How It All Began

By Pamela Jean Miller

A most entertaining, amusing and gripping memoir, rich in action and packed with interesting characters, often in diverse places.

This thrill-seeking brave adventurer leaves the reader in awe of life on the move in the years before modern technology, devoid of the internet, mobile phones, travel guides and credit cards.

She paints a vivid picture of various countries throughout the globe. The many forms of transport undertaken to various destinations and the colourful characters she met along the way.

During times which will never be experienced again. Through war-torn countries, many under civil unrest, behind the Iron Curtain, and across deserts and mountains.

This true story is bound to enthral and also inspire. Her descriptions are told with candid honesty, dotted with humour and history, and is bound to please readers of all ages.

A completely captivating memoir that will keep the reader engrossed to the very last page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398455382

Pamela Jean Miller

Pamela Jean Miller was born in Hobart, Tasmania. She got educated at Broadland House School, Launceston, Tasmania. Pamela moved to Ireland in 1979. She started breeding Irish Sport Horses, some which achieved international acclaim. Virginia Wolfa became Dublin Champion Broodmare in 1988. Pamela achieved a distinction diploma in Freelance Journalism in Scotland, 1996. She was the first person in Ireland to qualify in equine artificial insemination at Elmwood College in Scotland outside the veterinary profession in 1995. Pamela attended Wat Po Thai Traditional medical association for foot massage and she qualified 2016.

Book preview

How It All Began

Pamela Jean Miller

Austin Macauley Publishers

How It All Began

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Acknowledgement

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Part Two

Part Three

China

USA

India

Lebanon

Jordan

Iceland

Kazakhstan – Former Capital Astana

Iran

Azerbaijan

Georgia

Armenia

About the Author

Pamela Jean Miller was born in Hobart, Tasmania. She got educated at Broadland House School, Launceston, Tasmania. Pamela moved to Ireland in 1979. She started breeding Irish Sport Horses, some which achieved international acclaim. Virginia Wolfa became Dublin Champion Broodmare in 1988. Pamela achieved a distinction diploma in Freelance Journalism in Scotland, 1996. She was the first person in Ireland to qualify in equine artificial insemination at Elmwood College in Scotland outside the veterinary profession in 1995.

Pamela attended Wat Po Thai Traditional medical association for foot massage and she qualified 2016.

Dedication

To Olive Gaffney, a great friend, my mentor and motivator, to whom I dedicate this book for her constant support.

Copyright Information ©

Pamela Jean Miller 2022

The right of Pamela Jean Miller to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All of the events in this memoir are true to the best of author’s memory. The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398455375 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398455382 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

I would like to thank all of the above for their support. To those I have missed—you know you are out there. A huge thank you.

Prologue

After returning to Dublin on 1 October 2019, I was back to work until the first few weeks in January 2020. My travel companion, Olive, had suggested another visit to India for a brief sojourn then carry on to Sri Lanka. I had been speaking of piecing my memories together for a long time, but it never materialised. I was sitting in Tonic’s Restaurant in Trincomalee, eastern Sri Lanka, over lunch when I turned to Olive saying, Now is the time.

What do you mean? she replied.

I reiterated, Now is the time, nodding at the same time with approval of own my decision. Now is the time to start writing.

She put down her knife and fork, throwing her hands in the air, I have heard all this before.

Before she said another word, I interrupted her, No, this time I mean it.

It is Olive to whom I dedicate this book for all the encouragement she gave; also, that so many of my friends across all of the continents have given me.

Reliving some momentous journeys during the Covid era has brought joyous memories. Many of my travels have been omitted, leaving a feeling of guilt for not having the space to include more of them here. In between those already documented, countries visited exceed over one hundred. The continent that I have yet to negotiate in depth is Africa.

In the early years, it was the apartheid situation that presented a deterrent. Black, white, coloured segregation in force, I would have landed myself in trouble with authorities. A humanitarian in mind, body and soul, my travels have given me compassion to deal with all classes, races, many of those of different religious beliefs—I respect them all having an understanding that deserves respect.

