06-18-2007, 12:39 AM
There was a whole series of things which happened to me recently, in which somebody had tried to help me, but had not realised that because I am unmarried I can not control my mind when I am asleep at night. But I nevertheless had realised what was happening, and what had gone wrong.
Part of what was meant to happen was that I was supposed to have a conversation with a New Zealander. But that is the bit which keeps getting left by the way side, and could effect a positive change in my children's life, if other New Zealanders, besides the New Zealand shayteen, could know about what happened to me when in New Zealand.
Last time I tried to tell a New Zealander this story we had an argument over a ball he was carrying instead, and strangely enough this yarn already had strong links with the recent Rugby match between Australia and New Zealand at 20th April 2007. Australian beat New Zealand 82/16. Here is the yarn:
In January 1987 I had been cycling down the west coast of the south island, and the group of people I was among, went for the first days walk in towards Mount Cook, towards the mountain pass only as far as the hot-pool flats.
There was a brand new hut built by the National Park, for the summer bushwalking- oops I mean tramping, season. It had a place to put boots outside, and there were muddy boots there, so we put our muddy boots there too.
Then we had a look around and went to the hot-pools. Everybody had a good time except for me, but that is only because I had an accident with a bucket of hot water in infancy, and so is not relevant to this story, except that that is how I came to have been susceptible to the post traumatic stress that was set off by this happening. We sat in hot water for a while, which is more or less what I did to myself also when I was three.
Then we came back, made a meal, ate it, socialised with the other folk in the new cabin, and went to bed. Upstairs was like a loft dormitory, with a railing to around a way to see down to the floor below where a big communal kitchen had been built. Very nice, we all admired it and its newness.
Then in the middle of the night, there was a storm.
The lightening was so bright that my eyeballs hurt inside my sleeping bag.
Then there were noises that were not thunder.
First I though to myself “it will be perfectly safe here, because nobody would have built this hut here if there was any danger”, but I was WRONG! (can I recommend a good natural disaster as the best way to shake out the cobwebs of a pre-set mental pattern of belief for no reason?)
We got up, we went down the stairs, torches were shone out the window near our boots. There were no tree branches there before, and neither had mud been coming in under that door. Then on the other side of the building, about 10 ft up, the park ranger, who had been sleeping in the old hut next door, was clinging to the pipes sticking out the new building and knocking on the window.
As the window was opened for him he yelled “everybody upstairs now” and we all ran up. He saved our lives by saving his own. A friend had helped him in and was the last up the stairs just as the room below us burst asunder and was filled with boulders mud and trees.
The built in tables and benches in the kitchen, made of solid railway sleeper size bits of wood, were all splinters on the other side of the room.
Then we all went a bit strange.
First we tried the CB radio, but the batteries were 20km down stream in the park rangers hut, which had been on the move when he jumped onto the side of the larger hut. Then everybody put all the torch batteries together and the radio could sent out a distress call. It could receive conversational input, but not supply. The battery power was not enough.
Then, somebody noticed that the rain water storage tanks in the upstairs of the building were leaking, and the Australian emergency effort was engaged. (there were four of us Australians, but the males both born in England actually, two Scandinavians, two Americans, and four New Zealanders :- the New Zealand rescue effort had been to go down stairs to get the CB radio, get covered in mud and then walk all over all the mattresses upstairs to our veritable amusement with out boots under the mud of Aoteoroa, under us.) Our Aussie effort was no better. I lay around laughing and my friends who panicked about not having enough water. It was pouring down with rain outside, but my friends insisted upon filling every available container with water from the leaking tanks.
After hours of listening to the National Park headquarters trying to find which of the huts up above the snow line had sent out a distress signal, a New Zealander had the bright idea of putting all our camera flash batteries with the torch batteries. (I say our, but none of the batteries were mine.) We got the message out, 'it is us, we need the help, just here in this nice safe place'.
Then, the National Park headquarters said “so what's the bother, you can all just walk back to your bicycles/cars etc, and get on with the day can't you?”
Well yes, we could have. But then somebody remembered out boots. (me) So they rescued us by helicopter and we had a nice view of a glacier.
At ranger headquarters we all dutifully spoke with the relevant authorities, who seemed to be only journalists from our own homes, became briefly front page news items, and then were driven back to our bicycles where we had a nice head start on the next day's ride.
But I have no way of knowing why my mind has been trying so hard to get this story out to any Muslims in New Zealand for a long while actually, and especially recently?
It already feels like a big change happened and that I should have gotten this story to the right people before hand. One of the consequences of the whole incident is that I have a real Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, the sort that they diagnosed first here in Australia among the Vietnam Veterans.
My whole sensitivity feels like something monumentus has recently happened about this event, but I just can not place it.
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