boasted of a most spectacular flight over the Olgas, the bush pilot flying sideways and a wing tip pointing toward the ground when flying between the domes of the Olgas).
We paid remote area prices for our fuel and then became somewhat lost. We drove around the settlement several times before stopping to ask directions to the Giles Meteorological Station. An elderly aboriginal gentleman drew a map in the wet red soil and pointed the way. Trusting our elderly helper’s advice we headed off in the opposite direction to the one we’d first chosen, skirting very large muddy sections before heading essentially west again.
The track soon narrowed; it was much narrower than the track leading into Docker and it seemed to branch in all directions, At times it was difficult to tell which track was the main one. A mistake there could mean the difference between our reaching the next fuel stop or not. There were no GPS devices in those days, merely rough and inaccurate maps that had usually been made from surveys many years before. Constant checking of the compass confirmed that we were basically heading west.
With ongoing rain and no sign of a break in the weather we had few options other than to push on. It was now midday, wet, hot and sticky. We had successfully negotiated another long deep section of track with Dee walking through the deeper parts feeling her way through the muddy water with her thong-ed feet. We were planning the next section when we noticed a vehicle about 30-m off the track in among mulga trees. There appeared to be a couple of people trying to dig and winch their vehicle out. We decided to see what we could do to help. The vehicle was an old 1966 Valiant station wagon; it was bogged in deep mud. Rick and Hyker were young German tourists and like us aged in the twenties. They had decided to skirt around the next long deep section of flooded road and in doing so had become hopelessly bogged, right up to the floorboards. They had managed to maneuver their Valiant station wagon into this precarious situation now some 30-m off the main track.
The boys had a small hand winch and one of those small folding spades usually sold at army disposal stores. They weren't making much headway and they'd been at it for hours. If we were to try a towing we ran the risk of ending up just like the German lads. So we assisted in winching, pushing and finding brush to place in front of the driving wheels.
After an hour or so of this painfully slow process only a few meters had been gained. I remember thinking that we might have to abandon the old Valiant and could we fit a couple of German tourists into our van? At least the rain was now easing and as luck would have it we could hear the sound of an approaching vehicle coming from the west, and this was a good sign that road conditions were at least trafficable between here and Giles.  
A brand new 4-WD filled with locals pulled up and they were keen to try out their new electric winch. They made good progress with the winching but were also getting themselves deep into mud as well. It became necessary to chain their vehicle to a tree so that it remained stable whilst winching. Two hours of winching, pulling and back breaking pushing through the greasy mud, and we all the while wearing only thongs as our preferred foot-ware. Our Germans friends were finally on 'solid' road again, flooded solid road... There was huge gratitude to our incredibly generous indigenous friends and we bade them farewell. When I think back now, everyone present was either barefoot or was wearing thongs.
The next section appeared very long and deep and even though the day was still young we decided to stop early and wait for things to dry up a bit. We set up camp in a small, fairly dry spot off the edge opposite to where we had spent all those recent hours. After a while a 4-WD came through from the west; they stopped and we compared our observations of road conditions in opposite directions. They recommended that we continue because it might be quite some time before these flooded roads were likely to dry. So we changed our plan and off we all went feeling a little more confident with our new German friends in their low-slung vehicle and us sitting comfortably in the lofty heights of our Toyota van.
We decided to have the Germans boys go first and we would follow just in case they needed assistance, but this was a bad call because when they stalled in deep water we were stuck behind and unable to help and likely to ourselves stall. Many hours of walking (by Dee) and sliding and towing the Germans passed. Then when we thought we were all doing well, the boys just stopped.  They were in about 400-mm of muddy water. We were in front at this point and managed to slide through to a shallow part 300-mm deep, stop and then waded back to the stranded Valiant. The rear of the vehicle appeared to be sitting very low in the water, lower than usual. We joined all our combined towropes together to make one long towrope. Maneuvering our van into position we gave it all we had, spinning wheels and digging ourselves into the mud, but we couldn't budge them. We asked had they had the car in gear or out of gear? Then we checked the sunken rear of the old girl and discovered the cause of the problem: the Valiant had a flat tyre and yes it was completely under muddy water. We set up the jack, under the water, on a BBQ hotplate that the boys just happened to have handy and we started on the wheel nuts, but none of us could budge any of them.
Dee suggested we try turning the nuts in the opposite direction. We guys all pooh-poohed her idea, but tried it anyway and were all dumbfounded because it worked! Dee now with a grin as big as a split watermelon, resisted the temptation to say, "I told you so..." We were able to complete the wheel/tyre change and get going again.