We are all people of the universe; this, I do believe until we can understand that by working together for a happier environment, peace can be obtained. Although I am seeing my latter years, my heart is still young; as long as I can put a backpack together, along with a toothbrush, I shall continue to travel.

Part One

Chapter One

Where is that child now? A regular cry throughout the neighbourhood of 150 Davey Street, Hobart, Tasmania, in my younger years.

I could be anywhere of several places I had of interest keeping me occupied, and more especially out of trouble, but my parents begged to differ more often than not, much to the oblivion of myself. So neighbourhood watch is no new thing as people in the locality knew to phone B1256, my parents’ phone number, or my Nana at B4794.

I could have been up the tallest pine tree on the smallest branch sharing a bird’s-eye view with nature, or at the back of the park on the sledge track—I had the best sledge to the envy of other local kids that my dad had made for me to whistle down the hill on the very slippery pine needles in the autumn. St David’s Park, another favourite of mine, to wander around the perimeter of the park reading all the headstones of the very first settlers to Hobart many dating back to the early 1800s, history has fascinated me to this day.

Even the Museum; I would wander for hours through the building covering three floors of Tasmanian History, how so-called prisoners were treated in Port Arthur for very insignificant crimes. How they would be placed in a ducking box then ‘Keel Hauled’, if they survived this ordeal three times, they would be set free. Samples of the so-called ducking boxes were there in the museum—all very frightening stuff to a small child.

St David’s Park was at the bottom of Davey Street which ran parallel to Macquarie Street where my Nana lived at 144. I often rode my scooter or tricycle en route to Nana’s before taking my yacht sailing in Franklin Square fountain; as she lived nearby, she looked after it for me. Or I would completely bypass Nana’s, continuing on to the Wharves, where all the cargo ships delivered or collected. I loved watching the wharfies as the workers were known. Often I would ask where the cargo was going to. Mostly to England, New Zealand, some to the Mainland as Tasmanians call Australia.

Tasmania is known as the apple beer and cider country exporting most to foreign destinations. They often handed me a big red crayon letting me mark the designated boxes before they were loaded into the hold of the ship.

My Dad even accompanied me in the evenings after work, together we would either sit fishing or feeding the seagulls while watching ships come and go. The blue and white square flag called Blue Peter was always flown when the ship was due to sail. He knew I was interested in any form of travel be it planes, trains or boats, but dealing with the ships in port was the easiest for him to manage.

He had connections with Maritime Service Board, which arranged for a pass that would enable us to on board any cargo ship that came into port. One evening we arrived at the wharf and there were several horses in individual stalls waiting to be lifted into the cargo hold. We waited till the horses had been lifted down into the hold. Only then we were allowed to go below deck and see them settled ready for departure to New Zealand.

My Dad explained to me after a brief conversation with the overseer the horses were off to New Zealand to race. But as years went by, looking back on it, these horses were in fact going to New Zealand for the breeding season as New Zealand had some of the best bloodlines in the Southern Hemisphere. Naturally, at that time, I was too young to have that explained to me as best left unsaid.

What has all this got to do with travel, you might ask? Plenty, as I had become very familiar with the workings of the cargo wharves; the constitution dock was the mooring area for yachts. My father had an employee named Snowy as I remember him. Every year Snowy and his crew sailed in the Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race, a treacherous undertaking every year ending in Hobart on Boxing Day 26 Dec. Always, we assembled at the dock to receive their homecoming and safe return. Of course, we went on board, just instilling my love of yachts and boats in general.

Still enthralled over sea travel, I wished at a very young age to visit many countries. I learnt from a globe by my bedside about these far-off lands.

It was my mother that was born in India and Grandfather had travelled in many countries before the partition of India, which happened in 1947 to what is now known as Pakistan, Bangladesh and Burma—now Myanmar. I remember Nana telling me about various places like Karachi, Ceylon and how she specially mentioned Kandy, now Sri Lanka. Several tales of the days when my mother and her younger sister were raised in Madras by a nanny, and how their chauffeur, Charlie, would never let another car overtake him.

