Discovering Africa in Australia.

If there is one thing about Australia I absolutely love, it’s the many enclaves found in major metropolitan cities. To a lesser extent they’re also found in country towns, but regardless of size or dominating ethnic group, each little pocket allows migrants to feel at home in this country for it is in an enclave that most find remnants of the lives they’ve left behind.

For an outsider, its like going on a holiday overseas without having to take your passport. When you want to leave, all you need to do is walk a couple of blocks in either direction, instead of getting on a plane. With that in mind, Janaki and I made plans to visit the African enclave of Moorooka in Brisbane’s South. We’ve been wanting to go since we had Eritrean food at Amanda’s school fete in June of this year.

One thing after another crept up for each of us but finally, we agreed two weeks ago that we’d go yesterday. As you may be aware from reading of yesterday’s home visit from Telstra, I almost had to reschedule. Fortunately, Jason the Telstra technician was efficient and I was able to keep my date with Janaki.

Janaki had gone to the trouble of asking her daughter’s carer at childcare, who’s African, where to go for lunch. She recommended a restaurant called “Made in Africa” specialising in Ethiopian cuisine. We went in and asked the waitress, who turned out to be Indian, to bring us the HOTTEST two items on the menu to share. She returned with a plate of stewed beef and stir-fry-like lamb framed with bits of salad. Neither of the meat dishes were hot by our standards, but tasty nonetheless. 

A picture of lunch at Made in Africa in Moorooka, Brisbane.

Lamb on top, beef below. A picture of lunch at Made in Africa in Moorooka, Brisbane.

A picture of the "bread" they serve with our lunch at Made in Africa, Moorooka, Brisbane.

A picture of the “bread” they served with our lunch at Made in Africa, Moorooka, Brisbane.

A picture of the shop front of Made in Africa in Moorooka, Brisbane.

A picture of the shop front of Made in Africa in Moorooka, Brisbane.

We ate in typical African style, with our fingers, using the yeasty smelling bread as spoons. They didn’t have any traditional beverages so we washed it all down with water. After which we went wandering around, looking ever so slightly out of place for the area.

A picture of me at the pool table at Made in Africa in Moorooka, Brisbane.

A picture of me at the pool table at Made in Africa in Moorooka, Brisbane.

Shopkeepers were very friendly; one even offered to “do” Janaki’s hair, which she politely declined with the excuse that she might upset her husband with the change. I think that like me, she was unconvinced of their ability to do contemporary hairstyles; no braids, no fros, just regular cuts. We spotted a shop selling jeans  soon after and thinking that I might be able to find a pair to cover my ample behind in this African enclave, sauntered in. Alas, I’m a little too short by African standards and they didn’t stock my size.

I asked to take a couple of photographs for this blog but most seemed uncomfortable with being captured on camera. None though, said no. So I took the few I could before we had tea and African donuts. The tea tasted like Earl Grey, but had a stronger Bergamot taste. The donuts were like regular donuts, except lighter and sugarless. Speaking to a Sudanese man having his tea in the shop, I learnt that they have these donuts even for breakfast!

A picture of me and the shopkeepers of a donut shop in Moorooka, Brisbane.

After Janaki took this, one of the ladies insisted on vetting the photo. She pronounced it “very good.”

A picture of our donuts and tea in Moorooka, Brisbane.

All that came to $6. A picture of our donuts and tea in Moorooka, Brisbane.

A picture of Janaki and I having tea in Moorooka, Brisbane.

A picture of Janaki and I having tea in Moorooka, Brisbane.

“Actually, any time of the day is fine to have them,” he said, before asking me where I was from.

“Malaysia,” said I.

“Isn’t Malaysia a Muslim country?” he asked.

“It is, but I’m not a Muslim.” Given what some of these people had to go through to come here, I was wary about talking religion.

“But isn’t 99% of the population like Muslim?”

“Roughly 60%, but the rest is whatever they want to be. Malaysia is a moderate muslim country.” My emphasis was on the word moderate.

“Yes but…”

I didn’t know where he was going with this so I blurted out, “I’m actually Chinese.”

That stopped him in his tracks. Then what he said next floored me.

“But you don’t look like any Chinese person I’ve ever met.”

“How do you know?” I said, almost indignant at his claim.

We have many Chinese in Africa. My teacher in school was a Chinese. You don’t look like a Chinese.”

