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by Richard Neville
I've got about ten kinds", Zap said, unfolding a tiny square
of alfoil, "all personally tested". A bee-like image grinned
from a white speck held to the lantern.
"It's called Alien."
"Strong? "
"Pretty trippy, pretty cosmic". Drums pounded the night. Zap
hitched his sarong, squatted, inhaled and stick-lifted the
chai billy off the fire. Other brands included Smiley, Bliss-out,
Pirate and No Name - also marketed as Tiles or Blanks.
"Straight to you from the Grateful Dead", he said, displaying
a pristine fleck.
"No pre-programming - you're the pilot". Zap edged closer,
as though about to pop it into my mouth. "Got something stronger?",
I hissed through clenched teeth. Mere bravado - my interest
was nostalgic.
Zap produced a candy pink wafer embossed with an image of
Ganesh, the Hindu elephant God. A turbo blast to nirvana,
he said, via hell. Not for the faint -hearted.
Zap cautioned: "Only for when you're ready to meet Shiva.."
"Pretty soon" I said, "but first I've gotta go and tuck the
Missus into a sleeping bag."
Dancers twirled firesticks on the edge of the drumming circle,
as I weaved through the tepees back to my tent. The air reeked
of spices, eucalypt and ganga. I zipped open the flap and
found my wife standing by the Hurricane lamp threading vine-leaves
into her hair.
"I've changed my name to Water Skink ", she said.
Screams erupted from the re-birthing pit. Our second honeymoon
was getting out of control.
A few days ago, when we had rolled up to Gum Nut Gorge, the
camping area was vacant. I unloaded our ridiculous tent, modelled
on a tudor manor house, and started to wrestle with the poles,
pegs and canvas that had rotted in our garden shed for the
past ten years.
After several mishaps, dusk was falling and a rainstorm hovered.
The Missus was shouting "Can't you get it up Dick?", as the
first vanload of ferals arrived. A dreadlocked Adonis bounded
over to help, his pecs rippling. "Ho. My name is Stone Feather".
He wore a shimmering head-dress and a stupendous penis sheath.
The tent seemed to erect itself. My wife sighed, the dusty
vans kept coming, mostly adorned with peace signs and cosmic
bumper stickers. To the sounds of drumming, hammering, didgeridoos,
mass chanting and guitar-led Earth hymns, the scrub was transformed
into a Dreaming Camp, with a communal kitchen, music tent,
craft space, pagan shrines, healing sites and a chai stall.
I lugged boulders to build the ceremonial circle - the camp's
parliament - and the Missus drifted off to the water hole.
She returned looking ten years younger. Three swarthy tribesmen
had leapt from a high cliff and swung naked over her head
- "boy, were they swinging", she said - before letting go
of the rope and plummeting in a circle around her. "It was
the Chippendales in Africa", she said, still looking flushed.
The tribe invited us to the Talking Circle. Of the fifty
or so faces flickering in the firelight, mine was the only
one unadorned with ochre and white-out. Stone Feather clasped
the ceremonial penis shaft, even bigger than his own, nodded
at me and began:"We welcome the Elder from across the mountains
to our Council", he said, as the tribe chorused: "Ho!" and
I tried to look grave and wise. "And we welcome his young
water squaw with her dancing starbeams." She looked delighted.
Everyone chorused "Ho", though my timing was off, so it sounded
like "Ho. Ho."
The sheath circled slowly as people raised their pet peeves:
the kitchen roster, the vibes in Bosnia, the sighting of a
banned substance, such as chardonnay. The ethnic mix was impressive,
especially for a camping ground in rural NSW: Dutch, Scandinavians,
Eastern Europeans, Americans, Kooris. As the ceremonial object
was handed to the squaw on my right, I silently rehearsed
the witty remarks I would deliver to the circle, in order
to impress the squaw on my left. Her name was Desert Fox and
her lap lap was the size of an acid tab. Yes, I would start
with a joke about Stoned Feather ....
After the brilliant monologue, ranging across history, genetics,
anthropology, James Thurber, the future, the media, techno
fetishism and Pocahontas, I passed the stick to Desert Fox,
puffing out my chest. ( Hers didn't need it.) She said: "Tonight
we have seen that not everyone who is elderly deserves to
be invited here and granted the title of Elder". The chorus
was deafening, with my wife's voice louder than the rest:
"Ho!" Stone Feather addressed the sheath: "True. There are
youngsters in our tribe who have earned the title of Elder,
more so than their parents". "Or even their grandparents",
added Desert Fox, glancing my way. "Ho!" The next morning
I was ready to break camp. "Why so soon?" The Missus asked.
I had enrolled for an intensive course of corporate scenario
planning. "Drycleaning, a haircut, spreadsheets...".
She snapped: "You're sooooo straight", and headed for the
waterhole. That was the day I met Zap and decided to update
my druglore. Now I was sitting in our silly tent, watching
my wife's hair turn into a gazelle's nest and hearing inner
voices from the Milky Way.
"You go to the city", she said, "the swimming hole's doing
me good." Water Skink said she would grab a lift home with
a feral.
So I spent a week at the Hilton devising future scenarios
for the Department of Corrective Services, feeling trapped
in a timewarp - too old for acid, too young for a nursing
home. When I finally returned to our house in the mountains,
a familiar figure greeted me at the top of the drive - Stone
Feather, his ivory sheath entwined with columbines and dangling
at a raffish angle: "Ho!" "Ho! Ho!" Our grounds were dotted
with tepees, shrines and ferals in hammocks.
"The Dreaming goes on", he said, as Water Skink appeared
at the door in a lap lap . "Great", I replied, drifting over
to the circle of boulders on the verandah, and signalling
to Zap. "I'm ready to meet Shiva now", I told him, "make it
a double."
"Ho!" said Skink, unwrapping the Ganesh stamped alfoil and
popping the specks into my gob..
"You're handling the school pick-ups and cut lunches for
the next few days, okay?".
That's about all I remember, until being discharged from
the psycho ward. The tepees had gone, and The Missus had abandoned
her tribal moniker. My soiree with Shiva had been a sordid
affair, according to the Blue Mountains Gazette, and Stone
Feather was still recovering from the damage my chain saw
had done to his sheath.
Richard Neville
Rusty's Byron Guide has a new home!
Bayweb will continue to host articles from Rusty's past editions, for current and future guides visit; www.byron-bay-guide.com.au.
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