My Dad used to live on a property in the country. It was a beautiful property with lots of space for riding trail bikes, a small orchard of nut trees and tortoises in the muddy dam at the bottom of the slope. A dry and rocky creek bed wound its way along part of the perimeter and, for all the years that Dad lived there, I never did see it flow.
The house at the top of the slope was a fairly modern thing and Dad and his lovely other half, Penny, spent many satisfied hours toiling in the surrounding garden; Dad always at great lengths to perfect his small patch of green English lawn on the dry central western soil. You could see part of this garden from the bedrooms inside. Most of these faced out into a giant enclosed sun-room which had expansive views across the garden, through eucalypts and grazing lands, to the distant hills. I always loved visiting there and spent many hours relaxing with Dad, cool brew in hand, in the comfy sun-room arm chairs.
Sunset from Dad's sun-room
Dad also loved it there in the space and the country quiet. Still, there was one aspect of the place that he consistently and vehemently resisted: the Magpies.
Have you ever heard an Australian Magpie? I quite like one version of their call which is happily melodic, a little bit like a drunken flute player. But their babies are swawking, demanding things with nasty high-pitched and persistent wails. It goes straight down your spine.
Dad hated the magpies with a passion. He hated that they came in onto his lawn and he especially hated the noise they made in the morning. Every morning he would wake to hear them from his bed and, being unable to contain himself, would run out the front in his underpants with his hands in the air yelling “BAH! PAH! Get away!” The magpies would fly off and Dad would stand there for a few extra seconds, just to be sure. Then he would trudge back inside muttering under his breath “Rotten bloody birds…”.
Of course, just minutes after he had himself warm and comfortable in bed again, the magpies would be back a-scratching and a-wailing as if nothing had happened. Cue repeat performances from my incensed father, gesticulating with his hands and shouting in his underpants to the wind.
Dad came to visit us here in Orange yesterday and, over a few quiet ales at our local establishment, the subject of the magpies somehow came up. I explained to Fundy about Dad’s morning underpant dance and we all had a good giggle. But little did I know that Dad had ultimately had the last laugh. While I had been away overseas, he’d come up with a solution...
One morning, after many, many mornings of the underpant dance, a light bulb flashed above Dad’s head. He got dressed and immediately made a bee-line for the hardware store in town. There he bought a door-bell and a long length of wire. The doorbell had options to play, say, the chimes of Westminster among various other sounds. He took it home and, chuckling to himself, carefully rigged it all up according to his ingenious plan.
The next morning, while Dad was still in bed, the magpies suddenly took flight from the garden. No outside underpant was necessary - a pack of angry barking dogs was approaching. Ten minutes later, when all appeared to be quiet and still, the magpies returned, only to again take flight at the sudden sound of the dogs.
Inside, tucked in bed with his eyes closed and a smile on his face, Dad simply pushed the door-bell button.
There are many rites of passage when you become a New Australian. Wearing thongs, eating pies and vegemite toast and throwing shrimps on the barbie are just a few. There are also many less internationally known customs that may come as a surprise to you once you are here.
The Pub Meat Raffle, for example.
Every week pubs across the nation are invaded by uniformed members of various sports teams walking the floor and carrying huge cling-wrapped trays of meat or seafood. Their purpose: to hawk raffle tickets for your chance to win them. The tickets are usually only a dollar or two and the raffle is drawn as soon as they are all sold. If you are lucky enough to win you can have a huge barbie knees-up for all your mates and still have meat for dinner every night for a week. All the proceeds of the raffle go to the team for, well, new sports stuff I suppose.
Fundy initially got a shock the first time a big hulking bloke in slinky stubbie shorts thrust a tray of chops in his face and boomed “Ticket, mate?” He wasn’t sure what to do and it took him a moment to put down his beer. But I am pleased to report that he soon caught on and is now among the first to search for change when the raffle lads come through the door.
This week Fundy received even more of a shock: he won! Instead of a meat tray, however, he won a whole boneless shoulder joint of pork and a 10kg bag of potatoes to go with it. Woohoo! – a roast dinner was going to be on at our house.
Now, knowing that we may well imbibe a snifter or two and being the responsible citizens that we are, we had walked to the pub that night. This meant that we also had to walk home with the new booty. Being a true gentleman, the Fundinator gallantly offered to carry the heavier of the items - the 10kg bag of potatoes – and he hefted them on to his back like Santa for the trek. I had the pork in a plastic shopping bag and did the same.
Secretly congratulating myself on my endless intelligence and wit, about half the way home I snorted, pointed to the bag resting over my collarbone and said, “Look babe, I’ve got a shoulder of pork! Shoulder *point point at my shoulder* of pork *point point at the meat resting on it* – Geddit? Geddit?!” Hahaha! - Oh I thought I was just so witty and clever.
But who am I to mess with the master.
Hoisting up the bag of potatoes to just the correct degree for effect, the Fundinator looked me straight in the eye and deadpanned “Well, I’ve got a chip on my shoulder!”
Hmmmm... I believe that I have blogged before that life can be a funny old ride. I believe that I have also blogged before that life can be a not-so-funny old ride. Well guess what? It’s back to being a funny old ride again. I can hardly believe what has just happened...