Nana often yelled at the Dhobi and Chaiwallah in Hindi for being so lazy, also the farmers for whipping their bullocks whilst ploughing the fields.

In those days, I could only dream of far-off places that one day I would fulfil my dream seeing as much as I could. So I set out to learn, but I started to think of the best way I could get going was via a boat to the Mainland.

I would head off on the scooter, down Davey Street, past St David’s Park on down to the docks; looking over to the far wharf one day, there was only one ship in port. The solitary ship had no Blue Peter flying so I knew she would be there for a few more days. I went over to the IXL warehouse and leaned my scooter against this massive shed directly opposite the gangplank leading up to the deck of the boat.

I toyed with the idea—will I, won’t I, throwing all caution to the wind acted with the only bravado I knew—go for it. I cautiously sidled up the gangplank only to be met by a man ‘on watch’ who approached me saying, Yes young lady, what can I do for you?

Half expecting to be ordered off the ship, I stammered, I want to see the Captain. I had it said before I realised just what I had said. I was always taught to be polite and also having manners was generally accepted, treated well and reciprocated.

So you want to see the Captain? Please follow me.

I did so, with not a care in the world giving this complete stranger absolute trust and following him down into the bowels of the ship; he came to a large mahogany door, which he knocked. I stood directly behind him when he responded to the voice behind the door.

Sir, a young lady to see you sir.

On opening the door wider for me to enter, the elderly man sitting on the far side of his desk peered over the top of his glasses, beckoning me in.

Yes young lady, what can I do for you? as he pointed for me to take a seat opposite him.

I want to know where this ship is going please.

Sydney, he replied.

Oh, will you take me? was my reply.

He went on to introduce himself as Captain Elgar, that he had 2 children a little older than myself, that should I want to travel on the ship to Sydney, I should first speak to my father, getting his permission to do so.

Nodding, I understood what he was saying, said that I was sure my Dad would let me go but I would bring him down this evening and you can meet him, reiterating that I was certain he would let me go.

I assured him that I would return that evening with my Dad in tow. He led me back to the deck so that I could gather my scooter and head off home to announce my good fortune of going on board Captain Elgar’s ship to Sydney.

I found it hard to contain my excitement when my father reached home. Before he could even finish his dinner, I told him about my meeting with Captain Elgar; in doing so I revealed that I had been off wandering again, that I had graduated from helping the wharfies mark cargo to talking to Captains of ships!

Obviously, this must have been an eye opener to my father regarding the conversation I had with Captain Elgar, he seemed to have no qualms about taking me on board. What dispelled his suspicions was that fact that Captain Elgar did request to meet my father for a discussion.

So off we went back down to the wharf, this time arriving by car. We proceeded up the gangplank to be met by yet another person manning the ‘watch’ on deck.

You’re here to see Captain Elgar, Sir? They were expecting us.

My father nodded, the man said, Follow me please, Sir.

On entering, my father stepped forward, greeting Captain Elgar with a very firm handshake. He immediately apologised for the inconvenience I had caused. I took my place behind the two gentlemen, looking at the charts and instruments in the office. I was not particularly interested in their adult conversation but purely hoping for the outcome to be very positive for me.

After some considerable time, I was beckoned to stand up and come forward to shake hands with Captain Elgar, thanking him very much, etc. Both gentlemen continued talking all the way back to the top deck. Delighted that the meeting between the adults went extremely well. Seemingly, both had lots in common.

I waited till we got back into the car before I could approach the subject of my pending trip.

My father turned to me.

Captain Elgar and myself have no problem that someday you can make this trip; however, you must wait a few years as there is a small problem.

He left it up in the air for me to question, Why, Daddy?

Well, you are only eight years old!

I was devastated, he went on to explain it was not ruled out completely, only to bide time for a few years. I would have never considered my age to have been a drawback!

He never wanted to disappoint, always careful not to dishearten my zest for life without giving a logical reason even at such a young age and encouraged me to see a situation from another point of view, assuring me it would not be too long before I would be able to take a boat trip to see another part of the world.