Janaki shot me an amused why-do-you-bother-saying-you’re-Chinese look. I felt like the zebra that keeps insisting it’s a horse.

“Ok, fine, fine. You’ve got me there. I’ve Malay blood, but technically, I’m a Chinese.”

He seemed satisfied. Janaki and I left to check out one of their grocery stores to round out our African enclave experience. This store was packed with Fufu, made of cassava, yam or plantains, which Africans eat with most meals, dried fish, biltong, hair and more hair. It seemed like every second store we walked past on our way back to the car sold hair.

A picture of a tub of hair for sale in Moorooka, Brisbane.

A picture of a tub of hair for sale in Moorooka, Brisbane.

“What’s with all the hair?” I asked Janaki.

“It’s for their braids.”

“I thought all the hair on their heads were theirs.”

“Hair dressers wrap the clients hair around these add ons.”

How peculiar. But I suppose they think the same of people like me who only ever sports the one hairstyle too. Well, each to their own. Janaki and I enjoyed our outing to Moorooka so much that we’ve decided to bring the boys on our next trip.

A picture of a typical store in Moorooka, Brisbane.

A picture of a typical store in Moorooka, Brisbane.

 

 

 

 

Technology: an uneasy relationship.

You don’t realise how dependent you are on technology until your home phone, mobile phone and broadband ALL go AWOL on you. Thinking that I’d already been upgraded to the fibre optic network, I was surprised to hear from Telstra, the national telephone provider, that they’d be coming to usher me into the 22nd century via a fixing of my line.

On Friday, one of Telstra’s technicians came and within 2 hours, hey presto, I was OFFICIALLY on the fibre-optic network. I was chuffed; so chuffed that I gave the Telstra technician one of the grapefruits from my fruit bowl as a thank you gift.

Now that everything was running at warp speed I was free to peruse the pages of eBay, where I have developed a habit of buying woollens from the Aussie brand “Metalicus.” I bid on a couple of items and was happily surfing until Sunday for more Metalicus when I suddenly went off-line. I waited and waited for the damn thing to right itself but it didn’t.

By Monday morning, I knew that a call to Telstra was in order, so from the house of my friend whom I play translator for, I played the waiting game that is calling a behemoth like Telstra. Their personnel were all very courteous and extremely helpful, except that since mine was one of dozens of similar calls, I had sweat coming out of my ears by the time the end person, presumably a technician, assured me that my connection problem would be righted by midday. Fine. I went home.

At home I discovered that not only was I still off-line, my home phone had since joined my broadband in the land of non-working technological appliances. I was back in stone age, with His Royal Highness barking at me a list of things to do for our move to Perth.

Meanwhile I remembered I had to pay for a Metalicus top I won on eBay. Because I usually do all my banking on-line, I was unable to send the seller money. I was also unable to contact the Brisbane Marshall Arts Academy in Hamilton, where Amanda goes for jiujitsu grading, to book, as well as pay for her grading this Saturday.

Plus, His Royal Highness wanted to add to my to do list for our move to Perth. You can just imagine the stress. Before this, I thought myself free of technology. After all, I don’t check my facebook updates compulsively. I quite like the weekends when I don’t check anything at all. But this experience has shown me how reliant on technology I am. Without a working mobile phone, a home phone or broadband connection, I could get nothing done.

I raced to my good friend Tania’s house after dinner on Monday night and called Telstra again. They promised me they’d answer my call within 24 hours, as per government regulation and solve my problem within 48 hours, again, as per government regulation. They asked me for a contact phone number and because I didn’t have one, gave them His Royal Highness.

Big mistake. They called him while he was in a clinic, with his boss glaring at him and a nurse screaming her head off in the background. He came home in a foul mod accusing me of laziness.

“But I had no phone!” I insisted. This was ridiculous.

Fed up with being a sitting duck, I ripped the battery out of my mobile, took out the SIM and refitted everything. It worked! By God, am I a genius. I should have done this earlier.

The Telstra technician turned up this morning and I can tell you, I’ve never been happier to see anyone. Apparently my white box was faulty.

“Can you fix it?” was all I asked him. That’s all I wanted to know.

“Are you kidding? I’ll be done in under half an hour,” he laughed.

Good to his word, he had me up and running in 30 minutes. God bless Jason the Telstra technician, God bless Telstra and God bless the Australian Government for your wonderful “service regulation.” I’m glad to be back in the land of the living!

