Ice Harvesting in Maine

It was a brilliant idea: the lakes and rivers in Northeastern USA freeze solid in winter so why not chop the ice into blocks in winter and sell it around the world all year long? There were of course logistical problems like how to keep it from melting. And there was the question about who would want to buy ice and why? Did the world need refrigeration? Fish and meats had been salted and/or dried forever, people in the tropics didn't have a taste for dairy products and everyone was happy with the state of things. Frederick "Ice King" Tudor, an enterprising Bostonian was determined to change all that (and make a killing out of it in the process) when he started harvesting ice and selling it in 1806.

Frederick Tudor, the Ice King   (Wikipedia Commons)

Tudor built ice houses where the blocks could be stored in straw or sawdust and could last all summer. In fact it could be packed in straw and shipped as far away as India and China. Enough ice was left by the time the ship arrived at its destination to make the trip worthwhile. In 1839 ice shipments from New England, USA, to Sydney, Australia began although on an irregular basis.

Ice Harvesting on a river in Maine

Initially, the ice was used by commercial fishermen so that people could buy fresh unsalted fish when the fleet returned. And ice was also loaded as ballast for cargo ships going to the Caribbean to pick up sugar and, later, cotton. Tudor's idea was to sell the ice to wealthy colonists to put in their drinks. He even marketed his ice in England advertising that it came from the pure water of the Kennebec River in Maine and therefore was safer to put in a drink than any locally-harvested ice from some typhoid-ridden pond in Lancashire or Yorkshire.

Ice harvesting display at the Maine State Museum

With ice now commercially available all year round refrigerators, known as "little ice houses" were invented in Boston in 1816. Long before the advent of electricity people could keep produce in their own homes for extended periods of time and enjoy out-of-season fruits and vegetables for the first time. There's no doubt that the ice trade changed people's diets around the world and extended our lifespans. Norway---also big in shipping and cold weather---because a major competitor for the world's hunger for ice.

Refrigerator

A note for Australian readers: in 1864, after a few failed attempts, salmon eggs were transported in ice from Britain to Tasmania. This was the start of the Tasmanian salmon industry.

I'm writing this from South Bristol, Maine, where various member's of my family have had holiday cottages since 1910. There are two activities here: lobster fishing and summer tourism. Before the summer people began to arrive in the late 19th century this was an isolated community that relied on fishing. So it was that the Thompson family, 160 years ago, started sawing up their pond in winter, storing their ice in the Thompson Ice House for use by fishermen to bring in a fresh catch and for its shipment to Boston and New York.

The restored Thompson Ice House

Some February ice remaining in the ice house in August

In summer blocks of ice were delivered to summer cottages for their refrigerators. I remember these days before summer cottages had electricity and I remember Ice Thompson himself coming in through the kitchen door and dropping another ice block in our "ice box". (I don't think we called it a refrigerator because that word had been taken over by the electrical ones.)

Ice busters in the Thompson Ice House

Ice---his real name was Herbert but everyone knew him as "Ice"---was the end of a line of ice-providing Thompson's and when the business finally went under his ice house fell into ruin. Happily, in recent years, money was raised, the ice house was restored and it is now the Thompson Ice House Museum. If you come to South Bristol on any year in February you, too, can join in with a small army of volunteers and cut ice from Thompson Pond to restock the ice house. It looks like cold and dangerous work to me but when I'm sweltering in the heat in Sydney I may just watch the video of the Thompson Pond Ice Harvest to help cool off.

Herbert "Ice" Thompson

There's also an excellent display about Maine's ice harvesting industry at the Maine State Museum in Augusta; worth every cent of the two dollar admission price. (Cheaper is you're young, old or part of a huge family.)

Yesterday, while walking in the woods, Jill and I came to a small cemetery and there were the graves of "Ice" and generations of Thompson icemen and women. It's tempting to say---but of course I won't---that if any family deserved to be cryogenically preserved, it's this family.

Ice tongs
Ice seemed to be able to carry a block of ice holding just one of
the handles. I'm not sure how he did it.

Street Art of Newtown

Newtown, in Sydney, has to be the capital of Australian street art. Or maybe I just notice it more because Newtown is close to where I live and I spent a lot of time there. And for good reason: it has a vibrant cafe and street-culture so it's a good place to go walking. And back streets and lane ways are where where the street art action is.

