by Nick Cummins
The big moment in the landscaping calendar is the annual Amazon Landscaper of the Year Awards night held at the old man’s ranch. This year, the event kicked off mid-afternoon with the Amazon Gift – a 50-metre, flat-out, do-your-best foot race modelled loosely on the Stawell Gift. Bar the allowance of cheating.
This explains why the old boy picked up third each year despite finishing last.
Following the main race, the barbie fired up and people became lubricated. As the night began to pump, the Landscaper of the Year Awards were announced.
Jimmy always won it – eight years in a row in fact. This year was a big one for him as he picked up both the Gay Landscaper of the Year and the Straight Landscaper of the Year awards – he didn’t discriminate.
These were bloody funny nights, especially when Jimmy had to borrow the trolley to remove the rock, sleeper or whatever other massive object he’d won.
Life was much easier back then, even if the social side was just a touch bent.
VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR
RHYMING REASON:
Noah’s ark = shark
Frog and toad = road
Barry Crocker = shocker
Plates of meat = feet
Meat pie = try
VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR
SQUEEZED TESTICLES
1. Tackle grab
2. Christmas grip
3. Squirrel grip
4. Grabbing the family jewels
PERUVIAN SOUL SEARCHING ADVENTURE
After my adventures during the Rio Olympics, I was tuckered out and needed a little lift to the spirits. So I grabbed the missus and we headed west to Lima, Peru.
Believe it or not, it wasn’t too long before I found myself in the middle of a brouhaha, being heavily hassled by 108 taxi drivers all battling to see who would get to stitch the foreigner up with their cab fare. It was like a scrum, and just like on the field, this winger didn’t want no part of it. I had to tell one cabbie in no uncertain terms my feelings on what the consequences would be if he remained in my face for a single moment longer.
Sure enough we came to an understanding and before long the missus and I found our way to our hotel, which was in an area so dodgy it made Baghdad look safe. We were strongly advised not to be outside after dark, so we hit the cot early for the morning’s mission.
Up bright and early, we bussed it seven hours away to Nazca. The trip was mostly along the coast, but if you looked to the other side of the road you would think you were in the Sahara – it was more barren than an outback footy field and drier than a Pommie’s towel.
Amid the desolation were random dwellings that were no bigger than a shipping container with full families living in them. As if that wasn’t humbling enough, I spotted a young girl standing outside a tiny little house on a dirt mound in the middle of nowhere, in her school gear, waiting for a bus. It was yet another reminder of how lucky we are to live in Australia. We’re doing all right compared to most South Americans, who have it real tough. The people there who have had to adapt to their circumstances are amongst the toughest I’ve come across.
Anyhow, we were fast approaching Nazca and running through my mind were the documentaries I’d seen on the idiot box – Nat Geo and History Channel – describing the Nazca Lines – ancient geoglyphs and drawings. From the bus terminal we walked about 10 metres to speak to some bods from a company doing flights over these ancient artworks. They had just enough room for the girl and me for their next flight. A car with two other passengers was coming in hot, so without hesitation we dived in and said we would pay later. They took me at my word.
Sure enough, we got to a tiny airport and took off in a very light aircraft and viewed these old artworks that can only be appreciated from the air. And it was deadset stunning.
One of the drawings is over 300 metres long, and when you see them – which I’d recommend – you’d be forgiven for thinking the official story and history we’re given is a wee bit fishy. This seems a common occurrence when you travel to other countries, where you find the history promoted within the country is hugely different to our western teachings. Kiwis still think the Earth’s flat! This is possibly a joke.
We flew over about 12 big drawings and each one was thought-provoking – a nice change after being stuck with nothing to read but a gossip mag on the bus.
After landing (relatively) safely, we boarded another bus that turned out to be a 17-hour haul at a top speed of around 35 kmh through some of the most beautiful mountain landscapes I’ve seen. But with the steepness of the roads and the altitude, I think that’s all the speed we could muster in an effort to survive.
