tiny pissing sandflies. Literally. Tiny sandflies that urinate on you, for whatever reason, producing a welt on skin twenty times the size if the offending insect itself.
why would it want to do that?
In conjunction with the giant drilling mossies they cause ulcerated raised marks all over the already tender skin.
Mossies with a proboscis that drills into you. Dozens of them on you.
'THEY GET YOU WHILE YOU SLEEP', says Tropical Skin-Disease Boy.
"The worse thing you can do is scratch", the local people say.
"No matter how good it initially feels. Resist. Or you're in a whole heap of trouble then"
Guess it's a whole heap of leprotic trouble then.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
"ooh, looks like it might rain", he said.
...and we thought we knew about rain.
Incredible torrents of water fall from the sky thanks to the monsoonal systems passing over the tip of the west over to the Top End; an abundance of pelting precipitation hammers its way down, washing through the streets, gloriously satisfying the catchments with unending dopwnpours, an inundation of water hurling down from the sky.
It is incredible to witness this gushing assaulting deluge as it clean washes the Highways, rises over bridges, runs in streams over the roads, cutting communities off for weeks, forcing us to wait for the all-clear.
"oh, you'll be cut off for six weeks, mate" they say, the friendly assertive making it none the more palatable.
and we thought we knew about rain.
the cloudburst spectacular of a lightning storm in full fury, the heavy dank air full of foreboding, then the crash of rain, the bang of thunder, inches fall in seconds, gutters full with the first fall, water reigns now, and there is nothing we can do about it but watch it all happen.
and we thought we knew about rain.
Incredible torrents of water fall from the sky thanks to the monsoonal systems passing over the tip of the west over to the Top End; an abundance of pelting precipitation hammers its way down, washing through the streets, gloriously satisfying the catchments with unending dopwnpours, an inundation of water hurling down from the sky.
It is incredible to witness this gushing assaulting deluge as it clean washes the Highways, rises over bridges, runs in streams over the roads, cutting communities off for weeks, forcing us to wait for the all-clear.
"oh, you'll be cut off for six weeks, mate" they say, the friendly assertive making it none the more palatable.
and we thought we knew about rain.
the cloudburst spectacular of a lightning storm in full fury, the heavy dank air full of foreboding, then the crash of rain, the bang of thunder, inches fall in seconds, gutters full with the first fall, water reigns now, and there is nothing we can do about it but watch it all happen.
and we thought we knew about rain.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Going Gone Troppo
"What's wrong with your face?"
The often heard shriek of the horrified local on encountering a red faced, bemused and vaporous, perspiring Welshman.
It is a sad state of affairs when society's laws governing the hidden, reclusive nature of Freaks are loosened and the unbidden, unwanted ones roam free, a-glowing translucent crimson under the sun's steadfast, unyielding gaze.
The humid, moisture-laden air forces to the surface of pink skin steady rivulets, dripping droplets, spreading sweat stains, saturating the protective layer of clothing covering tender, soft white flesh.
Squelching flip flops squeek, soggy palms swing back and forth in an attempt to airate this overheating perspirant.
Gallons of water are consumed until distended belly cries 'no more!'
"Hi, my name's..." the words trickle away as the listener takes in the sight before them and, touching their own cheek as if through doing so confirming that what they see is actually real, utter:
"Your face.." they say, "it's.."
"Burnt. Yes. I've been in the sun."
"That's why you.. look so.." they lower their hand from their face to say "strange".
"Yes. That's why."
Heavy, damp air, a ball of fire in the sky and below it, treading the streets of Darwin, you will find, fanning his burdened, boiling face, in the shade of a magnificent Raintree, the melting Welshman of the Northern Territory.
The often heard shriek of the horrified local on encountering a red faced, bemused and vaporous, perspiring Welshman.
It is a sad state of affairs when society's laws governing the hidden, reclusive nature of Freaks are loosened and the unbidden, unwanted ones roam free, a-glowing translucent crimson under the sun's steadfast, unyielding gaze.
The humid, moisture-laden air forces to the surface of pink skin steady rivulets, dripping droplets, spreading sweat stains, saturating the protective layer of clothing covering tender, soft white flesh.
Squelching flip flops squeek, soggy palms swing back and forth in an attempt to airate this overheating perspirant.
Gallons of water are consumed until distended belly cries 'no more!'
"Hi, my name's..." the words trickle away as the listener takes in the sight before them and, touching their own cheek as if through doing so confirming that what they see is actually real, utter:
"Your face.." they say, "it's.."
"Burnt. Yes. I've been in the sun."
"That's why you.. look so.." they lower their hand from their face to say "strange".
"Yes. That's why."