Parked cars, trees and signs are a problem when photographing
street art.

I'm a late convert to the world of street art I think because it comes from dark places that I'm only dimly aware of: the culture of action graphic novels ("comic books" if you're over forty) and the internet blog-playgrounds of budding teenage fantasy artists.

Whether it's original or lifted from a graphic novel
street art can pack a punch.

Most of the images are lost on me but I guess it's the same with a lot of art. I'm for look and like---or not like. Life's too short to try to psycho-analyse artists.

Nefrititi is thinking something. I can make out a backwards 3, a 4 and a 2.

Still, you have to be impressed by some of the techniques. Of course they're not all Renaissance frescoes.

He's hot.

I do tend to like the spare images that don't cover everything and scream at you and which sometimes make use of a natural feature such as a crack in a wall or a window or a drainpipe.

This is a piece of a larger work. The message in the bottle in very poignant:
"Dear Tanja, I'm smiling across stormy waters to be..."

I'm not as fond of walls with a name or word emblazoned on it in gigantic, shaded saw-tooth letters, no matter how expertly they're been painted even if I can make out what they say. They're just super-size tagging.

This is also just a piece of a larger work that looks like an
illustration of a dystopian world from a fantasy novel.

I live in a house that has a big side wall on the street, ideally suited for street art, but I admit that I try to keep it just the way it is. When it does get tagged---and it does-- I'm out there quick-smart with a bucket of paint to paint it out.

If you know who this guy is, please leave me a comment.

The City of Sydney has an Aerosol Art and Graffiti Policy and crews that paint out unwanted graffiti. They must have a lot of paint on hand because they're pretty good at matching any wall colour. They do try to determine whether what they're about to paint over qualified as artwork so the "best" works remain for us lane-crawler street art voyeurs.

See pequevrs.blogspot.com for more art by this artist.

Some of these artworks are commissioned and done with the permission of the owners of the walls but others just magically appear. Garage roller doors are favourite places for the latter.

Stencil have the advantage of being quick.

Stencils are good for commando raids but they're not all as clever as Banksy.

It's sad to see a work like this tagged by every teenager carrying
a Sharpie or a Copic Marker.

There are times when I wish I knew the story.

This is only half of a larger work.

Once again, I couldn't get the whole image because of parked cars.

Finally, a reference that I recognise.

For more Newtown Street art images, click here. 

Durian, the king of fruit?

Everyone should try durian---once. I've now had it five times: twice as the fruit itself, once in durian flavoured ice cream, once in durian cream puffs and, recently in Bali, as a durian milk shake.

The first time was as durian ice cream at a Thai restaurant in Sydney and it was...well...okay. Actually, not bad. The ice cream part was good anyway. The next time was as the fruit itself when I was staying in Singapore. I was still neutral after this although I had to deal with embarrassing durian burps for the next 24 hours. Since then I've had durian a few more times and each time it gets more and more revolting.

Durian's spiky outer shell

Can anyone seriously claim to enjoy it? 

This is what's inside.

I've struggled to imagine why any sane person (and sane may be the key) could possibly call it "the king of fruits", as some people do. Durian defenders will admit that the smell is appalling. Hotel lobbies in South East Asia have signs prohibiting guests to bring it into the hotel. One whiff and the other guests would stampede for the exits. 

A Singaporean friend described it to me this way: "It's like sitting on the toilet and eating custard." Now if we change the word "custard" to...no, let's not.

The smell is nothing short of revolting.

Not only are there durian aficionados on the loose out there but some people will pay top dollar for it. When we were in Penang, Malaysia, last year there was a durian festival in the local sports ground. I wanted to go just ask a few people what the stink (so to speak) was about but Jill thought better of it and we visited a butterfly farm and later had our feet nibbled by little fish.

Hoping for the best but preparing for the worst.

The famous naturalist Alfred Russel Wallace, while collecting flora and fauna in Borneo in 1856, wrote this about durian :

The five cells are silky-white within, and are filled with a mass of firm, cream-coloured pulp, containing about three seeds each. This pulp is the edible part, and its consistence and flavour are indescribable. A rich custard highly flavoured with almonds gives the best general idea of it, but there are occasional wafts of flavour that call to mind cream-cheese, onion-sauce, sherry-wine, and other incongruous dishes. Then there is a rich glutinous smoothness in the pulp which nothing else possesses, but which adds to its delicacy. It is neither acid nor sweet nor juicy; yet it wants neither of these qualities, for it is in itself perfect. It produces no nausea or other bad effect, and the more you eat of it the less you feel inclined to stop. In fact, to eat Durians is a new sensation worth a voyage to the East to experience. ... as producing a food of the most exquisite flavour it is unsurpassed.

