Author Archives: jbstubley

Grafted Frangipani

There’s a frangipani tree that hangs over the pool of our villa, which overlooks the beaches of northern Sanur. The frangipani is flowering white and yellow, except for one branch near the centre which flowers pink. We notice this, puzzle over it a while, and investigate no further at the time. Then a couple of days later, while swimming, I come right under the branch in question, and find there something wrapping around where it connects to a larger branch—the pink-flowering section grafted onto the otherwise-yellow-white-flowering tree.

Black Sand White Sand Sanur

Inside the Sanur reef the sand is all white—tiny pieces of broken down coral. ThIs can make it hard to walk on—hard on the feet, and with so much space between the grain there’s often alot of ‘sink’. In the more northern part of Sanur—on the other side of the marina—where there is no more reef, and the boats go out to Lembongan and the Gili Islands—the sand is black again, like the many rocks of this volcanic isle.

Three Mountains Clear

Most days in Bali it’s hard to see as far as the horizon—there is a softness to the light, a watering down. Most days the mountains are in cloud. But not today—today all three mountains are clearly seen from Sanur; always there, but this day seen…like Western Australia seen.

The Way Water Drains in Bali

Sanur and the water is draining slowly from the beach of small limestone coral pieces. It runs out on the outgoing tide in a kind of cross-ways patchwork almost parallell to the shoreline—and it gathers in the ridges left behind. Or almost—there is still a slight downward movement to the next intersecting line—to the next valley amongst the ridges, which takes the water gradually lower and further out to see, following the main line of the tide: criss-crossing, slowly moving, gathering, slipping, watering all. 

And I can’t help being reminded, now, of the way the water moves down the whole island of Bali from the lakes and mountains in the north, slowly across all the rice paddies, gradually flowing lower, all of it managed, as it makes its way, slowly, out to sea…before it rises again, and gathers into clouds, which form and sometimes fall as rain over the mountains again.

Island of the Gods

We have moved hotels from Seminyak to Sanur. I take an evening walk along the beach, with Venus and a crescent moon hanging in the west, the limestone cliffs of Lembongan still visible and white. Warungs and restaurants, the beach and the path—all full of life. There are offerings in places—on the beach, in front of buildings, in doorways, at shrines and temples; a small island of so many offerings to the gods—it makes for a different place. An awareness of the unseen, and of the in-between.

Full Bodied Butcherbird

Some mornings near Gerrungup in North Fremantle, or at Galbamaanup Lake Claremont, or up here on Bold Park I hear the grey butcherbird calling from some far-off, high, cymbolic starry place into this world, filling it with song. And on this day he’s really letting it rip through—full-throated, full-breasted, full-skied, song.

Whadjuk Views

I walk today up by Lesmurdie Falls, the Saturday morning clearsky winter sun coming up over the edge of the ridge as the water timbles down. I climb up and along the ridgeline of the scarp, heading north. And there, on the plan below lit up by the morning sun, all of Perth—all of Whadjuk Country—spread out below and beyond. From the line of the hills that extends all the way north—following it towards Moore River I fancy—with the coast up there and the suburbs reaching; then looking back down along those rooftops and the ocean beyond, towards the buildings of the city, and the river that runs from beyond the hills I stand on, and comes snaking slowly across it all, meeting there, by the city’s feet, the other river coming in from the south and east, the Doomben Helena in between, joining the Swan near Guildford—all the streams and wetlands and lakes, all that water underneath. Then the flow of things towards and from the port of Fremantle, all the green of Kings Park and Bold Park, and all that’s left in the suburban in-between—the industry of Kwinana, and Serpentine lakes and river wanderings beyond Rockingham towards Mandurah, and of course those islands—Meandip Garden almost touching the tip of Preston Point, making something like a bay, then noolyamia Carnac Island, rocks, Wadjemup Rottnest, and all the water in between. Whadjuk country. All the streams of it—seen and unseen—felt—revealing themselves when there are organs to see.

Shoes and Dolphins

Walking far today on a new pair of shoes, feeling them on every step—their differences from usualness, including an arch too high…I think I’ll take them back, Then, out of the corner of the eye, as if to remind me, four to five dolphins go passing by, with two younger ones jumping clear out of the water, sometimes landing on their backs.

Quenda and Cooli

At the edge of the lake, between water and sedges and rushes and reeds, lives cooli the buff banded rail, and quenda the southern brown bandicoot. How similar they look: one with a long beak and short legs, wings folded back, rarely flying, mostly running—a kind of orangey and zebra black and white; the other with a long snout, strong back legs and short front ones (that it kind of hop-rests on), all browny black. They are both about the same size, both a very similar form, both living in this same zone by the lake’s edge; both fashioned by this same place, and fashioning it.