A lot has been happening folks, yes a lot. Do you know what a lot means? A lot means a lot. So much so, that I haven’t had the time to breathe. Or cut my hair. Now that I’m done with most that needs doing, I am writing this sitting at the Brisbane domestic airport waiting to fly to Sydney. I’ve got about 40 minutes or so.

So, anyway here’s a shabby, lazy rundown of the week that was. Hmmm…. so, over a fortnight ago I donated blood to the Australian Red Cross. The mobi-van had come to campus and I was the first donor of the day – not that it means anything. Since I turned 18, I’ve made it a point to donate blood thrice each year. I turn 20 next month. So, that was my sixth donation and the nurse in the van didn’t know. I played along because it feels good being flattered once in a while. Going in the general Australian tradition, she was the sweetest person, her profession only adding to her niceness. She checked every now and then if I was all right and if I needed anything. Trust me folks, apart from the immense satisfaction one gets after giving blood, a good nurse makes all the difference. On that note, please donate, y’all.

That was in October: a nerve racking month of assignments and more assignments. I handed one in the morning of some date I don’t remember, worked through the day on another Film and Television Studies assignment, and went back to University to hand it in. Murphy farted and I reached too late, the office had closed. I had a train to catch the next day at 9 a.m., I was to be off to Stradbroke Island.

This is where narrating this tale gets tricky. I woke up next day early at 6 a.m., caught the bus to University. Once there, I realised I had forgotten to return the rented DVD of the movie on which I did my screen aesthetic analysis for the Film and Television Studies assignment I was about to submit. It had been accumulating a menacing rental of about $2 a day for six days now, and I was about to leave for Stradbroke for the next four days. Murphy’s flatulence was still wafting through the air around me.

News about a giant shark off the coast of Stradbroke had been doing the rounds, and all the lovely people who care for me had used their persuasions to ensure I keep out of the water. Knowing me, I love swimming in the ocean, and I love to share that love (I taught a few folks back in Manipal how to manoeuvre the waves of the Arabian Sea off the Western Konkan coast. They didn’t even know how to swim). A train ride to Cleveland, a bus to the water taxi, the ferry to the Dunwich on the western side of Stradbroke and another bus across the Island to its north eastern tip, Pt. Lookout meant we were here!

Once at Stradbroke, we pitched our tents – yes, we lived in tents pitched about 150 or so yards from the beach. Lunch was crudely barbequed kangaroo stakes. By crudely, I mean without oil or seasoning or salt/pepper. Just the frozen slabs of the meat onto the public BBQ, turned over using a knife and stuffed into wholegrain bread – a Roo-dimentary meal. Kangaroo meat tastes… and I’m not most confident writing this – nice, maybe? Way healthier than red meat, surely. I just had to have it: I mean, where else can you be in a country and eat its National Animal?

I know all this is going to be posted only after I reach Sydney tonight and it makes no difference where I write it, but, just for the baseless thrill of thinking that I’m live-blogging I must say, that’s my boarding call. I’ll maybe continue this in the flight or, if the seats are Nazi torture chairs (quite possible, my ticket costs $79) I’ll finish it once I land.

I’m in Sydney, so here’s the account so far.

____

To be continued…

Who is John Mainstone?

He is the man whose job is, arguably, more boring than watching paint dry. It might be the most boring job in the world. For the last 82 years, the Physics Department at The University of Queensland is running the world’s longest single experiment. It’s called the Pitch Drop Experiment.

So, in 1927, Professor Thomas Parnell was sitting idly and wondering randomly: what if pitch (a solid) is really a very, very, very, very dense liquid? Now you know how it goes with scientists, so he just melted a lot of pitch and poured it into a funnel with a sealed stem and waited…

This is Pitch


Three years later.

It was 1930 and Parnell thought, “Okay, my pitch must’ve now settled.” So, he cut the sealed stem in the hope that slowly but surely, the ‘solid’ pitch will start ‘flowing’ down the funnel stem like a really, really thick liquid. Again, he kicked off his boots, sat in his chair, and guess what? He waited.

And waited some more.

Waited for eight years.

In 1938, a drop of pitch fell into the beaker that was, quite frankly, getting bored lying around there for eight years waiting for the pitch to drop. Parnell was delighted! “Hurray!” he said, “The eight-year wait has paid off! I was almost beginning to lose hope! Now all I need to do is wait some more till another drop falls, just to establish to my science-y friends that there is no sleight of hand here.” So, once again, Professor Thomas Parnell stoked his pipe, got a book to keep him company and waited.

