GOTTA posting

GOTTA POSTING

Done it. Travelled by air for thousands of miles and survived. Now for twelve months of exploration, making new friends and collecting experiences and memories that will hopefully last a lifetime.

This section is basically a collection of anecdotes relating to events and individuals that happened during my time on the Rock.

The first thing that comes to mind is the welcome we received on our arrival at the “Airport Terminal” on Christmas Island. I use the term very loosely. Basically it was no more than a large Twynam Hut. Painted white. With a sign fixed above the entrance telling us where we were.

After asking to come here, going through the aggro of Borden Camp, the terror of hours in the sky, I must admit I did have a pretty good idea where I was, so why go through all the trouble, time and expense of erecting a stupid sign?

Sadly they’d not yet heard of air conditioning, it was like an oven. The only means off cooling the air was provided by a couple of obviously geriatric fans twitching and whining high up in the ceiling.

I was beginning to doubt my sanity. Had I actually volunteered for this? That’ll teach me to open my mouth.

“OK chaps, sit down and well get on with the little presentation about your future on Christmas Island”

Got to be a Blue Job. No squaddie could speak as sweetly as that.

“First and foremost, one's got to be awfully careful when in the sun” On goes a slide showing human bodies shedding vast areas of epidermis as fast as it can.

I can only equate it as looking like someone removing a sheet of cling film from a lump of prime rump steak.

This vision of disintegrating human remains immediately puts so much fear into me that I decide there and then never to expose as much as a square inch of skin to the killer rays of the Pacific sun.

We’re then told about sharks, and what effect they can have as they rip lumps off you while you are having a quiet swim. This was also accompanied by a couple of vividly explicit slides.

So far I had convinced myself that there’d be no sunbathing, I now had to add swimming to my list of no, no’s.

Was it really worth coming out here? At this rate everything except breathing seemed to be dangerous.

Looking around, trying to look brave and devil may care, I noticed three grinning, heavily suntanned faces looking through a door at the other end of the building.

I gave Yorkie a nudge and pointed out the three faces of our welcoming committee, Alan Greystone, Alan Miller and Dave Rawlings.

The last time we’d seen Dusty Miller and Dave Rawlings was at Borden. Surely these couldn’t be the same people. They looked too healthy considering the lecture we’d just been given. Maybe sunbathing wasn’t as hazardous after all.

Gallons of sweat and a few glasses of iced water later we were let loose to be greeted by our three “native” buddies.

After plenty of handshakes and back patting we collected our luggage and headed outside to the bus. This turned out to be a typical military type contraption. A blue 39-seater coach with a white roof. Not the most comfortable of journeys especially as there was no cooling and plastic seats.

I admit I needed to lose a few pounds but I would rather have done it on my terms.

We eventually, after about 30 – 45 minutes, reached Port Camp which was going to be our home for the next year.

The site that met our eyes was not really inspirational, but I had no one to blame but myself. Perhaps I could ask for a posting!

We are disembarked and directed to what was not your actual Savoy Hotel. Luckily Alan and I had been billeted together. So at least we’d be able to comfort each other during our impending fate.

Dave and Dusty helped us get ourselves settled, and gave us a quick briefing on what we’d be doing next day.

“Why have they got that smirk on their faces all the time?” I asked myself. Something was obviously afoot, but I couldn’t put my finger on any definite prank they may have planned. I was obviously getting settled in because my next question was, “When do we get to scoff then?”

Almost together they replied “in about an hour”

I should have guessed then that something awful was planned by these so called friends. They really seemed overjoyed that we’d enquired about food.

“OK you two, time for scoff” Like a couple of lambs to the slaughter Yorkie and I grabbed our eating irons and dutifully followed our two mates. I didn’t realise at the time but we were heading for the Christmas Island Coliseum.

Was it bad manners or were Alan and Dave more hungry than they looked?

They unceremoniously pushed us aside as we reached the building that was obviously the dining room. As they entered with us trailing behind they shouted aloud to the assembled hoards, “Here they come”

In retrospect the effect was quite remarkable, however, at the time it was awe inspiring. From the gentle clink of eating irons on plates, the barely audible hum of conversation, came a sound that would have made the SAS back off.

Tin mugs bashing on tables, eating irons slamming into plates, screams of mirth as words such as “Moonie”, Whitey from Blighty” and other well rehearsed profanities were shouted in our direction.

If it was possible to go whiter than we already were, then we did. We’d been here less than 3 hours and already we were wishing we’d gone down in flames on the journey out.

Soon it all quietened down and we were able to get our food and shrink away into the background. We’d had our welcome and now all was back to normal. I’ll never forgive those two so called buddies for not at least giving us some clues as to what we were going to receive.

This horrendous experience turned out to be the normal greeting to the “New Boys on the Rock” and we learned later that ours had been one of the quieter welcomes.

So here endeth our first few hours, Only another 365 days to go. Could it get any worse?