Brief Encounters

I explained to the ophthalmologist some years ago that, because they don't make left-eyed cameras, I have abandoned most of my photography until he thinks it is time to do something about the cataract responsible for the deteriorating vision in my right eye. Giving up photography was relatively easy; I stopped carrying a camera. It is more difficult to give up the lifelong practice of keenly observing my surroundings. But then, why should I? Still stimulated by the way sunlight falls on a landscape, the glint of light on water and the behavior and foibles of my fellow man or woman, I now store these observations in memory, either mine or my computer's, for possible use in something I write -- creative writing having, to a large extent, replaced photography. Here are three such brief observations which left me wondering and continue to stimulate my imagination.

It was the size and weight of his packs which first attracted my attention as we sat over our morning coffee, gazing through the window of the cafe. As well as a very large, black backpack with a rolled sleeping bag strapped to the top, he carried two other rucksacks, one in each hand. The larger one almost dragged on the roadway as he crossed to a bench by the taxi rank on which he carefully placed the two rucksacks. Crouching low, he rested the backpack on the bench and shrugged out of the shoulder straps before sitting amongst his load. Ignoring cruising cabs, which hovered expectantly, he relaxed in the sunshine.

He was of average height and build with a mane of hair now more silver than black and a long but neatly trimmed beard. From the easy way he carried his extraordinary load, he was obviously strong and fit.

Overdressed for the pleasantly warm morning he wore a heavy, black jacket zipped to the neck, neat serviceable jeans and strong brown boots. He wore thick, black woolen gloves, from which the thumb and first two fingers of the right hand had been removed. As if to emphasize the incongruity of his dress, a second backpacker walked briskly along the footpath behind him. A shapely blonde, she wore a white sleeveless blouse under her pack and a colorful, light, wrap-around skirt which lifted in the gentle breeze to reveal a shapely leg.

Searching the pockets of his jacket, he produced a cigarette butt and matches. After a few puffs, he rose and carefully extinguished the remains on the rim of the nearby litterbin. Then, eyes down, he suddenly swooped on a discarded butt. Carefully forming it back into shape, he lit up and resumed his seat. After several such sorties, each one taking him further from his base on the bench, he eased into his backpack, gathered up his other burdens and strode off through the city.

I was lunching on a park bench when an attractive, fair-haired girl came and sat on the far end of the adjoining bench. At first glance she looked about seventeen; a typical college student -- denim jeans and jacket, backpack and walkman headphones plugged into her ears. Only the sweater with its high, loose collar seemed out of place -- it was a pleasantly warm day.

She sat, listening intently to the walkman but not moving to the music. Slowly she inclined her head and spoke softly into the neck of her sweater. Intrigued, I watched her obliquely from behind my sunglasses as she continued this sequence of listening then muttering into her neckline. Observed more closely, she was nearer 27 than seventeen and was either engaged in a weird dialogue with her breasts or there was a microphone down there. After a particularly intense period of listening, which she acknowledged curtly to her breasts, she set off, striding purposefully towards the city center.

The Melbourne Cup is the only horse race which stops Australia. At 3.20 PM on the first Tuesday in November each year you will find virtually the whole nation gathered around the TV or the radio for the running of the Cup. It is also the only horse race on which many Aussies, like myself, will have a bet. It was my lunch hour on Cup day and I was on another bench, with another sandwich, trying to decide which horse would be the quickest to carry my $10 to the winning post.

Suddenly, I became acutely aware that an overpowering stench had settled beside me; a mixture of unwashed body, vomit and cheap sherry. Its disheveled owner, in a filthy navy blue suit, eyes wild and bloodshot below a mop of unwashed, uncombed hair, clutched a plastic bag of apples in place of the expected brown paper wrapped bottle, but looked as though he was surfacing from a monumental binge. Before I could remove myself and my sandwich from his noxious environment, he asked, "Which day is it?"

"Tuesday, Mate. Melbourne Cup Day."

He looked at me in total disbelief before lurching quickly to his feet and shambling off.

There is a hackneyed saying that a picture is worth a thousand words, and many of them are, but I doubt that a single photograph of any of these brief encounters could stimulate the imagination more effectively than a few hundred words.