He was right.

In the meantime, I would just have to be content reverting to the globe beside my bed and learning all the capitals.

I continued to sail my yacht in the fountain at Franklin Square, mark the cargo ready for export down at the wharf or collect empty beer bottles and soda syphons, returning them to the bottle shop for recycling. I would get 1p each for the beer bottles, the soda syphons 6p each. A defunct doll’s pram served its purpose to transport them. Life was very different back in those years; children were very safe, guided by adults that always meant well.

What I did learn was that both Captain Elgar and my father became firm friends and played golf together whenever they met up, either in Sydney or Hobart.

My family were very sporting and played competitive golf, squash and kings tennis and an aunt was a member of the Tasmanian Fencing Club. I started swimming lessons with a trainer named Tom Freier. So sport was encouraged at a very early age.

I became a member of the fencing club and had a partner called Peter Mink; the two of us often attended Garden Fetes at Government House, giving displays to encourage membership.

The Olympic Games were coming to Melbourne in November of 1956; there was much speculation in the household about attending this momentous occasion.

What seemed like a lifetime, but near 4 years since I had approached Captain Elgar as an eight-year-old, I saw this sporting venture as an ideal chance to make the journey to Mainland Australia. I pestered my parents to take me and they finally conceded to do so; I soon realised I was finally on my way.

My first big trip, I was with my mother heading to the Olympics in Melbourne 1956. I was actually leaving Tasmania and heading for the big wide wonderful world. It was the first of many new encounters—the first time to leave Tasmania; first time to travel by ship, first time to see television—it would be another 4 years before Tasmania received the first transmission—what an exciting time.

In those days, we had wonderful swimmers representing Australia; many, of course, were my idols and mentors: Dawn Frazer, Sandra Morgan, Lorraine Crapp, Murray Rose, Gary Chapman, John Hendricks, to name a few. They all had come to give an exhibition swim at Hobart even before we had an Olympic-sized pool.

We had tickets to see the swimming, gymnastics, fencing and athletics.

It began with a long bus trip from Hobart to Devonport, the point of departure for crossing to the Mainland. My boat trip finally was coming to pass.

The SS Taroona, I remember her like yesterday, a battered former war transport ship built in Glasgow and served as a Troop Ship during the war, transporting troops from Auckland in New Zealand to Fiji in 1942; she also did runs to New Guinea where she ran aground in Moresby, narrowly escaping being bombed by the Japanese. During her wartime career, she carried nearly 100,000 troops and travelled over 200,000 miles. During her 94 trips, she was often under fire and miraculously came out unscathed. She was returned to Tasmanian Steamers in 1946. She continued to ferry passengers to and from Devonport to Port Melbourne and had taken its fair share of treacherous seas.

I can remember the elation I felt boarding her and being shown to the two-berth cabin with a porthole.

Back on deck, my mother had joined several friends, including my two aunts, my mother’s sisters, in the lounge. Already, they had begun celebrations before even leaving port. I left them to socialise, wandering around the deck and leaning over the bulwarks, waiting for hawser ropes to be cast signalling our departure.

Suddenly, I jumped to the sound of the hooter signalling ready to sail, my heart was thumping with sheer excitement, my first dream was coming true. I stayed on deck till we steamed well away from the shore; finally, as night fell and chilly evening set in, I joined my family members in the lounge.

I had built up a ravenous appetite from the smell of fresh sea air and ordered a gargantuan meal. Without thinking or knowing better, I devoured all, as there had only been one stopover in Deloraine for a snack all the way from Hobart to Devonport. I was about to pay the price.

The Taroona began to gently roll; as she did, I was feeling more queasy; I suggested to my mother that I would return to the cabin as I was feeling sick.

I found my way and entered, throwing myself onto the bottom bunk to look out of the porthole, which was a huge mistake. The ship rolled to such an extent that the waterline covered the porthole, only to return to showing the stars in the sky, and my stomach went with it.

Once I began to vomit, it continued nonstop until arriving at the Port of Melbourne many hours later; the crossing being so rough had kept true to its reputation as one of the roughest stretch of water in the world.