 

 

 

 

Sweet Young Things.

His Royal Highness was at his regular comic book lending store in Sunnybank when a Sweet Young Thing (SYT) doubling as the cashier, chatted him up. For the record, I was there, as was Amanda, and I had made it clear by my previous statement – “My husband will pay for this” – that His Royal Highness is my husband.

Perhaps thinking that my Mandarin speaking skills are reflective of my Mandarin listening skills, and I wouldn’t cotton on to what she was saying, the SYT proceeded to give him her life story. His Royal Highness responded with monosyllabic comments, which even someone unschooled in the art of creating rapport will take as a definite sign of disinterest.

I allowed her to prattle away, perhaps thinking me ignorant of her intentions. After all, there is a Chinese saying, “If you can’t control the chick in your compound, can you hope to tame the eagle in the sky?” I consider SYTs chatting up your man at par with eagles.

This SYT was no beauty even with her fake eyelashes, eyelid tape and contouring makeup. Hello sister, I wasn’t born yesterday. All you have going for you is youth and take it from me and all women over thirty, youth is fleeting. One day we’re turning heads on the street and the next, we’re pushing a stroller laden with fruit and vegetables. Moreover, what goes around, comes around; one day you’ll be a comic book lending store when some SYT blatantly tries to dig her hooks into your man with you there. Trust me, it’s gonna happen.

On our drive home, I casually broached the incident with His Royal Highness. He laughed, “Are you jealous?”

“Who me? Never. What do I have to be jealous of her about? Is she better looking? No. Smarter? She can’t be all that smart chatting you up with me standing there. Look, she’s got nothing on me. Nothing. If I wanted to, I could have cut her down in 3 seconds flat.”

You might say I should be complimented that the SYT finds His Royal Highness attractive, but I’d argue it’s his wallet rather than his person she’s attracted to. After all, you hear of these SYTs from China disrupting marriages in Malaysia and Singapore all the time. I won’t be surprised if they are up to the same thing over in the West too. Mind you, we’re talking about gold-diggers, not just women who happen to hail from China.

I’m frequently amazed by the number that think married men will leave their families for them. I’m even more amazed by their families, who allow them to prostitute themselves for expensive gifts and free dinners, as in the case of Guo Mei Mei, whose dalliance with a married man, suspected of siphoning funds from the Red Cross to buy her gifts, led to a corruption probe on the organisation and widespread distrust of charities among the Chinese public. She is quoted as wanting to run away to Australia with her mother.

But in this new economy, I suppose none other than outraged donors to charities and deserted wives really care. Men are only too happy with whatever attention they can get.

 

 

 

 

 

The big move west to Perth.

Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention. Your friend Estella is moving to Perth, Western Australia, for a whole year, beginning late January 2013. That’s right. I’m packing up and going west, as befitting a supportive spouse who’s dragged everywhere for her husband’s career.

His Royal Highness had a telephone interview on Monday afternoon and he told me the news on Tuesday night. I can tell you that 30 hours is a very long wait when you are holding your breath, but we know now and as sad as I am to leave Brisbane, it is a huge relieve to be moving to Perth and not woop woop. Woop woop is Aussie slang for the great beyond.

I’ve been to Perth once, some 7 years ago, and it struck me as a nice place to live. Amanda was then only 4 and half months old, so my movements, during our couple of days stay, was restricted to the area around our hotel. I remember enjoying the weather, the fresh sea air and when His Royal Highness had time to take me around, parts of Chinatown, where Amanda had the worst ever watery poo. I was forced to change her on the backseat of our rented Audi, wiping down the leather seats with wet wipes afterwards.

Until our move, I will be making the most of my time left here. If you are in town and want to meet up, just give me a yell. Perth, on the other side of Australia, is almost 5 hours away from Brisbane by plane, so it might be a long time before we get to sit down for a cuppa.

I’ve since started getting rid of stuff I don’t use – clothes, books, bits and pieces – because from what I understand, we’ll be footing relocation expenses on our own. I expect our moving bill to be modest since we’re renting our apartment out fully furnished to the hotel in which we live. Befitting this type of accommodation, returns are excellent, so the mortgage and any incidentals will be more than covered.

