The Currawongs Are Coming

It is that time of year.  A time when the Sun comes late and leaves early.  A time when Winter's chill fingers stroke the flesh in an icy caress.  A time when wolves and bears roam the land and good folk huddle inside their homes and pray for the first sight of Spring.  Or rather, this being Australia, a somewhat more temperate version of the above.  Down in Hobart, capital village of Australia's version of the Outer Hebrides, the whole settlement is riotously en fete.  Mandolin music rings out from the rooftops and wandering Inuit protest bitterly, presumably about how unpleasantly warm and light Hobart is while currawongs circle overhead cawing approvingly.

At least this was the somewhat incoherent message I received from my correspondent the other day.  I read it three times and didn't make any more sense of it the third time than the first.  Sighing heavily I contacted her to see if she could be more clear in person.  It took a little time (I caught her in the middle of shovelling more coal into her computer) but finally her face appeared on my screen.  I decided to be subtle.

"Have you been drinking?" I asked waving her message.

"No!" she replied indignantly.

"Yes," contradicted my tech support.

"Well not much," she muttered. "By Belarusian standards," she added hastily.

"So what's with this report?"

"Dark Mofo," she replied.

"There's no need to bring race into it."

She adopted the air of weary patience one sees on people whose job involves minding special needs children or politicians.

"It's Dark Mofo.  Hobart's Winter Culturalish Thingy."

Suddenly it all made sense.  Well actually no it didn't but the fact that it didn't make sense made sense.  Last year's Dark Mofo involved naked swims and burning half of Hobart (about five buildings) to the ground with flaming gas jets.  Suddenly mandolin playing Inuit protesters with a currawong fetish seemed perfectly believable.  Perhaps foolishly I asked her to expand.

Hobart is currently overrun with performers, artists and protesters (including at least one Inuit) who are doing the sort of things that would probably get you locked up for your own safety if you did it under any other circumstances.  There were interpretive dances that were terribly confusing, and yes an Inuit who was protesting about something or other.  In an effort to evade the madness creeping over Hobart my correspondent fled to the hills, or rather the hill.  Unfortunately said hill was Mount Wellington which is so inconveniently close to Hobart that the hiking trails which she normally has to herself were overrun by hordes of people who had come to Hobart for Dark Mofo and hadn't let the absence of adequate clothes, sensible shoes or any sort of common sense prevent them from wandering up a mountain in their spare time.

Some of this was amusing, my correspondent looked on with delight as one person carefully stepped over the child fence and damn near walked off the side of the mountain.  Apparently it hadn't occurred to him that the fence might have a purpose.  Somebody else produced a mandolin and commenced an impromptu concert.  For those of you who don't know a mandolin is a musical instrument from a long time ago when everything was crap.  What the response of the other passers by was my correspondent was too kind to say but the mandolin did have one surprising effect.

Currawongs suddenly descended en masse apparently drawn by the gentle twanging of the mandolin.  Settling in a nearby tree they apparently enjoyed the entertainment.  At least loud caws of approval were heard whenever the player stopped.  Whether the tree which wound up covered in a six inch layer of currawong crap enjoyed the performance was left unstated.

Beating a hasty retreat from the overcrowded environs of the mountain my correspondent pause to admire the sheer determination of the person struggling up the path in six inch heels but then fled to her home before the currawongs took advantage of their numbers to start harassing passersby.  From the safety of her home she penned the shaky missive which started my query.  I never found out what the Inuit was protesting about.  But on the other hand I don't really care.