A little worse for wear, I announced that I would go without food for 24 hours before departure for the return journey. I kept my word but it still did not prevent another bout of vomiting. Strangely, it never deterred future sea journeys and never ever caused the same reaction.

The Olympics were exciting and the city of Melbourne buzzing with foreigners visiting and many different tongues being spoken; strange to one’s ears but it was also a very precarious time as the Hungarian Revolution of ’56 with the Russian invasion was very evident and some visitors were on edge.

We were staying with friends at 26 Service Street; however, I cannot remember the name of the people but clearly, the address was a wonderful place with orange trees growing in the garden and also palm trees, etc.—very different as no oranges were grown in Tasmania. On first sight of the black and white television, I was smitten only to become a TV addict ever since. We did not have tickets for the opening or closing ceremony and sat and watched all the nations gathering together in the name of sport and the release of 5,000 doves, indicating a peaceful venture. A very, very vivid memory.

The fencing was held in St Kilda Town Hall and it was explained that many of the Olympians were wearing a black armband indicating they had lost a member of the family during the invasion of Hungary. I was intent on collecting as many autographs of these champions as they came down from the podium.

One such occasion, I went up behind a winning competitor, tapped him on the shoulder, not seeing the black armband; he swung around suddenly as if he was being attacked only to find me sporting a pen and autograph book in his face. Realising his reaction was unjustified, he patted me on the head and obliged by signing my book.

At the swimming events, it was Australia that won most of the pool medals thanks to our golden boy, Murray Rose; we saw them all making Australia very proud of all their achievements. The track and field events started well after most other events and here too Australia had its champions. I remember a Reverend Bob Richards, an American, winning the pole vault.

Of course, there was Betty Cuthbert and Shirley Strickland also winning gold. Ronnie Delaney won the marathon for Ireland and as I witnessed this event, unbeknown to me at the time, it would be an event of importance for some years to come.

After the closing ceremony on ⁸ Dec 1956, we watched with sadness on TV many countries that had come together in friendship in the name of sport and freedom had to make their way back to a Europe that was battling to recover from years of war. Many saw the country that had become a land of opportunity. It was made very evident when one ship in the Port of Melbourne carrying Olympians and their families after the hawser ropes had been cast decided that their only chance of freedom was to jump ship and seek asylum. The New Australian was born.

It was these lessons that taught me compassion, humility and understanding; what it was to be a victor and how easily one can be a loser; it taught me never to give up the fight, be strong and honest in all undertakings. All these early events eventually helped me when I finally began my travels proper.

Chapter Two

It would be another several years before I managed to start traveling, but to fill in a gap briefly. There was discord between my parents amounting to an acrimonious divorce; both my sister and I parted company; she had no choice due to her age to remain with her mother. I opted to remain with my father as he had my education at heart as a priority. Boarding school was favourable for me to remain in one place, with the hope I became an educated young lady in the oldest and best school in Tasmania.

I was delighted to get away as this was in Launceston so it meant flying back and forth from Hobart on the holidays. Another form of travel introduced! TAA was the local airline, which enabled me to obtain Junior Fliers Wings, gaining points every time I flew. So familiarity became the norm, air hostesses allowed me, once the seatbelt sign had been switched off, to offer other passengers barley sugar sweets that were on offer. The flight captain signed my little logbook.

Boarding school was my heart’s delight! I loved every bit of it and remain to this day an Old Girl, even going back for a reunion not so long ago. I represented my school in sports, excelling in three different elements—swimming, gaining an award of merit as a life-saving instructor of the life-saving team; basketball and softball teams. I was never a runner; athletics was just not for me, short bursts of speed only.

Much to my father’s chagrin, I decided to leave school after three years as I did not enjoy the commercial branch of my education. Academically, I was not mathematically adept to become one of his chosen professions he had in mind for me; despite wanting to be a veterinary surgeon at that time or an airline pilot or a radar operator, I did excel in history, geography, English, French, History of Art—any subject that included mathematics was completely off limits, out of bounds. So even as a teacher, I would have needed math.