Over in Perth, we’ll be looking to rent near His Royal Highness’ new workplace. A cursory inspection of www.realestate.com.au  tells me we’ll be paying anywhere between $550 per week and $700 for what is commonly known as “student accommodation.” We could live further out but we only have the one car and I like walking everywhere. We hope to enrol Amanda in a local school, and at this point, I’ve already zeroed in on two.

What might pose a problem is the Language Other Than English (LOTE) offered at either school. French is offered as part of LOTE for students from grades 1 to 7 and the LOTE I was going to enrol Amanda for was Mandarin, which will be offered at our current school from grade 4 onwards. LOTE looks to be compulsory, so I’m going to have to speak to Amanda’s prospective school about an exemption or allowing her to join the lower grades for an introduction to the language. If I am free, I might sit in with them and learn French too. Well, I’ve always wanted to learn the language and now I have a good excuse.

 

 

Welfare: help or hindrance to job-seekers?

At an average cost of $3.50 for a small store-bought coffee, I’ve been having my daily cuppa at home. However, every few days, I like to treat myself to a professionally made one by frequenting a cafe near Amanda’s school. Nothing beats the taste and smell of freshly ground arabica beans, and if you usually dash out of the house before having breakfast like me, you’ll want something to go with your coffee.

My choice of late has been samosas. I normally have two to go with my coffee, which will keep me suitably satisfied until lunch. This morning, while filling in my order for coffee and samosas, the owner of the cafe I go to said, “Marg’s leaving us.”

I had no idea what he was on about. Who’s Marg? His wife?

“Marg’s promised to teach me to make samosas before she leaves.”

Oh, that’s who Marg is. The lady who makes MY samosas.

“Where is she off to?” I asked, privately worried for my future supply of samosas.

“She’s going rural. A requirement of her permanent residence visa is that she go to the countryside for 3 years.”

“Can’t you tell the department of immigration that you need her in your shop?”

“I’ve told them but they won’t listen. I advertised for 3 months in the papers to get a local but the only people who enquired after the job were Indians, Greeks and Italians. The locals prefer to go on the dole.”

“I thought people have to work for the dole now.”

“They still have that grace period, before they have to attend interviews or go onto any of the job schemes. Tell you what, Aussies are just plain lazy.”

For the record, the owner of the cafe is a white Aussie dude. Working with him was another white Aussie dude and one white Aussie dudette. Neither took offence to what he was telling me as I paid my bill.

But to say ALL Aussies are lazy is patently unfair. I’ve come across some pretty hard-working ones during my many moves across the country. Notably, many are in business for themselves. It figures, if you are going to put your nose to the cliched grindstone, you mights as well do so for yourself. That’s the same across any race or culture. We always work much harder at our own projects than we would at anyone else’s.

Be that as it may, is the safety-net that is the dole, helpful or a hindrance in getting people back on their feet? As mentioned in yesterday’s post, the upside of our welfare system is that nobody goes hungry. However, it is also what dissuades people from actively seeking work. Crafty ones moonlight while collecting the dole. Others contend that with current welfare rules being what they are, it makes more sense to go on the dole instead of eking a living doing menial jobs. After all, the difference between working part-time for the minimum wage and going on the dole can be as little as $30 a week.

Most single mothers can only work part-time because it is hard raising children alone while putting in 40 hour weeks. Single people or childless couples, none of whom draw any benefits but contribute to the public kitty, argue that they shouldn’t have to pay for other people’s lifestyle choices. I agree, but would assert that most couples with children draw as many benefits if not more than their single counterparts. So why go after the single mothers? After all, it is with the government’s help that most mothers of young children manage to stay at home. Without tax benefit part A and B, rent assistance and baby bonuses, most mothers, single or married, would be forced to put children in childcare from birth, like in Asia. If not, how would they be able to go to work?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Money talks: East vs West.

The response to yesterday’s post alerted me to how different Western society operates to Eastern society. One of my Eastern friends, on reading about the suicide, at the end of the post, thought the jumper must have had money problems. After all, most suicides in Asia are the result of financial woes. Often, you read of people jumping from their apartment blocks whenever they’ve lost everything on the stock market. Certainly, that seemed to be the case in Japan and Hong Kong during the Global Financial Crisis, as people lost face through the downgrading of their financial status. I told my friend that no one here worries about their three meals, regardless of whether they can afford luxuries like holidays or a new house, because the government gives people money.

