ABSTRACT
Darwin in North Australia is a strange place, and in 1971 its charms were certainly limited. There is a feeling of isolation about this town that is confirmed by a look at the map. The most exciting shop was Woolworth's, and the sidewalks were still reminiscent more of Tomb stone than of a modern city. A year later a terrible typhoon did untold damage, but here on Christmas Eve a chain of events, much less dramatic but of more personal significance, was about to unfold. I was the senior surgeon on the liner Orcades, and she had been delayed because of electrical trouble in the boiler room. Twelve hours in Darwin is a long time, and three days seemed like a lifetime. A kind of torpid languor had engulfed passengers and crew alike. Just how many times can you see Robert Shaw doing a pretty lacklustre impression of Custer of the West and stare at the range of insect repellents and rat poisons which seemed to be Woolworth's main stock? Still, we cleared them out of fairy lights and artificial snow, but Christmassy it wasn't. A few of the crew dressed up in coats, scarves and gloves and went carol singing. They carried lanterns and sang about gathering winter fuel and being in the deep midwinter as the temperature hovered around 100 degrees in the shade. Mad dogs and Englishmen.
