Of course we need to be careful not to blindly apply the "general case" for each group to every individual in the group - that would be unfair stereotyping -- but neither should we pretend that differences don't exist.

The important thing is not to load value onto the differences we see, and believe that a certain "type" is superior or inferior.

So much for godliness. People, alas, are human.

We revel in the differences between "us" and "them" thereby subconsciously cementing our own group solidarity. "We are like this, and they, ha ha ha! are like that." Gay men are as prone to this weakness as any other. And very often, the object of the "ha, ha, ha!" is the lesbians.

* * * * *

In the mid-1990s, St John's Island was relatively undeveloped. It was a compact hilly island - with a bit of exertion, one could hike from the northern tip to the southern end. There was a lovely, deserted beach on the eastern side, protected by nearby Lazarus Island. On the western side, the hills fell abruptly away to rocks and the frothy sea.

St John's was, in previously generations, an internment camp for opium addicts, and then in the 1950s and 1960s, for political prisoners detained without trial under the Internal Security Act. Recently, it's been used as a holiday camp for schoolchildren.

The camp, consisting of dormitory barracks, canteens, a few smaller buildings and basketball courts, occupied the northern quarter of the island. Fortunately, the weekend we were there, it was unused, and the peace of the island reigned supreme.

The steeper southern part was more wooded and had about 5 or 6 single-storey houses. From the jetty it was quite a climb (no vehicles on the island) to the 3 houses we rented.

But were they perfectly situated! While the path approached the houses from the back, the front verandahs overlooked a small garden before tumbling off the bluff. Ahead were the open sea, boundless sky and glorious sunsets.

* * * * *

The weekend was jointly organised by the gay and lesbian support groups. Altogether there were about 30 - 40 men and 10 -15 women. There being more men than women, we allocated the one stand-alone house to the women and the two conjoined houses to the men. Even so, the men had to sleep 6 - 8 to a room.

Needless to say, we had a lovely time.

But this story is about stereotypes and the "ha, ha ha!" that goes with them.

* * * * *

The climb up to the houses was made harder by the fact that the men were lugging loads of stuff. Besides personal needs like clothes and toiletries, there was food, food and more food. Not cooked food, but ingredients: seasonings, eggs, meat, vegetables and fruits. Plus coffee, decaf, six types of tea, coke, lemonade, bottled water for the health-conscious, cornflakes and dishwashing liquid. Then there were pots and pans, soup tureens and casserole dishes, not to mention the barbecue grilles, skewers and charcoal.

By the time all these were dumped into the men's kitchens - they had two kitchens, since they had two houses - there was hardly any space to work. So the first order of business was to organize. One kitchen was for preparing the main courses, the other was for refreshments, desserts and snacks. The packages were opened and the items assigned to the appropriate kitchen.

Sometime in the midst of the re-organisation, Cyril noticed that one particular bottle of sauce was missing. How was he going to whip up his coup de cuisine later that evening if his sauce couldn't be found?

Maybe that bag got mixed up with the girls' stuff? Someone suggested.

Yes, that must be it!

So off he went to the girls' house.

When he came back, he had half-forgotten his sauce, for boy, does he have a tale to tell!

"There's nothing in their house," he said with astonishment. "Their kitchen is bare. I opened the fridge and all I saw was beer and mints"

"The hall was just as bare. Nothing, just cigarettes and instant noodles."

"Instant noodles, ho, ho, ho!" a voice spoke for all.

"Lesbeee-ans!" chorused everyone, falling over each over laughing.

Political correctness met the fridge, and was soundly defeated.

* * * * *

Cyril eventually found his sauce, and he and perhaps 10 other chefs brought forth a feast that night. Due to the passage of time, I don't entirely recall all the dishes laid out, except for the curry, the pasta and various stir-fried dishes, but it was a lot. In addition, there was the barbecue, with slabs of beef, chicken wings and tiger prawns. There was easily twice as much food as we could consume.

"Maybe we should invite the girls over," someone mused.

"Won't that be a little condescending?" another asked. "After all, they have their own barbecue..."

"They do? I don't think so, it's all dark over there."

The men had this mental picture of lesbians in their hammocks chain-smoking, guzzling beer and shortening their life expectancy with potato chips.

"Maybe we can take some food over as exchange," another suggested.

"But what if they don't have any food to exchange? Won't that put them in an awkward position?"

In truth, of course, they weren't that unprepared, though the part of Cyril's story about instant noodles was true. But in addition, the women did bring along some chicken and steaks for grilling, even if their kitchen didn't groan with overabundance like the men's.

Not long after, the dilemma of how to offer food to the other house was overtaken by events. One of the women came over asking for lighter fluid or something. They were having a bit of difficulty keeping the barbecue going in the breeze.

© Yawning Bread