How much money? It is tied to how much you earn. If your household income is above $150k, you get next to nothing. However if you are of low income, then you can receive an average of $1200 a month through a combination of government payments. It used to upset me that everyone was getting free money save I,  but I’ve come to see the high taxes that get redistributed as payments to others as the price for the civility we live in.

The odd aboriginal in West End might ask me for a bob, but none other than charities will harass me for cash if I say no. Snatch thefts are few and far between because none need resort to crime in order to put food on the table. Around here, the banks are perceived as the robbers, because they levy fees on the small fry. There is a lot of empathy for the every man here, missing in Asia; Asian society expects you to be self-sufficient; God help you if you aren’t. The streets of KL abound with beggars some say work for a syndicate. Here, organised crime leaves the regular Joe alone.

The most heart-breaking story I’ve come across in Malaysia was of a child abandoned by both his poorly-educated parents, forced to skip school and shell prawns for pittance each day in order to support himself and his elderly grandmother. Things like these just don’t happen over here. People do end up on the street, but factors other than a low education come into play: most who end up on the streets usually have drug and alcohol issues or a history of domestic violence. Aid organisations like St Vincents and the Salvos come to their rescue. We, who are better off, are encouraged to think of them at Christmas time and make donations of NEW toys under “wishing trees”, as in at Kmart.

In Asia, who cares if you have no special meals or toys at Christmas? The raising of a child rests solely and squarely with his or her parents. A low education is synonymous with poor life outcomes: a life of menial jobs, being looked down by others, living in envy for the things you can never have. Hence, everyone works hard, some, as many jobs as they physically can, in order to get ahead. Once in a blue moon, an astute politician, weeks or months out from an election, will rock up to an old folks home or an orphanage, bearing gifts and money. He or she is almost always accompanied by the press, if not, why would they think of doing these things? Society’s unspoken perception is that one’s hardship is somehow the result of laziness or bad choices. Thus the few who pursue careers in the arts or sports, fields where there is no guarantee of a good income.

Even among family, the more you own the bigger your say is because there is respect in having wealth. Wealth is exhibited through the owning of imported cars, posh dwellings or in taking overseas vacations. Here in Australia, you can easily get as nice a house in the outer suburbs as you do in the old money neighbourhoods. Vacationing overseas is in many instances cheaper than vacationing locally. Our hotels are expensive, our food is expensive. Having said that, almost any person can afford a car.

One of my friends here who relies on government handouts to live, brought the whole family back to Malaysia en-route to Hong Kong, on the baby bonus she received from having a second child. Even though I belong at the other end of the household income continuum, our houses have more or less the same furniture, the same white goods, the same sheets even… All that sets us apart is home ownership, choice of schools – public versus private, medical insurance, which we are forced to buy to avoid the medicare levy surcharge – an additional 1% on top of the regular medicare levy paid by all, number of times we eat out in a week and places we vacation to.

Conversely, I would contend we have a lot less crime not just because people receive handouts from the government, but because the gap between poor and rich is hardly visible. The super rich keep to themselves, the middle and lower classes enjoy  a very similar lifestyle, but for the points mentioned above.

 

 

 

 

Which bridge are you?

It’s more or less confirmed that His Royal Highness, Amanda and I will be moving away from Brisbane at the end of this year so we’ve made a list of all the things we’d like to do here while we still can. At the top of that list is checking out all the bridges in Brisbane. Therefore yesterday, being a Sunday and Australian Father’s Day, we set off on foot to explore 5 of these magnificent structures that connect life on both sides.

Why bridges? Firstly since life revolves around the river in Brisbane, the city has many iconic ones and secondly, they strike me as being the embodiment of what the modern human being is: a bridge between past and present or present and future. Some massive ones span past, present and future, others like me, cover two very different cultures.

So which one are you? Let’s take a look at some of them.

The first we check out was the Go-Between Bridge that links South Brisbane with Milton. South Brisbane houses Brisbane’s Cultural Precinct whereas Milton is a trendy inner-city suburb, best known for being home to the Suncorp Stadium.

A picture of the Go-Between Bridge in Brisbane.

A picture of the Go-Between Bridge in Brisbane.

As you can see, it is a very modern, minimalist type bridge. If you are going to the airport from my end of town, it saves you 10 minutes of travelling time, compared to if you were to use the William Jolly bridge. However, you do have to pay $2.50 for what is roughly a 100 plus metre stretch.

A picture of me one the walkway that links both sides of the Go Between Bridge.