I know I haven’t been here for awhile (*hangs head in shame...again*) and so I suppose I should pick up from where I left off – that is, feeling extremely sorry for myself as the Fundinator and I packed up the Poo Brown Flat in preparation to leave Perth for Orange and to live for a time with my mother. Well, fortunately, that all went off more or less without a hitch and on the May 1st we said our final Poo Brown goodbyes and flew from the west to the east coast. We flew into Sydney, to be precise, where we spent a couple of days. This initial diversion also took some of the sting out of the move because, of course, the Fundinator had not been to Sydney before and so I could again play the proud tour-guide and show him all the famous spots that he had only previously seen on the telly.
Sydney turned on some lovely autumn weather, pleasantly cool and clear - especially after the hot haziness of W.A. The beers were cheaper than in Western Australia and we sampled them goodly as we made our way around the City of Brides. The only hiccup was when the entire harbour ferry held it’s breathe as Fundy publicly declared our precious Opera House to be “a bit seventies” (Hmmph. The nerve!). However, noting the profusion of grey-brown smoked glass panelling glinting in the sun, everyone then breathed out again with a resigned sigh and a chuckle. He was right. :D
Bloody tourists! :D
The Sydney Opera House. An amazing building. The roof is literally stuck on with Araldite (a brand of superglue popular in the... um... seventies.)
Of course, we also had to pay homage to that old trusty haunt of my youth: Bondi Beach. Here the Fundinator dipped his toes into the Pacific Ocean for the first time and we both solemnly saluted the exact spot where once, in the late 80’s, a seagull shat directly into my sun-baked belly button from a great height. I still laugh at the chances of this happening – me wearing a bikini, I mean.
Fundy does Bondi
.
Next it was down to Wollongong for a few days and, although we have been together for nearly three years now (how fast has that gone!), time to officially introduce Fundy to my good old Dad. No worries there and cold beer was soon cracked and the conversation flowing. Dad is originally from England, too – hence my handy dual passport - and, although he hasn’t been back there since 1966, notes were compared, sports discussed and heights measured (at 6’4” Dad is just marginally taller than the Funds). I just sat back and enjoyed the manly rapport, pleased that it was all working out well.
Honchos on the headland: Dad and Fundy at Stanwell Tops
A few days later it was our final sojourn – over the Blue Mountains and into central western New South Wales. Back to Orange. Or back for me, anyway. For the Fundinator, of course, it was his virgin trip. The poor man.
Now don’t get me wrong, I love my Mum and it was great to see her and my Orange-dwelling relatives and also for Mum and the Fundinator to finally meet, but a sense of gloom and failure settled over me like a grey cloud as we crossed the town limits. Oh, wait a second, that really was a grey cloud: the wintry, damp weather matched my mood. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be here and again disparaged the series of cosmic events.
I tried to put a brave face on it. I really did. I showed Fundy around a bit (pointing out the old lady shop and insisting on burgers from Stans, etc) but to me the whole town just seemed to be full of death, divorce, boredom and sickness. No one had much of anything good to say (“Ohhhh, you’re here in winter... why?... well I hope you’re prepared, it’s just awful...”) and though we trudged the streets and employment agencies looking for work, even those whose job it was to facilitate it were all doom and gloom (“Well, you’ll be lucky to find a job in this town at this time of year... all the fruit’s off... mechanics need tickets in New South Wales, didn't you know... Oooh nooo, admin work is rarer than hens teeth...”). Feeling very dejected indeed, Neil picked up forms for shelf stacking in Franklins and I considered going back to being the drive-thru chick at McDonalds (the job I had when I was 15). Staring into our schooners along with the other jobless gits at the pub, we seriously considered turning around and going straight back to Perth and never leaving the comfort of a boom town ever again. Except we had no money. We had no nothing. Well, Mum and I had a fight. It only took three days. Even our most discerning friends and relatives had earliest bets on five. It was all very depressing indeed.
Then things started to look up. Sensing the pervading aura of hopelessness, Mum raised enough money from somewhere for us to buy a bombed out old station wagon. Of course we have to pay her back – but we have wheels! Thanks Mum! This widened our radius of work opportunity considerably and we set about printing resume’s and salting them around with renewed gusto.
Then Neil lucked out. He happened to talk to the boss of a machinery hire company who gave him the name of a person to talk to at a specific employment agency and, thanks to this secret handshake, Funds now has work. Oh it is a job that he can do standing on his head and is a bit boring but he likes it well enough and it is decent-enough money coming in. It's a start.
Meanwhile, I rang people and looked in the paper and smiled nicely and applied for anything that I thought I might be able to get away with. There really wasn’t much around at all but I did my best and at last people started to call for interviews. I even got a call back from a consultancy company that I randomly emailed in desperation (I don’t want to go back to that caper if I can help it). Then the most amazing thing happened. I got a call back on a job I actually wanted. Badly wanted. Would have killed and maimed for, actually.
I couldn't believe that they would actually advertise for such things, but there it was. Staring open-mouthed into the little local freebee paper that they put out every week I saw the magic words: Position Vacant – Writer/Photographer, Full Time.