Back in full swing again with a deep section ahead, surprise, surprise, we saw a convoy approaching from the rear. The Army who, we'd been warned might be out this way were on desert maneuvers and just in time for a bit of 'mud play'. Dee, who was wading through the muddy water was offered a lift to the other end, about 500-m away, while I was slipping and sliding with the Germans. The Army waved us on with big friendly smiles.  
The rest of the afternoon was spent passing or being passed by our uniformed friends. At times they, with all their fancy 4-WDs and equipment, would be stuck in the mud, and we would offer assistance and vice versa.
We were then 290-km west of Uluru and just 40-km east of Giles, the sun was setting and it was time to find a campsite, cook up a well-earned meal and call it a day. That night we all reflected on a most eventful day and were rewarded with a spectacular lightning show all around us together with the dingoes howling through the night. They didn't keep us awake for long.
The next morning with the rain holding off we arrived at the Giles Meteorological Station 1,746-km northeast of Perth in time to chat with our Army friends. Giles is manned by four people and is considered a very important weather and climate observatory located mid-continent: the only manned weather station covering the huge area of 2,500,000 square kilometers.  
From Giles road conditions gradually improved and we climbed up to the Warburton Range. We stopped to offer assistance to a stranded truck driver, very much bogged. He was waiting on some heavy equipment that was coming out from Giles. We had a great run through to our next camp 260-km west of Warburton. Next day we followed a series of waterholes and came across a burned-out truck. There were few difficulties through to Warburton, an aboriginal settlement (population, 474). Fuel and supplies were purchased and we continued on toward Laverton (656-km) via Cosmo Newberry (population, 51), then to Leanora (124-km) where we once again joined the bitumen road that we hadn't seen for more than six months. We drove onward to Leanora (124-km) and then Kalgoorlie (227-km), and finally, we changed direction southward to the ocean!  
Ah! Those ocean breezes, sand, and off with those red-mud-stained thongs!
Footnote: Petrichor. The term was coined in 1964 by two Australian researchers, Bear and Thomas, for an article in the journal Nature. In the article the authors describe how the smell derives from oil exuded by certain plants during dry periods prior to its being absorbed by clay-based soils and rocks. During rain the oil is released into the air together with another compound, geosmin, a metabolic by-product of certain actinobacteria emitted by wet soil and producing the distinctive scent. Ozone may also be present if there is lightning. In a follow-up paper, Bear and Thomas (1965) showed that the oil retards seed germination and early plant growth. This would indicate that the plants exude the oil in order to safeguard the seeds from germination under duress (Wikipedia).

petede61@yahoo.com.au

Peter and Dee Thompson spent six years when in their early Twenties traveling and working around Australia and the world; they now live on the Upper Bellinger River where they continue exploring at every opportunity.
DON’S EBOOKS
For those readers who browse for eBooks, here again are descriptions of the first of the online books: they can be found on Amazon/Kindle sites. E.g., see
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Don+Diespecker  
(1) Finding Drina is a light-hearted sequel to my two print novels (not available as eBooks) published in one volume as The Agreement and it’s sequel, Lourenço Marques. Finding Drina is written in three parts and in three different styles that also are intended homage pieces (to GG Marquez, Ernest Hemingway and Lawrence Durrell); thus this little book is also meta-fiction (novella, about 30-k words).    
(2) The Earthrise Visits is an Australian long story set at Earthrise (about 20-k words): an old psychologist meets a young literary ghost from the 1920s (his girlfriend meets her, too) before a second old literary ghost, unaware of his spectral state, arrives unexpectedly.  
(3) Farewelling Luis Silva is an Australian dystopian long story partly set in Australia, Portugal and France (about 23-k words). A sniper meets an Australian Prime Minister, an old lover and a celebrity journalist; three of them meet a terrorist in Lisbon where there is a bloody assassination.
(4) The Selati Line is an early 20th century Transvaal train story, road story, flying story, a caper story and also a love story sequel to The Agreement and Lourenço Marques, lightly written and containing some magical realism. A scene-stealing child prodigy keeps the characters in order (novel, about 150-k words).   
(5) The Summer River is a dystopian novel (about 70-k words) set at Earthrise. A General, the déjà vu sniper, the Australian Prime Minister and the celebrity journalist witness the murder of a guerrilla who had also been an Australian university student; they discuss how best to write an appropriate book about ‘foreign invasions’ (novel, about 70-k words).  