Here I am a year later in a different country (but wearing the same shirt) choking
down a durian milkshake while wistfully eyeing a glass of delicious guava juice.

I'm a fan of Alfred Russel Wallace. He was, after all, the discoverer of the Theory of Evolution by Natural Selection. We would all have studied him at school but for the fact that Charles Darwin intercepted Wallace's manuscript and held up its publication so he could dash off his own tome and get it published first. Wallace could have been rich and famous, been alternately worshipped and reviled, and maybe even lived to see his book banned by educators in Tennessee.

But describing durian's "exquisite flavour" as "highly flavoured with almonds" and "wafts of flavour that call to mind cream-cheese, onion-sauce, sherry-wine" sounds like he's writing tasting notes for a new release sauvignon blanc rather than something scooped out of a blocked drain. I can only think that he'd spent too long in the tropics or that he was so sick of nasi goreng that even durian tasted good. But I like to think he just had a wonderfully ironic sense of humour or that he was trying to tempt Charles Darwin to overdose on durian in punishment for his treatment.

I decided to give this a miss.
Now if they ran it through a civet first, I might be tempted.

Can anyone tell me how I've gone wrong? Should I have put sugar on it? Sauteed it with monkey brains? Maybe a fortnight-long fast would have changed my opinion of it. Anyway, leave me a comment if you think I've missed the durian boat.

I've made a "HONK IF YOU LIKE DURIAN" bumper sticker and am about to drive through Sydney just to see if I get a response. I suspect it'll be an unusually quiet drive.

Now mangosteens are another matter. They really are the king of fruit.

Poo Coffee

The idea sounds less than appetising: feed ripe coffee beans to a civet cat, collect what comes out the other end and make coffee from it. If you did this you'd be producing the most expensive coffee in the world, kopi luwak. It is expensive for good reason: it's rare and it's delicious. Having had a cup of it recently in Bali, I'm a convert. It was strong and very, well (try not to think too much about it) very smooth.

An Asian palm civet, known in Indonesia as a luwak.

Civet cats are not cats but species of mammals that live in rainforests in Africa and Asia. The coffee-makers of Indonesia are Asian palm civets. They eat the coffee berries and, somehow, the defecant, when later washed, dried and roasted has changed. Coffeeologists disagree on the reason for this. It could be the action of enzymes in the civet's gut that changes the coffee or maybe civets are just very selective about the coffee berries they eat.

The coffee beans as they come out of a luwak.

Sometime in the 17th Century some intrepid soul, walking through a forest in Indonesia where there were coffee bushes, and dying for his morning cup of java (actually it would have been in Sumatra, which is where the Dutch introduced arabica coffee from Yemen) must have spotted some civet droppings and thought (you coffeeholics will relate to this) what the hell, any port in a storm, and picked it up. The rest is coffee history.

This woman is grinding coffee beans with a large mortar and pestle.

We'd heard about kopi luwak but never tried it till we were touring an agritourism venue near Ubud in Bali. Our guide showed us various plants and trees that produce some of Bali's produce---jackfruit, longans, anise, lemon grass etc---and there, in some cages were civets. We were given cups of various teas, coffees and other herbal drinks. For kopi luwak there was a charge but at only $ 5 per cup this was a bargain we couldn't refuse.

On the left is a burner heating a copper beaker and on the right, the kopi luwak in a  parfait glass-like flask.

The coffee was brewed in what looked like chemistry equipment from Marie Curie's laboratory. I'm only sorry I didn't get a better photo before the water boiled over into the gummy mess that was to be our coffee. We drank it black with a bit of cane sugar. It may have been crap but it was very tasty.

100 grams could be yours, in Bali, for $ 50, which by world standards is dirt cheap.

Heads of state give each other valuable gifts on state visits. On his last visit to Indonesia, Barack Obama was given a sizeable quantity of this coffee. If it was a ploy to get him to come back, it worked: he'll be at the APEC conference in Bali in October, undoubtedly holding out for a bottomless cup of kopi luwak.