I nearly didn’t apply, you know. My first thought was “oh wouldn’t that be great...” followed by “if only I had a chance...”; nevertheless, despite feeling that there was no way I would ever possibly be considered, something propelled me to spend the whole weekend meticulously going through my old photos and academic publications and blogs to actually try. I spent hours and hours putting together an embarrassingly greenhorn and rudimentary ‘portfolio’ and even shyly asked a few people their opinion on it before writing an honest here-I-am I-know-I-have-no-experience-but-please-please-pick-me cover letter and sending it in.
And now *drumroll please* you are looking at (well, reading) the latest intrepid reporter for Orange Photo News. Heehee!
Like I say, it is only a little freebee paper that comes out every Thursday and so it's not like I am going to change the world with any hard hitting editorials. But in the wierdest sort of way I feel so pleased with myself. The articles are feel-good pieces and interviews with town locals, leaning heavily on community pictures and stories. You know the type of thing: Granny Mavis turns 110 this week and credits her longevity to beer, pies and a daily dose of Worcestershire sauce or some such thing (*insert picture of old dear with crotcheted blankie and a gummy grin*).
I start tomorrow and I can’t wait!
The pay is absolutely terrible but, out of a pile of applications (including a swarm of young media graduates from the local university), the Man offered the job straight to me. I just couldn’t believe it. Perhaps it was the example story of the Spanish Space Toilet that did it? Heehee!
And so things have gone from the sublime to the ridiculous and I have spent the last seven days turning down a variety of alternative jobs offered to me from other interviews. Even though they pay more, I don’t want them. I want to do this. I really do.
And I also want to say thankyou to all you fantastic people who have ever read my blog in the past and encouraged me to write. I don’t believe I would have ever had the confidence to apply for such a job had your voices not rung in my ears. Particularly yours, Dr Dog. Thank you.
So stay tuned for the continuing adventures of The Luckiest Girl Alive. I’ll be able to blog more often now. After all, it’s my job. :D
Tourists again: The Fundinator and I say cheeeese in the Blue Mountains
I am looking out from the Poo Brown Balcony of the Poo Brown Flat and I think to myself “You know, it could have been worse”. I am not sure what I was expecting to find in Perth, but it has been so important that I lived here again, even just briefly. For so, so many reasons.
To be brutally honest, I had always held on to Perth as the location of my happiest childhood. That innocent time when I thought that anything was possible. The happy school where I was at the top of my class and had many, many friends. The happy life with Nat living just down the road and all the shocking “Grease” concerts we forced our poor parents through. The safe suburban setting where my Mum and Dad were still together and my only sibling, Danielle, was still alive. Danny and I used to play games like “Who can push the other one off the trampoline” (stitches twice ensuing) and “How to hide your Brussels sprouts under your mashed potato whilst diverting the beady eyes of your Mother”. Ah, happy days.
But we all know the only thing constant is change. Of course all this was decades ago, on another planet, and nothing will bring those times back. Besides, would I really look so good in that truncated, yellow-chequered school uniform now that I am 38? I think not. It has been a great six month ride in what is, honestly, now a completely different city. And now is the time again to move on. I shift all the time and so this really is no different. In fact, my Dad often jokes about my contribution to his address book.
Perhaps I should explain about my Dad’s address book. No hard-backed alphabetised log-book for him. No, no, NO! Instead, for as long as I can remember, Dad has carried around the same folded and folded-again piece of paper in his wallet. All the numbers he needs are on there, he assures me, and he has had it so long that most of the folds have turned into air and so it is like a paper Rubiks Cube (once unfolded, a dire challenge to return to its original configuration). One day he allowed me to view it and I had to laugh. Sure enough, there were all his friends logically ordered (as only a chartered accountant knows how); however, amongst these lucid listings was an apparent insurgent: Me.
There are so many crossings out in Dad’s “address book” under my name, so many arrows pointing to the next piece of space, so many scrawls up the margin, that Dad’s filing system is starting to look like the cheat sheet of a first year university student. Hehehe! – sorry Dad!
Then again, he is the first one to confess that he has moved residence 32 times in his 65 years. Perhaps he is feeling the heat of potential competition? Or maybe it is just genetic.
Anyway, this time next week the Fundinator and I will be flying away from W.A. to the wilds of Sydney, Wollongong and Orange, New South Wales. I do apologise for the apparent negativity of my last blog, but I have not been in the best headspace about it at all. Am I scared of the Fundinator meeting my parents? OK, well, yes. A little. But only because they have photos from the 80’s.
No, I am really not sure what it is. Probably the best I can explain it is that three years ago I sold up my life and ran away to find myself. And damn it all to a Firey Hell, I probably did. RAH!!!
I am a psychologist's field day. :D
Re-visiting an 'Olden Days' residence. The window to the far right is where I, at long last (in 1976), received a Kick'n'Go Zipper. And where I learned that Santa swore. Heehee!
Did you ever have one of those times in your life where you felt like a complete train wreck? You know, like one minute your were choof-choofing along happy as you like and the next minute someone left their truck full of heavy-set cement and bricks on what would have usually been an empty country crossing?