Heavy, damp air, a ball of fire in the sky and below it, treading the streets of Darwin, you will find, fanning his burdened, boiling face, in the shade of a magnificent Raintree, the melting Welshman of the Northern Territory.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Official - size matters
No one told us that Australia was this big.
I mean they told us told us, but they didn't tell us, know what I mean? And now here we are, inflagrante, caught red handed, in the blatant act of trying to circumnaviagate a continent, trousers down, unable to conceal our embarassment, our hideous pimply cheeks clenched, as it becomes apparent that, gosh, we might have underestimated, gulp, the size of the undertaking.
Have we bitten off more than we can chew? Is it mammoth indigestion? Who needs the relief of being burped?
Me please! Me Please!
Whoever thought of such a thing anyway.
...Burps...
Back to Cheeky Homepage
I mean they told us told us, but they didn't tell us, know what I mean? And now here we are, inflagrante, caught red handed, in the blatant act of trying to circumnaviagate a continent, trousers down, unable to conceal our embarassment, our hideous pimply cheeks clenched, as it becomes apparent that, gosh, we might have underestimated, gulp, the size of the undertaking.
Have we bitten off more than we can chew? Is it mammoth indigestion? Who needs the relief of being burped?
Me please! Me Please!
Whoever thought of such a thing anyway.
...Burps...
Back to Cheeky Homepage
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
It aint 'arff 'ot mum
'Boo hoo', he said, flicking at his bottom lip, 'toughen up boys, this is springtime! Wait till summer, then it gets hot!' We're in the hottest part of Oz. It can get to 52 degrees here. Do these people have regular skin!
It's very hot.
Phil and I are carrying and laying stone pavers, baking, Anne's helping, melting. This is the Outback and it's 42 degrees celsius. Unprecedented heat. The sun - it beats down with a relentless fury as if to drive us to despair!
No amount of water helps. The mantra 'Pee clear twice a day - hydrate or die' has a curiously forlorn ring to it.
The sweat is pouring off us in rivers, evaporating as soon as it hits the parched, dry earth. A red faced Welshman sits on the back of a Toyota 4x4 and looks buggered.
Our heads are pounding; the rocks we're carrying are blisteringly hot. The earth 'neath our feet scolds us. A cigarette is lit off an all too rosy cheek.
Why are you so cruel mother nature? To harm and torture innocents like this!
Our tenderised flesh grown ever pinker.
Oh, for the goodly rain of home! The miserly sunshine! The gloom of cloudy days!
It's sunshine again tomorrow they say.
Bloody typical.
Back to the Cheeky Homepage
It's very hot.
Phil and I are carrying and laying stone pavers, baking, Anne's helping, melting. This is the Outback and it's 42 degrees celsius. Unprecedented heat. The sun - it beats down with a relentless fury as if to drive us to despair!
No amount of water helps. The mantra 'Pee clear twice a day - hydrate or die' has a curiously forlorn ring to it.
The sweat is pouring off us in rivers, evaporating as soon as it hits the parched, dry earth. A red faced Welshman sits on the back of a Toyota 4x4 and looks buggered.
Our heads are pounding; the rocks we're carrying are blisteringly hot. The earth 'neath our feet scolds us. A cigarette is lit off an all too rosy cheek.
Why are you so cruel mother nature? To harm and torture innocents like this!
Our tenderised flesh grown ever pinker.
Oh, for the goodly rain of home! The miserly sunshine! The gloom of cloudy days!
It's sunshine again tomorrow they say.
Bloody typical.
Back to the Cheeky Homepage
Sunday, November 2, 2008
The Bushman's Farewell To Queensland
We were given a copy of this poem by Narell Howarth in Upperstone. No one apparently knows who wrote it, but we think it most certainly must have been a Pommie, thus, his inclusion here in the Whinging Poms. We, of course, love Queensland. This fella, you see, well, had a few issues.
The Bushman's Farewell To Queensland
by Anon
Queensland thou art a land of pests
From flies and fleas one never rests
Even now mosquitoes round me revel
In fact, they are the very devil,
Sandflies and hornets just as bad,
They nearly drive a fellow mad.
The scorpion and the centipede
With stinging ants of every breed
Fever and ague with the shakes
Triantelope and poisonous snakes
Goannas, lizards and cochatoos
Bushrangers, lags and jackaroos
Bandicoots and swarms of rats
Bull dog ants and swarms of cats
Stunted timber, thirsty plains
Parched up deserts, scanty rains
There's rivers here you sail ships on
There's nigger women without shirts on
There's humpies, huts and wooden houses
There's men who don't wear trousers
There's Barcoo rot and sandy blight
There's dingos howling half the night
There's curlews wails and croaking frogs
There's savage blacks and native dogs
There's centralists, flowers and stinging trees
There's poisoned grass and Darling peas
Which drive the horses and cattle mad
Make the sheep, just as bad
And then it never rains in reason
There's droughts one year and floods next season
Which wash the squatter's sheepe away
And then there is the devil to pay
To stay in Queensland, Oh land of mutton
I would not give a single button
But bid thee a long farewell
Thous scorching land of sunburnt hell.