I flew to Sydney, joining my mother and sister, both had moved to New South Wales. However, this did not last long as she insisted I get a job; I applied for a position in—wait for it—an accountant’s office, where she did all the talking, convincing the interviewer I was a genius from the best school in Tasmania. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! I simply hated it, left after three weeks.

I was not comfortable living with my mother as she had remarried; no stepfather was going to replace the association I had with my father so I did not want to be in the same household very long.

The next job was a relief receptionist working for a doctor and dentist surgery in a village called Dapto, not far from Albion Park, where we lived. I settled in very quickly here, sterilising surgical instruments from both practices. The position entailed preparing each surgery cubicle for the next patient. I was entrusted with responsibility I appreciated.

I asked if I could join the surgery as permanent staff but I had taken the job on the understanding that it was relieving two girls who had gone on a three-week holiday. I was gutted but another turning point around the corner.

A position came up for a Jillaroo, which entailed riding and rounding up cattle, doing the odd housework on a property out west in New South Wales. It was brilliant, loving the outdoors and sunshine with the freedom it brought. The people were lovely; the lifestyle also suited me; farming is repetitive work but I felt after 6 months, I needed a change, applied for another position doing similar but further and deeper into the West, close to the border of Queensland but this time on a sheep station. It involved rounding up sheep with the Aboriginal stockmen traveling many square miles on horseback to round up several herds scattered across huge acreage, long before they started with small planes to round them up.

Once back at the homestead, contract shearers came in to do the job, several pens full of sheep along the length of the shed, once shorn, out another exit spot. My job in the shearing shed was to supply the shearer with the pot of Stockholm Tar, whenever they called ‘Tar Jack’ to daub on an animal that had been nicked with the shear to prevent flies infecting the cut. Once the fleece was bundled up in one piece, it was up to me to throw it onto the table, pulling bits of dag from it before refolding it up, throwing it into a huge sack held up by four massive pins in each corner. It was my job to get into the sack, stomp and press the fleece as far down into the sack as possible before being pressed closed and stapled, ready for transport to Dalgety’s, the woolgrowers in Sydney. At the end of each day, I was covered in the bitter taste of raw lanolin, unlike the soothing end product.

Curiosity beckoned about another change of lifestyle so after my contract finished in Northern New South Wales, I did not renew it.

Sydney was the next port of call. I wanted a taste of nightlife, restaurants, the latest trends in fashion. I wanted to experience it all. It did not take long for me to change into a young lady that dressed in designer labelled Italian suits with matching handbags and shoes, and getting my hair done in Myers Emporium. All this change very quickly, jeans and tee shirts were the in-thing as were smoking mind-blowing narcotics that I also dabbled in; letting my hair grow long, I became a very ‘with-it’ hippie.

Kings Cross in Sydney was considered the cesspool of depravity in those days, with lesbians, transvestites, pimps and their girls, the high-class call girls, baccarat clubs—I got to know many of these hangouts, meeting wonderful people, yes, I say wonderful as they all had a story to tell; some heartrending, many sorrowful situations not being able to leave the predicament out of fear. I became interested in what exactly made these people tick, what prompted them to become prostitutes, why lesbians chose to become lesbians.

Kings Cross became a centre of coming to grips with life in general, trying to understand humanity lending an ear to their cause, it was so varied. Above all, I learnt compassion, not to judge to hastily, as everyone had their story. But I could never quite comprehend how street girls took to marrying Chinese seamen for £600 upfront to keep them in the country and later divorce them.

The Cross even had its share of rich and famous visitors. One evening after work, I went to my late-night Hungarian restaurant for my favourite paprika schnitzel, passing by the glass doors walking arm in arm for a leisurely stroll after a performance were Rudolf Nureyev and Margot Fonteyn, both as graceful in their stroll as if still performing.

Once, I was sitting in a little restaurant and was approached by a lady named Dorothy; we chatted for some considerable time and she ended up approaching me from a very different angle and announced she was a lesbian; vaguely, I tried to analyse the line she was projecting.