Maybe not even that. Maybe you started out slow after some other minor mishap and – perchance after some inspiration gained from a few pints with Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends – you started to realise that it wouldn’t be so bad to crank it up a gear. What have you got to lose? So you throw a few more coals on the fire, tilt your train-drivers cap down in a jaunty manner (ostensibly also to not to singe your eyebrows) and give the engine a good old hefty stoke. You forget about the slow *choof-choof* and, adding a few more coals and perhaps a good hefty puff from one of those air-blower things (“bellows”, I now believe they are called), you feel the need for speed! Oh yeah BABY! – next thing you know you are steaming across *insert outstanding world scenery of choice* with the wind in your hair, your shoulders back and a big fat smiley grin on your face. Woo-HOO- this is living!
Then that stupid fuck-head truck driver (the very same one! - he really should be fired) breaks down over the crossing again. Bloody hell! Only this time you don’t just clip him causing minor whiplash, a cracked tail light and a small dimple in trajectory. This time you plough on through and create country chaos. Your train breaks are forced rigid by a squealing rubber collision with the stricken truck tyres. Things catch fire and explode. People (in your head) scream and cry out and flocks of sheep which were seconds before peacefully munching lush grass in the twilight suddenly turn and scarper away en masse to the steep hinterland.
It’s not pretty. It’s not painless.
And because you are already in the middle of nowhere, it takes a long time for the Emergency Services to arrive.
“But... but... will I still be able to play the piano??” you finally stammer, coming to amidst the ache and chaos.
“If only you could play it before!” the handsome attendant SES man (who I chose to be played by Ewan McGregor) smiles.
I feel tired all the time lately. I haven’t been treating myself or Fundy right and this whole not-knowing-the-future-of-my-job thing has not been resolved and has worn me down into an emotional puddle. I feel like I have been used and am a failure and a fool.
And so it is time to gather some strength. Time to take the reins and call a few shots to get this show back on track. After a freak argument this weekend (actually, we must be the only couple in the world to have had a fight after seeing a Jack Johnson concert) the Fundinator and I had a good talk and made some hard decisions:
Decision 1: I will quit this bloody job and reclaim my sanity. Yes, it was great for a little while, but now it is sending me around the twist. My boss knows he is going to dissolve the company but is currently keeping that fact a great big secret for his own ends. Except the person carrying the weight of it is me. So, I am going to resign and walk away at the same time as the lease on the Poo Brown Flat expires (17th May). Boss Man can keep his six-figured promises and his new company. I’m no longer interested.
Decision 2: I will realise that I am not a fool and a failure and that, in fact, this whole turn of employment events has been out of my hands. I will stop behaving like the Antichrist.
Decision 3: Neil will quit his job at the same time. He had already resigned once when we thought we were going to Darwin and so has been only continuing on an ad hoc basis anyway – and he is not particularly enjoying it. Oh it was all fine when we thought it was just to be a short term measure, but in reality the commute is a real arse chapper for the poor man. We two really aren’t meant for the city.
Decision 4: We will take advantage of the fact that we have not accumulated any ‘stuff’ (the Poo Brown Flat came fully furnished right down to the teaspoons) and go right back to our original Plan A. That is, we will head over east and spend a little bit of time staying with my Mum and helping her sort out her health and her house. During this time we will find ourselves a car and, eventually, head north along the eastern Australian coastline to Cairns. Here we will push the button marked idiot to see what comes out (meanwhile enjoying a fantastic tropical rainforest and coral reef lifestyle).
So there! *BIFF!* Take THAT city highway. We’re going bushwalking instead. Life is too short.
I will miss Perth, though. I was born here and so will always have a soft spot for it. It has been great to have been able to come back after so many years away and learn about it again. And to spend time with my oldest and bestest friend who still lives nearby. I might even miss the Poo Brown Flat… just a little.
One thing I will miss is a little evening ritual that the Fundinator and I have recently created. We live just near a kind of hill which contains some old World War II tunnels. It only takes us a few minutes to get to the top of it from the Poo Brown Flat and so, every other night, after work, we have been taking up a couple of beers and watching the sun go down over the ocean. It is a great spot and, sitting on a sandstone wall near an old canon, we have aired our thoughts on the latest happenings and the position in which we find ourselves with the benefit of looking over both the city and the sea and of perhaps being able to see things from a different perspective (think: a young Ethan Hawke standing on his desk at the end of Dead Poets Society).
And what a promising point of view it is:
Fundy enjoys a cool tube atop 'the hill'
It’s so easy to sometimes forget what life is all about. Especially when you are trying so hard to make ends meet. It’s important to remember to stop, look around and breathe out.
I was on my way to the railway station this morning when, for no apparent reason, the song “Ghost of a Texas Ladies Man’ by Concrete Blonde came into my head. I haven’t heard that song for ages yet I couldn’t get rid of it and trudged along to the twangy beat, smiling at the story and marvelling at how sometimes the strangest things spring to mind:
You don’t scare me, you don’t scare me
I cried
To my ectoplasmic lover from the
Other side…
It shouldn’t have warranted further comment - however, arriving at the crossing to Victoria Street Station (and pushing the button as I have done a thousand times before), I turned to see, staring unequivocally in my eyes, a young, cowboy-booted, smelling of something rather masculine and yummy, a belted and chequered young man.
