Garden Statue

With playful eyes and a cheeky smile, he hides quietly in a modest garden.  He is not alone.  At various points amongst the foliage, companions silently monitor the wildlife that resides with them.  Part imagination and part memory, this menagerie of art would not be out of place on a rambling estate.

Frozen in time.  Not a real person, but a creative flash, captured in stone for perpetuity.  What chance was there that this peeking lad’s form would be cast and spotted through the miniaturised but sturdy limbs of a bonsai?  There is nothing fleeting about his presence, unlike the visages of his brothers and sisters who had failed to inspire the sculptor to lift tools and shape their countenances.

Despite being weathered by sun, wind and rain, his grin does not change.  He knows how lucky he is to have made it this far – from thought to reality.

The Drake Passage

In these conditions, it is more than a day’s sailing to even the closest shore. Rolling swell, metres high, tosses our 100m vessel like a toy boat in a bathtub. The wind is gale-force through the mountainous waves, forcing them to foam crests of white water. Patiently, and without concern, the Captain quietly issues instructions to his officers. He has sailed the Drake Passage in far worse conditions than these.

Most of the crew are down. The ship’s uneven rolling has thrown the sea legs of even the most hardy members of his crew. For some reason, I have been spared their torture and have wedged myself into a corner of the bridge, hypnotised by the restless ocean boiling around us.

I have my old, point-and-shoot camera with me. I neither trust my balance nor my good fortune to bring better gear up during this storm. Here to capture one image, and one image alone, I am sorely tested. Timing is everything and it takes me more than an hour to finally freeze the moment in time I seek.

Descending the back of one wave, we smash into the rising mass of another. Spray is hurtled tens of metres into the air and the impact reverberates through the hull. This is no theme park ride. I love it.

Koala

Perched high in a Gum tree, he obliviously snores away the heat of the day. Perfectly balanced in a fork of a large Eucalypt, there is nothing to fear from his vantage point. Already asleep for three hours, it will surprise no one if he is still there in another eight or nine hours time.

As a nature lover, it is shameful for me to admit that koalas do nothing for me. My experiences with them have always been largely unpleasant. They smell. Their tempers are almost always bad. And they don’t do a lot of good for their environment.

Not that it’s all their fault. Programmed to live off low nutrient food, the oil from the Eucalyptus leaves seeps through their skin. I can always tell when I’m around them, even when they’re hidden from view, because of that distinct aroma.

Stubborn in disposition, attempting to dissuade one from its path (for its own safety) is often met with complaining growls and defensive swipes from its large-clawed limbs. I have been a victim of these strong, solid masses of grey fur, many times.

But they are Australian, and for all their flaws, they help bring in millions of tourist dollars. I cannot argue that I’ve contributed as much to our wide, brown continent.