(6) The Annotated “Elizabeth.” I examine and offer likely explanations as to why my uncle published a mixed prose and verse novel in which his mother is portrayed as the principal protagonist and I suggest why the book Elizabeth (published by Dick Diespecker in 1950) is a novel and not a biography, memoir or history (non-fiction, about 24-k words).   
(7) The Overview is a short Australian novel set at Earthrise (about 32.5-k words) and is also a sequel to The Summer River.   
(8) Scribbles from Earthrise, is an anthology of selected essays and caprice written at Earthrise (about 32-k words). Topics are: family and friends, history of the Earthrise house, the river, the forest, stream of consciousness writing and the Earthrise dogs.   
(9) Here and There is a selection of Home and Away essays (about 39-k words). (‘Away’ includes Cowichan (Vancouver Island), 1937 (my cabin-boy year), The Embassy Ball (Iran), At Brindavan (meeting Sai Baba in India). ‘Home’ essays are set at Earthrise and include as topics: the Bellinger River and floods, plus some light-hearted caprices.
(10) The Agreement is a novel set in Mozambique and Natal during December 1899 and the Second Anglo-Boer War: an espionage yarn written around the historical Secret Anglo Portuguese Agreement (1899). Louis Dorman and his brother, Jules, feature together with Drina de Camoens who helps draft the Agreement for the Portuguese Government. British Intelligence Officers, Boer spies and the Portuguese Secret Police socialize at the Estrela Café (about 62-k words). 
(11) Lourenço Marques is the sequel to The Agreement. Mozambique in September 1910. The Estrela café-bar is much frequented and now provides music: Elvira Tomes returns to LM from Portugal and is troubled by an old ghost; Drina and her companion return with an unexpected new member of the family; Louis faints. Joshua becomes a marimba player. Ruth Lerner, an American journalist plans to film a fiesta and hundreds of tourists visit from the Transvaal. Drina plays piano for music lovers and plans the removal of an old business associate (novel: about 75-k words).
(12) The Midge Toccata, a caprice about talking insects (inspired by Lewis Carroll’s Alice stories). This book has a splendid new cover designed by my cousin, Katie Diespecker (fiction, caprice, about 26-k words).
(13) Happiness is a short novel set at Earthrise. The ‘narrator’ is again the very elderly ex-ATA flier who unexpectedly meets and rescues a bridge engineer requiring urgent hospitalisation: she gets him safely to hospital in his own plane. She also ‘imagines’ an extension to her own story, one about a small family living partly in the forest and on the riverbank: the theme is happiness. Principal protagonist is a 13-years old schoolgirl, apparently a prodigy: she befriends a wounded Army officer and encourages his plans. Her parents are a university teacher and a retired concert pianist. The family pets can’t resist being scene-stealers in this happy family (novel, about 65-k words).
(14) The Special Intelligence Officer is part family history as well as a military history and describes the roles of my late grandfather in the Guerrilla War (1901-1902) in Cape Colony. The Guerrilla War was the last phase of the Second Anglo-Boer War (1899-1902). The title of the book is taken from Cape newspapers of the time: Capt Rudolph Diespecker was a District Commandant; his responsibilities included intelligence gathering that led to the capture, trial and execution of a Boer Commandant who was wrongly framed as a ‘Cape rebel,’ when he was legally a POW (Gideon Scheepers was never a Cape rebel, having been born in the Transvaal (the South African Republic,) one of the two Boer Republics (non-fiction, about 33-k words).
(15) The Letters From Earthrise, an anthology of my columns and other essays and articles written for the Australian Gestalt Journal between 1997 and 2005 (fiction and some non-fiction, about 70-k words).
(16) The Darkwood is a dystopian novel set at Earthrise in the not too distant future (about 80-k words). Earthrise is again central to other themes.
(17) Bellinger; Along The River is an anthology of personal essays relative to my home and the property, Earthrise, and the river at my doorstep (aspects and descriptions of the river, including flooding) (nonfiction, about 28-k words)
(18) Reflecting: an anthology of personal essays about the gardens, butterflies, a caprice, and other motivating factors at my home, Earthrise: mostly non-fiction (20,300 words)
(19) Idling: is a collection of personal essays about seeing; a military history essay; a speculation about lawns; a working visit to Griffith University; periods of enforced idleness as “Don’s Days Out” in Coffs Harbour (mostly non-fiction; about 35,600 words).

Finally: Thank you to my guest writer, Peter Thompson.
Best wishes to all the Diary Readers. From Don, 

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