He looked straight at me in a kind of all-knowing way (the arrogant little shit) and suddenly I felt a wierd type of frission. Just as Johnette describes. It entered my mind to question if indeed Mr Funky Boots was a conjured product of the song in my head or, more likely, of my happenstance early morning imagination.
His young boots clacked upon the concrete with a weird authority. He walked right along side me, directly and almost embarrassingly close to my left as we traversed the road (his scent a-wafting up my nostrils), in a slow yet contentious competition to see who might perhaps be first to swipe their TransPerth railway card for the continuing journey.
The train was late. So late that three trains in the opposing direction passed us incongruously by. I was in shock myself as this had never happened before (Transperth are usually most reliable). At last, when it was obvious that there was some kind of delay, he turned to me in his black and white and neatly pressed plaid shirt and asked me if I knew anything about it.
I said no.
With less than a moment’s hesitation, he humphed and turned on his stacked and buckled heel and walked away. There was no apparent emotion other than the impatience of one who lives in the city.
He knew I understand
He was the Ghost of a Texas Ladies Man...
Forget Darwin. Darwin’s off. As a matter of fact, it looks like everything is off and I will soon be out of a job.
Isn’t it funny how things can suddenly turn on a pin head? It was all looking so good. Darwin was arranged for April, Fundy had put in notice on his mechanic’s job, and it had even been worked out so that we would fit in an interesting field trip (Fundy involved as well) in Karratha on the long drive north. It would have been the perfect chance for him – and me - to see some really unusual and remote Aussie wildlife and outback. More Boot Trees, maybe. We couldn’t wait!
I don’t know if I jinxed it, but the night before the see-saw tilted on the cosmic fulcrum, I burbled away happily to my Dad on the phone. “I just can’t believe how well it has all turned out,” I confessed, slotting in the happy details of our planned drive along the Western Australian coastline and our eventual set-up in Darwin. “It really is just too good to be true”.
Famous last words.
It is a fact that things that seem too good to be true usually are and the very next morning my boss called me to a meeting. To cut his story short, he was upset at how our backers have been treating him and he wanted a way out. HE wants to be his own boss. HE wants to own the glory. HE was spitting the dummy.
It’s not a definite, though it is sounding that way. He wants to dissolve the company and start again. This is all fine and dandy I suppose, but the competition clause means he can’t take any clients with him (fair enough) and also that there would be a necessary latent period of around six months between ventures. He wants me for this new company but there would be no Darwin and I would have to find something else to do for the six month interim.
I told him not to worry about me and that I would see out the current position as far as it went and then he could talk to me again if/when another position was available and I would think about it in terms of whether the opportunity was right for me at the time. Then I thought “Shit” and “Poo Bugger Bum”.
It’s strange, but I’ve never lost a job before. And now it seems bizarre that just a few days ago I was listening to a segment on the radio exploring the reactions of people who unexpectedly become retrenched; how they act in response to the news and what they do. As I listened I thought (obviously forgetting to touch wood) how fortunate that that had never happened to me.
*Ahem*
I lamented all this to the Fundinator as we were stuck in traffic on the Kwinana freeway trying to make our way out of the city for the long weekend. We had splashed out on a little silver hire car for a three-day jaunt around the south-western forests, ostensibly to recharge our batteries after a number of weeks of hard slog but also to have a look around the area before pinging off to the wilds of the Northern Territory. The demise of the latter plan had all gone down just hours before our departure and Fundy was as surprised as I was. Like a light switch suddenly flicked, our future had unexpectedly become uncertain.
We threw around a few potential options should things really hit the fan and then, pulling off the freeway onto a clear country road, decided not to worry about it any more. What will be will be. The future is always uncertain and, who knows, perhaps we will just go on up to Darwin on our own and any old how. This job had been a lucky chance gig anyway. For now we were on our way to the Karri forests of Pemberton and that was all that mattered. *Hi Ho Silver, and awaaaay!*
Actually, we were lucky to get a booking. We had only come up with the idea the week before and had had no idea of the imminent long weekend (these falling at different times of year in different States of Australia), so it was a pleasant surprise to find that we had the Monday off work without even trying.
Unfortunately, when I rang a recommended Pemberton hotel, they informed me that all their standard rooms were booked out. So were all of their more expensive deluxe version. They did have a “budget” room available, however – this being essentially the same as a standard room but without air-conditioning and in need of “an update”.
“What, so it has scary swirly retro pub carpet then?” I enquired.
“Yeah” said the guy on the phone, “And wallpaper to match.”
“Exxxxxcellent!” I grinned “ We’ll take it!”
Despite a few road works, it was a pretty cruisy drive with only one U-turn and both of us content to listen to the radio and let our minds wander as the countryside rolled by. It was the Fundinator’s first time out of the city since arriving in Australia (oh the bane of being car-less!) and it was fun to watch his reaction to the wide open landscape.