We finally arrived in Cuzco, which was an Inca capital city in ancient times, and prepared for our next experience. After 10 years of professional rugby, I felt I needed to find some more meaning in life and booked myself into a retreat-style setup where one must fast for a couple of days before ancient medicine is used to heal past physical, mental and spiritual blockages. Now, a day is enough to make a man cry – but two! Without anything!?
The retreat consisted of three ceremonies, where they bless the medicine with smoke and chant for protection before administering the powerful stuff. I can safely say that the first ceremony was the most challenging experience I’ve had. I had to face myself and it wasn’t pretty – how had I managed to dodge so many mirrors the past decade? I spewed my empty guts up for hours, pissed my pants and to my surprise, found a two-by-four in the bog catchers – and I hadn’t touched a beer.
Ceremony two of three was a mix of pain and joy, and before the last ceremony I had a fever that’d kill a prop forward, and they thought I may not be able to participate. I was on my back shivering like mad, and then this old lady comes into the room and lifts up my shirt, scrunches up some leaves and rubs them on my chest, armpits, and feet. Is this what is meant by a ‘happy ending’?
She then cracked an egg and rubbed the egg white on the same places, and within five minutes I was warm as toast with no fever! ‘What the hell!?’ I thought I was gonna be in strife for at least two days – and with the missus. But I was good as gold on both fronts.
The last ceremony was one of the best experiences of my life. I think I cried tears of joy for hours. Then I found out after a one-on-one with the shaman that by the last ceremony, my soul was clean (certainly not the dacks) and that’s why Pacha Mamma (mother earth) filled my body with joy. The best feeling ever! And a truly unforgettable experience. But those skid marks won’t wash out . . .
VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR
NO CHANCE:
As much chance as seeing
Robocop at a BBQ
NO. 2:
Scaring the S bend
THE ANZAC LINK
Now it’s time for a bit of family history. The only thing I love more than Anzac biscuits are the Anzacs themselves. Most Aussies have a relative who has served in a war or two. And I’m no different.
My great-grandfather landed at Gallipoli in 1915 and my old man visited in 2015. They both got pretty wounded – one physically, one emotionally.
My great-grandfather was injured by a Turkish hand grenade and carried a piece of shrapnel in his head until he pulled the pin himself in the 1970s. Dad reckons the metal in his head didn’t affect him greatly, ‘except that when he pressed the roller door button he would occasionally shit himself’.
William Gerald Cummins was a tough old bastard who came out from Ireland on a steamship at 13 years of age and shovelled coal to pay his fare. His brothers and sisters were either priests or nuns or members of the IRA.
He joined the mounted coppers at an early age and was chasing bushrangers until he enlisted in the Light Horse in 1915. The Ninth Light Horse was sent to Egypt to train as infantry for the attack on Gallipoli. Along with a few of his mates, he picked up a nasty rash in his nether regions in Cairo. She must have been a good sort . . .
He survived Gallipoli and was sent to a hospital in London by ship. At least he wasn’t shovelling coal this
time, but I’m sure he wished he could have.
After his recovery, he was offered a chance to head back to Ireland. But he knew his brothers were going to be involved in the Easter Rising in 1916 and he was done with war, so he ended up back in Australia.
My great-uncle Dick was a real champ, too. During WWII, he fought in the Middle East and on the Kokoda Track in New Guinea. He would tell Dad how he fought and died in three world wars, which created some confusion at the time. He loved a blue and wasn’t keen on taking prisoners . . .
As a result of the family connection, both Dad I are big supporters of military personnel.
One night at dinner before a Western Force game, Dad was talking to trooper Mark Donaldson VC about his time in Afghanistan. This bloke has balls of steel and has written a great book about his life. Not to be outdone, the old man gave him a story of his own – to consider for Mark’s next book, maybe . . .