Nine years later.

In 1947, the year India got independence, a second drop of pitch fell. A year later, Parnell, who was born in 1881, died – of boredom I suppose. But his work has been seen as really significant, and in recognition he was given the Ig Nobel Prize posthumously. The Ig Nobel is like the Nobel but for Physics that even the lay bloke at the bar can understand and say, “Holy sh*t!” after seeing.

Those were the days when the geeks got the girls

Since then, six more drops of ‘solid’ pitch have funnelled through and fallen, each one taking longer than the one earlier. The last one was in November 2000. However, no person has ever actually seen a drop fall. If you are way too bored and want to be the first person ever to see it, you can actually go to the department’s webpage on the University website and see a live feed of the experiment. Don’t get too excited though, nothing really happens except once in every decade or so… Trust me, I’ve actually been there. And I’ve waved at the camera.

Now, back to John Mainstone. He is the man now in-charge of maintaining the experiment. Not like there is much to maintain, but hell, scientists and their ways. But, that’s his job. So, like Parnell, he is waiting…

The man himself!

Nine years and counting…

Eliot was so wrong. It isn’t April. October is the cruelest month. A lot has happened since I last wrote. So much that to sit, think and make a neat little, humourous post which reads smoothly out of it is just way more than the effort I am willing to put in now. So, I’ll just ramble things as they come.

This morning I ran up to catch the 199 lugging my eight-pound bag up a hill slope. The driver fortunately stopped and waited for me. I dropped in my seat, catching my breath. I inhaled deeply, and blew out through my mouth. I suspect the air tickled the girl in front of me. For she jerked at once touching her neck, and looked back to give me that ‘Oh-I-wish-I-could-feed-your-entrails-to-the-dogs’ look. I shrank in my chair with a meek, ‘Sorry’, which she must have heard as, ‘Domesticated dogs, please!’ But I doubt she’d have taken the pity.

In other stale news, the Indian Student Society finally took off with a decent launch party. That’s me there in the photo, with the colour coordinated corduroy pants to blend into the carpet. Not like I don’t have other pictures, but a recent culture blooper taught me a new lesson.

Until now, my facebook etiquette (or any public photo posting etiquette) was governed by a simple rule: If I were to put up someone else’s potentially embarrassing photo, I had to take his/her consent. Up until now, I had liberally posted ‘decent’ pictures of folks on albums and my blog. But recently, a Dutch friend of mine (politely) took objection to a few pictures I posted on fb, not because they were scandalous, but because they were taken from her camera. We had all taken essentially the same photos with our cameras, but since the camera was hers, I needed the hitherto untaken consent. So, I (politely) apologised and pulled down all the photos objected to. This photo here is mine, save the guy in green, and was taken with my camera I think…

Oh, and I also went surfing and kayaking with Mates@UQ to Sunshine Coast. These guys should seriously attach a rider stating both these activities are physically strenuous! I near died kayaking against the current at Noosa after two hours surfing in the sea where a well-meaning co-surfer surfed her surf board right at me, ramming it with unsettling precision into my right kidney. And I kayaked alone, while most kayaked in pairs. But, nuff with the cribbing. I loved it!

Hmmm… I donno what else to mention, really. The last few days have been a bomb. And I don’t think anyone would be interested in my psychology paper on inherent sex differences in cognitive processes and potentials needed for successful careers in maths and science. Like I said, October is cruel with all the assignments, mental breakdowns, the drinking like a fish and the misery.

So, I’ll end here. Till next time, Dasvidaniya!

Aye, Toilets Without Borders. Of the many things that struck me as rather odd after coming to Australia, the toilets certainly hit the most private vein. I mean, being an Indian, leave apart concepts of public nudity or open gym showers; even the idea of peeing without the partition walls in the middle seems uncomfortable.

On Liberty

A keen observer will note, there are no flush mechanisms either: neither manual nor automatic. So, basically, the flushes are timed and at regular intervals do what they are supposed to do. And before you gross out, let me tell you the (probable) reason: Oz is recovering only recently from a bad drought that lasted years. Among other measures included, making it illegal to wash your car, restricting overzealous gardening since it consumes too much water, advising the public not to shower for more then four minutes and even so, to place a bucket under the shower to use the water for other purposes – and of course, doing away with the flushes in loos.