Knowing that kangaroos especially like to emerge onto grassy country plains at around sunrise and sunset, I had told the Fundinator to keep an eye out for them as we drove. Accordingly, and like a small boy, he travelled with his nose pressed to the window. Unfortunately however, after about three hours on the road we had spotted none. The sun was all but set and I was feeling guilty, like I had lied.
Then, just as Fundy was about to declare that there was obviously no such thing as kangaroos and that they were evidently a creature made up by the Australian tourist board to lure hapless travelers to this country, we saw one. All by herself, scratching her belly and staring absently from the middle of a clearing: a Western Grey.
Fundy’s face was a picture. “Oh my God” he said “WOW! They are real.”
After that he sat silently back with a beatific smile on his face, occasionally mumbling “Wow – I’m here. I’m really here. I'm in Australia” and looking like he wanted to pinch himself.
I giggled at him and felt all proud of this land. Of course, we saw many many roos after that - big old males hopping along, mothers with pouched joeys and whole families feeding - but it is always the first one that stays in your memory. And the look on Fundy’s face will stay in mine. :D
There he was. Striding out of Customs in boots, heavy jeans and a 20 ply red and black jumper hand-knitted by his Gran. Slightly beardy and flight-worn, his eyes locked mine and I pushed past the makeshift airport barrier and joined him for a long overdue smooch. Fundy was here at last.
Meanwhile, my bladder was stabbing at my nether regions with great urgency. “Hey!” It was screaming “I know you guys haven’t seen each other for months and months, but what about meee-heeeeeee *stab* *stab*”. It was New Years Day here in Perth and at 3.30pm it was 40 degrees Celsius outside. I’d put away a lot of bottled water on the toasty public transport from Fremantle to International Arrivals and now it was a-callin’, dammit. What shocking timing.
What the Fundinator’s first thoughts on Australia were I wouldn’t dare to presume. In fact, perhaps I’ll get him to write a guest blog. All I know is that, returning from the Ladies, I found him outside the main doors, sans air-conditioning and about three quarters of the way through stripping off every extraneous item of clothing on his body without actually becoming physically naked.
I know this is a month overdue, but WELCOME TO AUSTRALIA, BABE! :D
Unfortunately we had less than ten days together before I was whisked away on a work field trip to Port Hedland. It was a trip that should have happened before Christmas; but for one logistical reason after another it was canned at the last minute. This time, however, it was all systems go.
Thus the poor Fundinator was left on his own in the Poo Brown Flat with barely a weeks induction to his new hemisphere. All the poor man had was directions to the supermarket, beach and bottlo and a telly with the cricket. Looking out from the Poo Brown Balcony, the ‘70’s-style communal pool winked a welcome should that become too taxing. I hoped he’d be OK.
Meanwhile, I was picking up a hire car in the arid tropics and wondering what had hit me. Stepping from the plane onto the sizzling tarmac, it was my turn to discard all extraneous clothing in a strange dance towards climatic relief.
Nevertheless, in the name of Occupational Health and Safety, I soon had to put it all back on again. Soon I was looking sexy in steel-capped boots, heavy high-waisted KingGee’s ("any tougher, they'd rust") and a lairy yellow and blue ‘be seen’ long sleeved work shirt with special reflective strip. Don’t get me wrong, given the conditions this was A Good Thing. And along with it came a camel-back backpack, sexy Tanami hat and all the sunscreen I could eat (it having run stingingly into my eyes, down my face and into my mouth combined with my own voluminous sweat).
Fuck it was hot.
I think I can honestly say that I have never been so hot in my entire life as I was on that field trip. It was just bearable on the boat, but on the island the temperature hit 49 degrees (and it was 50 on the mainland!). I was out in it with my colleague, Peter, trying to find short range endemic species on scorching island rocks and dunes. My steel capped toes were on fire – yet I was hesitant to go to the shore to cool them because of reports of crocodiles. Eek!
It was so hot that little birds started falling out of the sky. I’m not joking! Back on the boat exhausted martins kept crash-landing on the deck, attracted by our shade. Unfortunately, despite trying to give them water, most of them died. I wonder how many of them crash-landed directly into the ocean?
Hot birdie
Shady characters, Weerdee Island (off Port Hedland)
Wow! – but there is some amazing country up there. I have never been to north Western Australia before and was astounded by the land and wildlife and the colours! Because of all the iron in the ground the soil is red red RED. And everything else is coated in a fine film of red dust. Among this there is the sparkly blue of the ocean, the bright white of the saltpans and the dusty dark green of the mangroves. When the sun sets, the pale trunks of the coolibah trees seem to glow against the ruddy background. I don’t know how people live there (though I am sure the money from the mines helps) but the visit was fascinating.
Driving down a red sandy track to one of our mainland field sites, we came upon an exemplar vista. There, just a short walk from the roadside, was a Boot Tree. Or at least that is what it looked like. A twisted and bleached stump rose from the flat scrubby ground and appeared to have sprouted three pairs of manly work boots. Apart from the track itself, for miles around there was no other indication of human life. I just loved it!