Back to the Cheeky Homepage
The Bushman's Farewell To Queensland
by Anon
Queensland thou art a land of pests
From flies and fleas one never rests
Even now mosquitoes round me revel
In fact, they are the very devil,
Sandflies and hornets just as bad,
They nearly drive a fellow mad.
The scorpion and the centipede
With stinging ants of every breed
Fever and ague with the shakes
Triantelope and poisonous snakes
Goannas, lizards and cochatoos
Bushrangers, lags and jackaroos
Bandicoots and swarms of rats
Bull dog ants and swarms of cats
Stunted timber, thirsty plains
Parched up deserts, scanty rains
There's rivers here you sail ships on
There's nigger women without shirts on
There's humpies, huts and wooden houses
There's men who don't wear trousers
There's Barcoo rot and sandy blight
There's dingos howling half the night
There's curlews wails and croaking frogs
There's savage blacks and native dogs
There's centralists, flowers and stinging trees
There's poisoned grass and Darling peas
Which drive the horses and cattle mad
Make the sheep, just as bad
And then it never rains in reason
There's droughts one year and floods next season
Which wash the squatter's sheepe away
And then there is the devil to pay
To stay in Queensland, Oh land of mutton
I would not give a single button
But bid thee a long farewell
Thous scorching land of sunburnt hell.
Back to the Cheeky Homepage
Friday, October 17, 2008
But I thought you had it?
Where has it gone?
Isn't it there?
Where?
By the thing next to that little fella thing.
What? No.
You had it last.
But I gave it to you.
I put it down!
Where?
I don't know!
Why are you asking me then?
Because I thought you had it!
What are you looking for?
The fun and games of living three to a van.
Come and join us while we play the "let's keep it here from now on" game.
Watch open mouthed as Anne tears the van apart looking for the mossie repelant, gives up then blames us for having to look daft in front of people as she applies factor 30 sunblock at nine at night, leaving the inside of the van looking like a fight between three sumos chasing a badger took place.
Stand agog as Phil spends an hour moving stuff, tidying things, and putting items away only to have it all pop back up and splay itself in disarray as soon as he turns his back.
Laugh out loud (lol, he he he) as Gareth looks for the lighter to start the gas cooker, searches the same place nine times, hassles Phil, hustles Anne, harries passersby, and attempts the age-old abusing invisible foes game, muttering obscenities, only to find it where he least expected it, in his pocket. You knew that was where he'd find it all along didn't you.
Have a gander at the 'where's the map?', 'what map?', 'the map map!' shenanegans. They amuse no one in particular, but they keep appearing.
Be a fly-on-the-van-door while we ask the questions on almost nobodys lips, like "whose dirty sock is this?" "why is there a pair of wet grundies on the drivers seat?" "do you have to put your armpits so close to my face" and the oft-repeated seldom answered "what's that smell?"
Honestly, and you thought you had it bad! Pff.
Isn't it there?
Where?
By the thing next to that little fella thing.
What? No.
You had it last.
But I gave it to you.
I put it down!
Where?
I don't know!
Why are you asking me then?
Because I thought you had it!
What are you looking for?
The fun and games of living three to a van.
Come and join us while we play the "let's keep it here from now on" game.
Watch open mouthed as Anne tears the van apart looking for the mossie repelant, gives up then blames us for having to look daft in front of people as she applies factor 30 sunblock at nine at night, leaving the inside of the van looking like a fight between three sumos chasing a badger took place.
Stand agog as Phil spends an hour moving stuff, tidying things, and putting items away only to have it all pop back up and splay itself in disarray as soon as he turns his back.
Laugh out loud (lol, he he he) as Gareth looks for the lighter to start the gas cooker, searches the same place nine times, hassles Phil, hustles Anne, harries passersby, and attempts the age-old abusing invisible foes game, muttering obscenities, only to find it where he least expected it, in his pocket. You knew that was where he'd find it all along didn't you.
Have a gander at the 'where's the map?', 'what map?', 'the map map!' shenanegans. They amuse no one in particular, but they keep appearing.
Be a fly-on-the-van-door while we ask the questions on almost nobodys lips, like "whose dirty sock is this?" "why is there a pair of wet grundies on the drivers seat?" "do you have to put your armpits so close to my face" and the oft-repeated seldom answered "what's that smell?"
Honestly, and you thought you had it bad! Pff.
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