Mind your manners, son.

So, over the weekend, instead of languishing in bed with a bad book, as I am wont to do, I headed out. It was to be a pilgrimage to that saint of wildlife, and I know people will differ here, Steve Irwin. Sure there are the Sir David Attenboroughs and the Jeff Corwins in the world, but there was no man who achieved the international celebrity status that Irwin did. Kids and grandmas in India knew him; and they definitely didn’t have any passion whatsoever for wildlife.

Anyway, so an assembly of folks and I rented a Toyota Kruger and off we were to Australia Zoo somewhere north of Brisbane – don’t ask me details, there’s a reason Google Maps exists! Though the tickets are a tad expensive ($43 for students), the zoo is ama-zing! All the folks in there seem to share the enthusiasm for wildlife awareness that late Steve had.

Here are some pictures.

Ze Crocoseum

Le Koalas

La Snake

The Man himself

Kung Fu (Red) Panda?

Almost touched it!

And then with some part of the day still to ourselves, we left for Gold Coast. At least, that was the plan. To cut a long yarn short, we lost our way on the 20 or so miles between the zoo and the Coast – the GPS conked off and we ended up at the Noosa Waterfront some 200 km North of Brisbane. Not being the kinds to be deterred by a dash of hard luck, we hired a boat and off we went steering in the water. We hung out till around sunset and saw the last of the lights lick off the water: golden, bright.

The evening chill set in, our pockets lighter – the two hour boat hire costs $80 or so, and you can split the cost among five or six depending on your group; we headed back. Here’s more photos.

We are the world?

I

And that is me

Into the setting Sun

And now, for the suicidal teddy bear! I woke up this morning, very early as usual. It was around 4:30am and dark. I walked lazily into the balcony to catch some morning crisp air. It was then that I saw, in the dim, fading light, a white length of cord sprawled across the lawn below. At the end of the cord was some shape the light prevented me from seeing. It was creepy. I went in.

As dawn broke, I came out again and this is what I saw:

Suicide? Homicide?

You never know

‘When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose’

- Rolling Stone, Bob Dylan.

After the small publicity stunt I pulled, I suppose more people should be reading this blog now. Or so I would like to believe. So, for all the readers of this blog who aren’t university officials ensuring that I don’t use profanity here – the Indian Student Society is up and running! Again!

After a dismal past run characterised by mundane dinners, fire display watching and sore necks; we are back with a thud, for the avoidance of a cliché that lends itself to easy alternate interpretations. And this time, it’s for real – not just bhangra pop. We have a (re-)launch party on September 11 at UQ Staff & Graduate Club at 5:30 pm. Here is the facebook page.

Those of you who are Indians, half-Indians, pseudo-Indians, Indians in the mind, Indo-philic or Indo-phobic – come along! And since racial profiling is out of fashion, our doors are open to anyone who’d like to know more about India – that country of a million contradictions!

Thinking of it, I think I’ll go soft on the Uni folks too. So, if you are part of the faculty/staff/plain curious about snake charmers – please do come. No inebriated teens: Guaranteed!

For doubts about anything ranging from what SPF of suntan to use to self-defence at the launch, feel free to email me at ajinkya(dot)ad@gmail(dot)com. Or give me a call at 042100 9498.

And while you are at it, spread the word, email, SMS, talk, yell, ransack a school, anything to get attention to your Indian mates, to your nothing-like-Indian mates. And RSVP, folks!

Peace.

“I need something better… Dude, can I have that corduroy jacket of yours for the night?”

“Yeah… they won’t let us in on sweaters, surely.”

“Hey, I think you should put on shoes. Some places have rules.”

“Where’s my cK? I can’t find my cK! Can I take your Armani? Just this one night!”

“Erm… okay… Put on that black blazer you wore at convocation too.”

“So, are we all set?”

“Yup… Check your IDs.”

I never understood it. I tried, I really tried. But, the idea of dabbing on expensive fragrances, wearing pretty shoes and costly clothing to ‘pass the test’ of coolness in front of the bouncer has always been beyond me.

To me, it’s all the same.

Beer coursing through veins that need glucose more than ethanol; dancing yourself silly to pure, ear-numbing bass, not music.

The stupid strobe lights, the short skirts (part of the feminine ritual of ‘cool’).