We have qualms about coffee. While our Balinese driver said that the world demand for the coffee had been a boon to civets because they had been endangered and now there are lots of them, the idea of consuming a product from an animal that's kept in a small cage is not for us. "Wild" civet coffee is commercially available at an even huger price and there is a movement to apply ethical standards to the trade but if it's hard to sort out which locally produced hen's eggs here in Australia are produced in humane conditions it will be even more difficult to do the same with kopi luwak from Bali or Sumatra. So, for the time being, we'll stick to
Fair Trade coffee that, we hope, hasn't spent any time in the gut of another animal. (Don't believe the rumours about Monsanto's civet breeding program.)

There are other coffees yet to try. One is monkey parchment coffee what is chewed and then spat out by rhesus monkeys in India. We might give that one a miss.

 

We had thoughts of making home-grown poo coffee but Jasper was unmoved.

Macaque Attack!

I haven't stayed in many five-star hotels so I never really know what to expect but being attacked by a pack wild and vicious monkeys in the corridors was far from my thoughts when it happened last week in Bali.

We were staying in a resort hotel on a beautiful bit of coastline right in the heart of a monkey-filled forest. We'd seen monkeys around the grounds of the hotel---they were Balinese Long-Tailed Macaques (Macaca Fascicuiaris) We'd also seen a sign warning guests not to feed them. We know monkeys carry diseases and can be extremely vicious. Last year we had a close and uncomfortable encounter with a different species of macaques while bushwalking in Malaysia. The hotel employs two monkey wranglers who carry sling-shots to ward off troublesome monkeys.

A Balinese long-tailed macaque saying g'day or maybe selamat pagi.

Our room was on the seventh floor but that didn't keep the monkeys from coming to our balcony in search of food. Very sensibly, we kept the glass doors to the balcony closed.

A family of monkey's enjoying the view from our balcony.

A grumpy monkey challenging a smaller one.

Walking across the glass screen at the end of our balcony.

Monkeys are fun to watch. I've always had a soft spot for them tempered by the good sense not to get too close. When I was nine years old, living in Alaska, I helped a friend with his paper run. Part of it took us to an army barracks where there was a monkey in a cage---perhaps the first Arctic Monkey. The owner was a soldier who had gone off to the war in Korea and the soldiers didn't know what had become of him. They didn't know whether he'd return to his beloved pet. To make the story even sadder, the monkey had recently gone blind. I'm sure there's a children's book in this but I don't think I'll be the one to write it. I never knew how it ended.

This guy could see our fruit bowl but there was no way he was coming in.

The attack happened on the fifteenth floor of the hotel.

The monkey gauntlet: where we came to grief.

Jill and I were walking along an open corridor and there were monkeys playing down below. The young ones were chasing one another through flower beds and up and down trees doing as much damage as any adolescents on a rampage. There were at least twenty of them and I took out my camera and started snapping.

Quite obviously posing for me.

Some of the rest of the troop nit picking in the hotel gardens.

Some of the young monkeys came up to the walkway and climbed around the rafters. Everything was okay till I looked over a railing, not knowing that there were two monkeys just out of sight below. One of them let out a warning screech and then they both turned around and started screeching what I can only imagine was, "Get the guy in the cheap Balinese batik shirt! Rip him to shreds! Bite him into next week!"

Climbing into the corridor to see what the fuss was about.

Screeching monkeys appeared from everywhere. I backed away quickly but afraid that if I ran I'd be covered in monkeys. Jill was further from the action and ran along with a terrified woman. I backed around a corner into the building proper hoping for monkey wranglers with sling-shots.

This is when I knew I was in trouble.

Around a couple of corners, the monkeys kept coming---maybe a dozen of them. Then I heard Jill call out, "In here! I'm in the elevator! Quick!"

The leaders of the attack pack photographed by a rapidly retreating hotel guest.

It wasn't till the elevator doors closed and there were no monkeys in it with us that we breathed sighs of relief and laughed nervously. We looked around before getting out of the lift at our floor to make sure they hadn't watched the floor indicators and climbed down to greet us. They hadn't. We were safe, unscathed and with something to blog about.

I should add that Bali was wonderful. I don't know why we left it so long to go there. Maybe it was because everyone we knew had already been there---hardly a good reason. I'm sure none of them had the same experiences we did.