Dad told him about a battle in Vietnam – ‘30,000 against three,’ he said. ‘They bombed us, they shot at us, and they charged at us but still we held out. They were the bravest three men we ever fought.’
Needless to say, the old man thought it was funny; Mark Donaldson wished he had his gun . . .
Chin-up challenge with some locals in Rio. The prize was I got to keep my wallet. BTW, the dudes in the background aren’t holding hands, they just won a point . . .
Surprisingly, this isn’t the first time I’ve enjoyed the company of both a monkey and a snake at the same. But what happens on Mad Monday, stays on Mad Monday.
VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR
TELEPHONE:
1. Al Capone
2. Dog and Bone
3. Blower
DRUNK:
1. Full
2. Legless
3. Lubricated
4. Pissed as a fart
THE ROPER RIVER RUNS RED
The sun was on its way up as the big rod hit 12 and the twig was reaching for five. It was sparrow’s fart. The crack of dawn. Or in human terms, 5am.
If I thought I was getting a sleep-in before we took off deep into the Territory to fish Roper River, I was dreaming. The mercury had already poked its head over 24 and the shed this Badge had his swag in was like a Swedish sauna – only without the women.
Making matters worse was the fact that one of the five blokes with me had used the thunderbox and forgotten to turn on the fan. In a shed already devoid of fresh air, that thick stench only made for more humidity and a bigger task for the heaving lungs.
But inhaling those toxic fumes wasn’t going to help the situation, so I made the concerted effort to leg it outside and make sure we had all the essentials for what was to be yet another fishing trip to remember.
The checklist read like this:
• Nard paper jumbo pack x 2 (heaps of toilet rolls)
• Emergency kits x 4 (boxes of beer)
• Bear Grylls (mini axe)
• Chuck Norris (sharp knife & firestarter)
• BPs (Back-up Pluggers)
• Head torch (effing bright)
• Swag
• Repellent (Dad)
• Rod (actual fishing rod)
• Tackle (actual tackle)
• Extra juice (jerry cans)
• BBQ plate
• ‘Special’ magazine (u know, Garfield or something . . .)
• Baked beans
• 243-calibre rifle
Those are the essential requirements for any fishing trip with the old boy. Because, if you’ve been keeping up, trouble is always a certainty when you’re fishing with the old man – be it a rescue boat picking us up from somewhere a 6HP tinnie should never have been, sinking a houseboat or launching the anchor and watching it fly through the air only to realise it wasn’t tied on, and see it instantly disappear.
But we were looking better than a poodle to a rottweiler and with my older brother Luke’s fourbie bedded down and a fox’s brekkie under the belt, we were ready to hit the frog and toad.
Luke has always been up for anything involving a moderate to high level of risk, minimal rations and a dwindling chance of survival. Roper River ticked all the boxes, with its waters occupied not just by crocs but bull sharks and rays, to boot. He’s done some random things in his day and some were even legal.
Anyhow, me, the old man and Luke had assembled a tight and experienced six-man crew, some of whom you could even trust.
There was no one more capable than Big Tuna – a reputable stockman with a solid understanding of the land and the politics that surrounds it, due to the Indigenous population of the Arnhem region in which he was raised.
He was part of the mighty Northern Territory Mosquitoes that knocked off Scotland in a less than friendly exhibition match in the 1980s and the kind of bloke who could drink a dozen tins in the first hour and still shoot a pimple off a pig’s arse. Needless to say, he was well positioned to lead the expedition.
The rest of the crew comprised an ex-miner and a Scottish backpacker. We were just like the Fantastic Four but there were six of us. And we were average at best.
Soon enough, we were on the road with two turning and two burning, blazing down the Stuart Highway when I saw one of NT’s more rare sights – a middle-aged man with a gym allergy trotting the shoulder in nothing more than a g-banger, sweat and flies. ‘Hookers Ball went off last night,’ Tuna says. The ‘Hookers Ball’ is an annual event in Darwin drawing hundreds of people where you can put your sexuality to the test and wander down Mitchell Street wearing precious more than dental floss and no place to carry your wallet or phone. Apparently . . .