A picture of me one the walkway that links both sides of the Go Between Bridge.

The second bridge we took a look at was the William Jolly Bridge. This bridge looks like its made out of stone, but has a steel frame supporting the brickwork. It was opened during the worst year of the Great Depression and looks slightly out of place in our modern world, yet is still in as much use as ever, proving that functionality never goes out of style.

A picture of one of the concrete arches on the William Jolly Bridge in Brisbane.

A picture of one of the concrete arches on the William Jolly Bridge in Brisbane.

A picture of Amanda and I on the William Jolly Bridge in Brisbane.

A picture of Amanda and I on the William Jolly Bridge in Brisbane. You can see part of the Kurilpa Bridge in the background.

After William Jolly, we went to investigate the neighbouring Kurilpa Bridge. This has to be my favourite bridge, even though it only services pedestrians and cyclists, because it is light, yet strong, features solar panels on its roof to power its lights. It links the Gallery of Modern Art, The Queensland Art Gallery, The Queensland Museum and the State Library with the Central Business District.

A picture of the Kurilpa Bridge in Brisbane.

A picture of the Kurilpa Bridge in Brisbane.

A picture of the solar panels on the roof of the Kurilpa Bridge in Brisbane.

A picture of the solar panels on the roof of the Kurilpa Bridge in Brisbane. In the background is the William Jolly Bridge.

A picture of HRH and Amanda on the Kurilpa Bridge in Brisbane.

A picture of HRH and Amanda on the Kurilpa Bridge in Brisbane.

Our fourth bridge was a pair on the Gateway Motorway (M1), formerly known as Gateway Bridges. They have since been renamed the Sir Leo Hielscher Bridges. Streamlined and ultra modern, they are massive twin structures linking Brisbane airport with the Gold Coast and the newer of the two features a bike path. We weren’t sure if they allowed pedestrians on, so we only admired them from afar.

A picture of the Sir Leo Hielscher Bridges in Brisbane.

A picture of the Sir Leo Hielscher Bridges in Brisbane. This is only part of it.

Having walked more than my daily number of steps, I was quite tried, so I told His Royal Highness that we could only see 1 last bridge before calling it a day. He asked me which one I’d like to discover and without hesitation I named the Story Bridge.

The Story Bridge links Kangaroo Point, another inner-city suburb, with Fortitude Valley, better known as Brisbane’s original Chinatown. An impressive steel structure, the Story Bridge reminds me of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge. Unfortunately like the latter, it is a hotspot for suicides.

It is estimated that 4 people on average, take their lives by jumping off the bridge each year. While we were there, a man jumped. People standing on their balconies to see the commotion drew our attention to police and sniffer dogs down below. While it saddened us to be in close proximity to such a tragedy, it also reminded us that life is a choice and only the strongest of us will continue living.

I told Amanda that it she dares pull such a stunt on me, I will hunt her down in the next life and whoop her arse. I made it clear to her that suicide is impermissible. It is a silly, selfish, long-term solution for what is often a short-term problem.

A picture of a Lifeline sign on the Story Bridge in Brisbane.

A picture of a Lifeline sign on the Story Bridge in Brisbane.

A picture of Amanda and HRH on the Story Bridge in Brisbane.

A picture of Amanda and HRH on the Story Bridge in Brisbane.

A picture of a Lifeline phone on the Story Bridge in Brisbane.

A picture of a Lifeline phone on the Story Bridge in Brisbane.

A picture of Brisbane from the Story Bridge in Brisbane.
A picture of Brisbane from the Story Bridge in Brisbane.

A picture of me and Amanda on the Story Bridge in Brisbane.

A picture of me and Amanda on the Story Bridge in Brisbane.

A picture of part of the Story Bridge in Brisbane.

So beautiful yet so tragic. A picture of part of the Story Bridge in Brisbane.

A picture of the Brisbane skyline from the Story Bridge.

A picture of the Brisbane skyline from the Story Bridge.

A picture of Brisbane CBD and Kangaroo Point Park from the Story Bridge.

A picture of Brisbane CBD and Kangaroo Point Park from the Story Bridge.

A picture of boats bobbing on the waters from the Story Bridge in Brisbane.

A picture of boats bobbing on the waters taken from the Story Bridge in Brisbane.

A picture yesterday's suicide at the Story Bridge.

A picture yesterday’s suicide at the Story Bridge.