Ben's Blog

Gol Gol Revisited

A glimpse into the future while surrounded by the past.

If you read my first critique of the hamlet of Gol Gol, you may wonder why I  chose to return. My first visit was occasioned by my love of the mighty Murray River in all her glory, my second visit was out of nostalgia for the first visit.

Lo and behold I find myself once more camped on the banks of the mighty Murray, mesmerized by the ever flowing stream.

My erstwhile companion has lured me to these far flung parts to accompany her to the inaugural Australian Print Triennial in Mildura, of which she is a willing participant. As it so happens, a group of notable printmakers were invited to Lake Mungo, which is just up the road from here. My companion, being a student at La Trobe Uni, was allowed to tag along so long as she didn’t annoy the distinguished printmakers as they concentrated on the task of sparking some inspiration from the barren landscape confronting them.

 A difficult task indeed! If you have ever ventured to this far flung corner of the globe you will be painfully aware that it consists of nothing more than a few sandhills, badly eroded by the overgrazing of sheep, thus exposing some old bones. A place of little interest to those outside the areas of paleontology or animal husbandry. (which I believe is still illegal in this country, as long as there is no sex before marriage). Although it was the home of the famous Mungo Man and Mung Woman, the very first humans to be honored with a ritual burial apparently, but that was a long time ago, not much has happened here in the intervening 45,000 years.

So after the triennial, we spot a nice spot by the river, far from any disturbing disturbances. But of course we all know what happens next, no sooner have we set up camp, unfolded our deck chairs by the river and taken our first sip of tea, than we hear the distant rumble of a powerful v8 motor pulling a caravan large enough to house an entire circus troupe, followed closely by another v8 and another caravan of equal proportions. The occupants having obviously found the other 1000 km of the river far too lonely, decide to circle their wagons right next door. Fortunately, after much fuss adjusting the TV ariel they disappear inside till it is time to pull up stumps, except for the regular intervals when one of them would emerge to share his cigarette smoke with us.

However, much to our dismay, we soon found our lonely neighbors to be the least of our worries. No sooner had they set up shop than the water skiers arrived, descending from both directions. Alas they managed to pass each other without incident. No sooner had the skiers established their dominance of the waterway than they were challenged by a phalanx of river boats.(The Spanish Armada springs to mind) Noticing what a popular spot it is, they drop the anchor and disgorge an array of trail bikes and jet skis, which proceed to whizz up and down in front of us. The jet skiers have obviously mistaken our look of horror for one of boredom and decide to provide some free entertainment, performing dazzling pirouettes and arabesques whilst waving with glee and drenching their rivals in a wide arc of spray as they zoom by, then looking up for a thumbs down, blissfully unaware that we are not amused. Us being card carrying members of ‘The Grey Nomads’, a loosely affiliated club of lost souls, condemned to forever wander the countryside aimlessly, having unburdened themselves of all worldly goods and filial ties. Our once endless list of needs reduced to the simple pleasures: a coffee in the morning, a beer in the evening and a nice spot by the river to indulge in nostalgia in our ‘twilight years’, not yet ready to ‘cross over to the other side’ while there is still a few more drops to be squeezed from this desiccated mandarin.

Ben Boyang 2019