Anyhow, we were four hours into the tour and the flatulence issues were beginning to take the fun out of it when we came to a halt. Someone had t-boned a cow (pardon the pun) of Jurassic proportions and it was lying in the middle of the road. While a local rooster tied it to his truck to pull it off the road, Luke decided to whip out the ukulele, walk to the car in front and serenade the woman behind the wheel. She gave him a one finger response – asking for one more song, I’d say . . .
Cow removed, we pushed on and got to Mataranka by about 3pm before deciding to press on to the Roper. We got off the bitumen and continued on through some cattle stations and a few river crossings to clean up the ute, then finally arrived! You beauty.
We found a nice spot on the river to set up camp that met our two requirement – high and dry enough to make it hard for the lizards (crocs) to get to us.
It’s a magic thing, the Roper. Peaceful even. Though it did pay to sleep with one eye open on account of the fact you could see sword sharks, queenies, mullet, bull sharks, and of course, some lizards all in the one spot. The waters boil with activity.
We slept well that night courtesy of the emergency rations and true stories that were told around the fire . . .
Next morning at sparrow’s, and with a gut full of bacon, eggs and burnt toast – my specialty – it was time to hit the river. We cleaned up and then some. We caught every species you could think of – but only kept what we needed. Eventually we returned to camp to cook up a feast of fresh barra on the fire with garlic and oregano. Ya couldn’t wipe the smile off our faces. Mostly because we couldn’t believe we’d lasted the day without the old man’s curse causing us a mischief.
But the night was still young and there was plenty of time to come a cropper. So Tuna, Luke, the Scot, Old Miner and myself headed out for a little midnight expedition while the old man held the fort.
All was looking well when the Scot hooked up a good size barra and hauled it to the boat. Better yet, he gave me the rod to pull the bastard in while he went to grab the barra, torch in hand. A brave move in these part, at midnight no less. Luke had called for the net – the smartest thing he’d done all trip – but the Scot went for it. And the old man’s fishing curse struck – along with a croc!
As the Scot leaned over the side and grabbed the fish, a good size lizard followed him up and with a loud snap grabbed the fish and the Scot’s forea
rm at the same time. The torch went in the drink and the Scot fell backwards into the boat with the barra and the lizard! It was only a lazy three feet. They weren’t the only wild animals in the boat! I had a turtle head poking my undies at this stage.
We were in that much shock you could have heard a pin drop if it weren’t for the lizard scratching around at the bottom of the boat. Then we heard a big splash and all was still. The croc was gone. Big Tuna broke the silence with a ‘That went well!’
Then Luke rose to the occasion and had me hold his back wheels (heels) as he lunged over the boat to collect the torch still glowing about a metre under the boat.
He spun the torch right on the Scot, who was like a busted foal and white as a ghost with a steady red stream running down his arm. To his credit, he never made a sound. He was either in shock or had balls of steel. Maybe both.
Luke used his shirt as a tourniquet and we made a bee-line to camp. The lads didn’t seem too concerned at first with the injury – well, not until they realised we needed the ice out of the esky for first-aid purposes. The Scot received a dozen good bush stitches and a golden shower (Dettol).
Not much sleep was had that night as we relived the event with a few brews and even more modifications to what actually happened. I think, by the end of it, the story was he’d gone for a swim with floaties on and cut himself while climbing back onto the boat.
It was another epic NT adventure and the Scot’s got the scars to prove it.
VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR
RARE:
Scarce as rocking horse shit
RED-HEAD:
A bluey
THE HANDIEST WORD IN ENGLISH
‘Bastards’ is one of the handiest words in the English language. When I was growing up, which I still am, it was used to describe almost anything – objects, people, smells. It didn’t matter how you used it, you just did. Our vocabs weren’t huge but we got the point across.