I apologised, saying I was not inclined that way but we remained good friends and she ended up confiding in me her latest conquests. The gays and transvestites were especially good fun to be around and chat to. Lydia, a waitress in the restaurant, offered me a job; I couldn’t believe my luck but had to be honest with her that I knew nothing about waitressing.

Easy, she said, just keep moving, empty the ashtrays, wipe the tables. She thrust the menu in front of me. Here, study the menu. In no time, I learnt all the varieties of spaghetti and ravioli dishes on offer and I was away with it.

After a year, I decided to head for Queensland as the tropical weather appealed, warm all year round, winter temperatures about 18°C near the coast; laidback approach to life, polite unarmed police, Queensland was not a police state like New South Wales.

It was here I met my future husband, a military serviceman. Within a year, we married, turning my lifestyle to a more mundane but happy occasion. Unfortunately, I ended up miscarrying at 9 weeks which changed my view on life, feeling I had let this man down and suggested that we start all over again, that he get out of the army, we travel the world together, come back and settle down as we were both young and had our lives ahead of us.

After much deliberation, he decided that he was a career man destined to become an NCO, and leaving was not an option. He was only 21 at that time and I was 23; I decided I had much more to do with my life than settle down as a military wife raising children. We amicably decided to go our separate ways. I felt guilty for what I thought a selfish act of destroying someone’s life, but at the same time wanted freedom for both of us to pursue our own separate interests. A difficult decision at the time but looking back, it was the best decision for both of us with respect maintained on both sides.

I travelled back to Sydney, took an apartment in the Cross and fell into a familiar routine; waitressing was where the big money was made as now it was 1968 and the Vietnam War released their soldiers on rest and recuperation leave. Sydney was allocated as one of their chosen destinations.

My earnings tripled, I ended up moving on to another group of restaurants owned by an Australian but the cooks were Greek, I did not realise just how difficult they could be, especially for getting an order wrong or if it did not meet with the client’s approval if a medium steak was too rare!

Wages in those days were $90.00 a week, plus tips were mine to keep being the only waitress. During the Vietnam War, American soldiers flooded Sydney including the Kings Cross area on leave. These boys knew how to tip and tip well. I could earn up to 90.00 a day in tips working a 12-hour shift; money was easily earned by hard work.

I did have to humour them while waiting for their order answering to the call of, Ma’am, can have a glaas of wadder? or Ma’am, can I have ma’ eggs sunny side up? There were times I did find them hard to cope with and took to bringing a bottle of Johnny Walker Black label to which I put a dash into Black Coffee which helped me fly through the day. Some arrived very depressed and I would often hear them talking about how they ‘shot up the gooks’.

There was one lad that had several compassionate leaves to his credit, returned to same restaurant every time. Albert called me by name, this particular day, asked for a Ham and Pineapple Salad.

Everything was fine. After placing the lovely meal in front of him, I went about serving the rest of the clients—suddenly the hand went up.

Ma’am

Yes Albert, I glided over to his table.

Ma’am, there’s an ant in my salad.

Oh my god! I thought, quickly looking around to see who else may have heard this, plus not wanting to encourage the wrath of the Greek Chefs who would have thrown the entire salad onto the kitchen floor in temper, said very confidently.

Albert, if you don’t want the ant please put it to one side on your plate because if the Chefs know they have served you an ant, they will charge you extra for it as they are a delicacy in this country.

He looked at me disbelievingly. I continued, Really, if you go downtown to Myers Emporium, they sell tins of chocolate-coated ants. It’s a delicacy, you know.

Bless him, he did move the ant to one side saving me from the often-violent temper of the Greek Chefs. In fact, I had also told him the truth about the ants.

I continued to save a lot of money, my thanks to the American Servicemen even though my sanity often reached borderline case for admission. It was Johnny Walker, my saving grace.

I came up for space one day, free to head into downtown Sydney to the cinema. I can’t even remember what the billing was but I do remember sitting through the commercial after half-time.

It was advertising a