For the rest of the trip I racked my brain as to how the boots came to be there. Did three nerds have their boots stolen by outback bullies and thrown into the tree? Were they the frightning trophies of an uncaught serial killer? Did they smell of old feet and a pilot throw them disgustedly from a small plane? I couldn’t fathom.
It wasn’t until I got home and told Fundy that the reason became clear - for Fundy, you see, is Knower of All Things. Apparently, when a long job or contract is over, many workers throw their boots away or over a wire. Usually the boots are worn out and not longer wearable and it’s a type of tradition to dispose of them, especially after the end of long heavy outdoor work. So it seems The Boot Tree was ‘planted’ by some past contractors who were leaving the area.
Soon, it seems, the Fundinator and I will have occasion to throw around our own boots. Yep, we are on the move again. Not immediately, but within a month or two my company is moving me to Darwin to start up a new state branch. DARWIN, people! I have never been there before but have heard great reports about the place and so have decided to take up the challenge. We may even be driving up there from Perth so stay tuned. Top End Aussie adventures are afoot… :D
I walked into my new job in mid-November and straight into the thick of things. Kick starting a new company, it seems, is quite a bit of work – but exciting work, which is good. Will the ‘baby’ grow or will it fade away in its bed? Time will tell.
We are sharing office space with the “baby’s” older brother in the heart of central Perth. It is such a great city, complete with requisite suits hanging out of coffee shops and salad bars, the *click-clack* of ladies high heels merged with the *flip-flop* of thongs and board shorts and the familiar yet foreign accents of so many summer backpackers. However, upon leaving the tourist and commuter-laden footpath to my office on the first day, I suddenly emerged into the society of a bizarre alternative planet. A forgotten planet. Planet Late ‘70’s Outback Australia.
It wasn’t the décor. No, that was all very standard modern office cubicle stuff - each cubicle appropriately situating a dedicated employee surrounded by books and papers and computer. No, it was the employees themselves. The blokes, in particular.
After fidgeting and fluffing for a bit, I was in due course introduced to Man #1. He had a dark well-groomed handle-bar moustache, thick and luxuriant. Dude, I thought to myself, shaking his hand whilst making requisite small talk.
Then I was introduced to Man #2. He also had a handle-bar moustache, salt and pepper red, bright against his freckledy tan. Ten-four, Red Leader, thought I, smiling away.
Then there was Man #3, this one opting for the handle-bar moustache-with-sideburns combo, followed by – lo and behold – Mustachioed Man #4. He had a more traditional upper-lip mo neatly meeting the edges of his friendly upturned smile. Wow, these guys are really into thier facial topiary, I mused, though I yet said nothing about it.
I was shaking the hand of Moustachioed Man about #9 – noting a youthful rudimentary bar with accompanying bum fluff goatee – when the small talk cut to the orchestral arrangement of a classic old Australian VB commercial. The strains of the instantly recognizable and time-honoured tune filled the room and, at just the right moment, someone in the corner quipped “'Matter of fact… I’ve got it now.”
Like Pavlov’s Dog, I had the overwhelming urge to reach into an esky of melted ice, extract a freezing beer, put in in a neoprene cooler and switch the channel to some sports. That was it. Something strange was definitely going on here and I surreptitiously touched my own matronly mo as if it had been a factor in the cosmic circumstances of my new employment.
Finally, upon meeting Macho Moustachioed Man #10, I burst out laughing and asked if I should have worn some tennis stubbies and back-combed my ponytail? Surely it was some kind of theme day, yes?
It turned out that it was ‘Mo’-Vember: an aid organisation event with all proceeds going towards men’s health charities (you know, prostate cancer and the like). ‘Mo Bro’s’ are apparently sponsored and are not allowed to shave off their fashioned facial fur until the end of the month. It has been big in Australia for precisely the amount of time that I had been away (hence my having missed it) and, be aware, is soon coming to a country near you. :D
This indeed explained everything. Everything except the well-timed retro beer ritornelle. That, it turns out, was a mobile phone ring tone belonging to one of the girls - and one that I have since desperately coveted for myself, dammit (the ringtone, not the girl). :D
And so my new work auspiciously commenced. Within a couple of weeks I had also secured a small poo-brown flat in a suburb near the beach, Fremantle and beautiful Swan River and my new life back in Australia officially began.
It’s all run fairly smoothly, I suppose. Catching the train to work in the city and coming home again. Heading south to hang out with Nat and her family and friends when possible. I can’t complain. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t desperately miss Fundy. I used to be so independent, but it now just seems odd without him to poke and tease and laugh with. Soon, soon, I constantly remind myself, my whole being entered into Waiting Mode. Soon, soon. In another dimension I am part of a film clip for an old country and western song.
Still, work has kept me really busy. Fantastic chartered-boat-to-Rottnest-with-free-booze Christmas party aside (*hic*), I have also been really enjoying renewing all sorts of courses relevant to the job and getting paid to do so (for example: off-road driving, defensive driving, senior first aid and stuff like that). It’s at least been enough to keep me kind of interested and out of mischief.