The pricey cologne, the shirts slathered in sweat.

What are they looking for? Love? Happiness?

Sure.

Oh, and fun. So much fun!

Bored parakeet

I always thought I was probably missing something. After all, so many people can’t be wrong about what is fun! So, I thought I should give it a try. When in Manipal, I went to clubs sometimes, trying to figure out the missing link – which everyone but me seemed to get and enjoy. Dancing was pleasure, but only because of the people I danced with. Friends from college, seniors, people whose company is good irrespective of the place. It’s like saying, since I enjoyed dancing at my friend’s wedding, I should take to dancing at weddings on weekends. Doesn’t work! I could never do it alone.

Now here in Brisbane too, I gave it a shot. Went club hopping till 4 in the morning. Didn’t work, again. I find the whole exercise too depressing. I look at the people who come there, and can’t help but sense a foreboding sense of misery in their desperation to be ‘happy’. Knocking back drinks, flaying arms. Come morning, the alcohol wears out, the hangover sets in. So much for happiness.

So, for most time, I was just standing around, watching people dance, munching on the free salted peanuts at the bar. Thinking, isn’t there too much premium on cool?

I have no sense of direction whatsoever. I mean, that internal compass that Albatrosses have for their annual migration… I do not have it. I can practically get lost anywhere! That may be a desirable quality for a traveller doing a show for NatGeo Adventure, but not so if you are studying at UQ.

The University of Queensland is huge. HUGE. HUGE. HUGE. They did give us a map of the campus at Orientation – but it definitely was some sick sadist who planned out the venues for the various sessions during O-Week. They were jammed into every unimaginable corner on campus. And just to give you an idea of how lost I can get, I took all these photos on my way from the UQ Lakes Bus Stop to the UQ Centre 220 (which are in fact about 200 metres apart.)

If you are enterprising enough, you’ll never need to exercise here. Till date, I regularly get lost on campus. Part of that has to do with the engaging enterprise of trying to find a ‘new route’ to the physiology lecture theatres (one of the trickier rooms). Or you may try finding the stairwell in the McElwain Building. Anyway, so on average, I end up walking 42 minutes each day. Briskly. With an eight pound bag to lug. To make it to class on time. So, take my advice, forget expensive gym membership. Cardio-vascular fitness is available on campus, free of charge. As is campus-wide WiFi.

You know, now that I think of it, if I crisscrossed all the myriad ways that I’ve roamed on campus, I’m pretty sure, I could’ve spelt out someone’s name if I left a trail of glow-in-the-dark paint. All I’d have to do is to get a bird’s eye view. There are folks I’ve met who’ve been here four years and still don’t know every nook and cranny there is to this place.

It would’ve been great to come on a full-year exchange, rather than just a semester. But because I’m here only for a semester, all my experiences are in fast forward – which may possibly explain the overeager frequency with which I am blogging. To use a bad metaphor, it’s like when you know you are going to die, you see so much more around you. So with me here, I probably see a lot more here, knowing this is going to end in another 15 weeks.

iMeander. You?

1a.m. Brisbane International Airport.

Travel weary and jet-lagged, I sauntered through customs, immigration, security and all those big scary international travel thingummies… (Note: It is a good idea to go through the Australian government website that enlists what you can/can’t bring into Australia before coming here).

If you move from Nagpur (India) where summers boil up to a brain melting 48 degree Celsius to Brisbane where winter nights can get to a chilly breezy 4 degree Celsius, within 16 hours… need I even finish that sentence?

Anyway, I had arranged for the Airport Pick-up facility that UQ provides free of charge with a simple prior registration. All seemed good but for a tiny problem. When I went into the lobby, there was no one there.

No UQ sign board with ‘broad blue stripe’, no driver waiting as I ‘exit through the sliding doors into the Arrival Hall’. So, I did as was told in the email: ‘took a seat on the left hand side and waited there for half an hour.’

2a.m. Brisbane International Airport. Still.

Remember that feeling when your back is to the wall with a menacing machete swinging freak coming at you… No? Never mind, that somewhat describes the feeling you get when you first arrive in another country, alone; and from the beginning things start going awry. And you have no phone.

What helps in such dire times is a copy of the correspondence. I called up the emergency 1800- number from a public phone and explained the hole I was in. Few phone calls by the emergency rescue man later, I saw Jeff walking to me, tired but beaming. No machete!

It was a simple misunderstanding. He apparently went around asking every passenger but myself if s/he was Ajinkya Deshmukh. I was… erm… exchanging currency I guess. So, get your stash of dough before you get here. Some loose change helps for crisis calls.

Carefully, he asked, “A-GIN-KAYA?” (mispronouncing my name, as is usually the case)

Eagerly, I answered, “Yes!”

Cheerily, he said, “G’day, mate!”

Drearily, I replied, “I’m sorry?”

Laughing, he said, “Don’t be, mate. Have a seat!”

The long drive to Cavendish Road, Mount Gravatt East was unremarkable but for the Jeff’s Rapier-like humour. We snaked through the city in the night as he pointed out the landmarks: Fortitude Valley, Princess Alexandra Hospital, CBD (Central Business District), the zones system, the trains, discounts, Translink, et cetera. As we pulled into my friend’s place, chilly winds blew.

And thus it began. After months of paperwork, preparations and anticipation, I was finally at The University of Queensland (well, at least on the way!). And after the entire hullabaloo in the media about racially tinged violence, I was akin to a terrified kitten in a hailstorm when I first stepped into this country.

I swear! I was overly cautious and pleasantly surprised by the mild mannered ways of the Aussies! Nowhere was I used to ‘cabbies’ lugging my luggage to the doorstep for me. Jeff did though. It was going to be a good five months ahead…

(Title courtesy: a novel by V.S. Naipaul)

P.S.: Happy birthday, Dad.

Tasting other cuisine is a most wonderful experience. It takes courage for one. It is a letting go, an abandonment and a surrender. It is difficult to enjoy global foods if your taste buds are in chains of mind blocks. So, when the Thai air hostess asked me, “Indian vegetarian or chicken and rice?” the first reflex was to blurt out ‘Indian vegetarian’.

On another note, it is very difficult to think, control your response and then answer what you really want to on your first international flight. The experience of it all is so overwhelming, the goof up at Immigration so fresh in your young, impressionable mind, couple that with the sudden, abrupt good-byes and you really lose your bearing. You say the first thing that comes to your mind as a response. And more often than not, that is NOT what you want to say.

Oh, add to that, you are absolutely alone totally clueless.

Anyway, so, having fought the awe and misery with commendable valour, I managed a fairly calm, “Chicken, please.” The guy beside me said, “Indian Veg.” He wasn’t a first timer (I know this as I found myself aping him for most of the remaining flight to figure out stuff!), so I am guessing his response had more to do with experience than being moon-struck at the prospect of leaving one’s country.

The spread was neat, clean and looked staid. Note: One must know the appropriate use of the very many pieces of cutlery presented. No, I did not mess up again. I already had done that on a domestic flight two years ago, wherein I took the tea cup to be the disposal bin… Anyway, that embarrassment came in handy now. I was the pro.

Like I said earlier, to enjoy food that does not traditionally belong to your stomach takes stomach. Okay, bad pun. So, when the first mouthful of the assortment of peppers, cucumbers and tomatoes went in, my face, out of stubborn habit contorted into a silent, unshapely yelp that spelt: ‘What is this!? Why is this?!’

Now, here’s the trick. The letting go. You taste the food, don’t pass judgements on it for what it is not, or on how different it is from what you consume. I realised, amid gushing hot-sweet juices in my mouth, that this food is actually good! It is healthy and light! Then I threw a sideways glance at the Mr. Been-There-Done-That’s plate of the staple Indian rice, dal and a curry; and my stomach did a backflip 360, launching an unsuccessful protest for the familiar. Shut Up.

The chicken was tender, not too spicy. The accompanying rice was good too, mashed potatoes and sausages on the side.  The meat had a slightly plastic feel to it. Nothing of the ‘Halaal-ed in front of you’ freshness; but heck! You can’t have the cake and eat it too, can you?

As to why there are no photos of my journey thus far, I think the camera distracts the mind from taking in the entire beauty of a place (don’t worry, there will be pics in the future posts!). The presence must be enjoyed, unhampered by the need to ‘fb’ the pics for all to see. So, I gave the camera a miss. Hence, enjoyed the murals at Suvaranabhoomi Airport that much better.

After Thailand, what followed were a very long and tiring flight to Sydney and another connecting to Brisbane. At precisely 1a.m. I was at Brisbane International Airport.

(to be contd.)