Actually, the first aid course very nearly came in handy. Having just completed it, I was taking a short cut home that afternoon with my certificate fresh in hand when I came upon a man lying splayed and unconscious in a small alleyway car park. At first I thought he was just resting, leaning back and looking at the sky while waiting for someone or something; but then, nearing, I noticed his slack face and limbs all askew. Good God, I thought, I am actually going to have to put this first aid stuff into practice! EEK! My mind nervously ran through the various acronyms associated with resuscitation.
“Do you think that man is alright?” I questioned a youth now entering the scene from the opposite direction.
“I don’t know” the teenager replied, looking a bit freaked out and like he wanted to run away. I totally understood.
“HEY!” I at last projected, walking towards our victim. “HEY!! – are you alright..?”
The horizontal man struggled gamely to his elbows and wobbled unsteadily. “Merrrrrry Chrisssshtmas” he finally and confusedly burbled with a magnanimously drunken smile “MerrRRRrry CHRISHTmas”.
“Merry Christmas, yourself” I replied, laughing with relief.
* * *
And so here we are and it is New Years Eve. Another year over, another yet begun and all that. This time last year it was freezing cold and dark and grey and Fundy and the King and I were probably at the newly opened Village Inn. As a matter of fact, I know we were. :D Then Funds and I came home and cracked a bottle of red and watched fireworks from the window of good 'ol Number Five as we ushered in 2007. It seems like ages ago.
This year I am here by myself and it is 35 degrees C outside with bright sunlight burning uncovered flesh and salty sea air. I have been spending most of my free time at the beach and in the poo-brown flat swimming pool. My friends have gone away for the festivities and so I am spending this evening ushering in 2008 on my own. I could have gone with them, I know - but that is OK. It is more than OK because tomorrow Fundy finally steps off that plane and into my arms and we begin the New Year together. At last. It has been over three months since we saw each other. Three. Long. Months. I don’t need to tell you how much I am glad they are over. For Christmas I bought him tickets to see the Cat Empire, board shorts, sunscreen, black rubber double-plugger thongs (*ahem* - the ones you wear on your feet) and an Australian-flag beer cooler. He is henceforth, as of tomorrow, anointed an honorary Aussie.
And once again we push the button marked 'idiot' to see what comes out. :D
HAPPY NEW YEAR, everyone. May 2008 also bring you everything your heart desires.
I hate shopping. I really really do. I know I should be unceremoniously stripped of my membership to the Female Gender, but there it is. And it can’t be helped. I never shop for anything if I can possibly avoid it and, indeed, many cashed-up and champing-at-the-sales girlfriends will concur that their retail invitations are always politely turned down in preference to plucking my nasal hairs (or some other less-painful-than-shopping experience).
But last week had to bite the bullet. I had to dust off my credit card and face the fray. That is, unless I want to start my new-fangled, high-follutin’, wingy-dingy job in Perth next week wearing faded grey hand-me-down bum-crack-flashing flares with a red touristy T-shirt boasting a cartoon print of a flamenco dancer (who, on closer inspection, holds her fan like a whip and looks more like Madame Lash).
I think not.
Much as I am approaching this new position with a wry and serendipitous air, something had to be done. Plus, the only decent pair of shoes I own are still sending me subliminal postcards from under my friends coffee table in Dubai. *d’OH!* - I knew my backpack zipped up a little bit too easily on that departure.
And so the retail Gods collectively frowned upon me, pointing their Liberace-jewelled celestial fingers from a brand name cloud. “SHOP THY MUST”, they declared and, to prove their point, my meagre wodge of thin faded grey (yet conveniently matching) backpacker clothing spontaneously shredded in a collective puff of special smoke.
Bastards.
Unfortunately, by the time their instruction broke through my denial, I had already left the thriving metropolis of Perth (and it’s modal malls) to visit my mother in the orchard town of Orange, central western New South Wales. Town of my high school days and other associated horrors. Town where my maternal family have been prescient for several generations. Town where I can’t walk down the main street without feeling somehow recognised or watched.
Of course this is probably just bullshit. It is probably just a flashback to the good old 80’s where, as a method of “teenage daughter control”, Mum confessed to having downtown spies who reported to her directly on my behaviour and whereabouts. Although I mocked her at the time, at sixteen it still spooked me that somehow she immediately knew that I had sneaked out after nine o’clock on a school night to share a mini airline-sized bottle of sickly Malibu in Cook Park with five other wayward friends. How did she know?? It was a Tuesday. She should have been watching Magnum!
Anyway, years later, with dark glasses on, head down and swatting at those annoying little inland flies that stick to your back and your nostrils, I ventured “down the street” to shop.
Not a whole lot has changed since I was last here. The dodgy main street pubs have been ‘done up’ with chrome and earth-coloured paints, but more-or-less the wide tree-lined streets and iron-laced colonial buildings remain. As do a few classic art-deco facades.
Actually, that is not strictly true, either. There has been an irretrievable change since my last visit that will, I fear, not only affect me now, but impinge upon the habits of future generations. A celebrated slice of history is gone. Probably for good.
Allow me to elaborate:
Although I wasn’t born in Orange, on the day I arrived here from Western Australia in 1979, my new and knowledgable primary school classmates alerted me to two indisputable and timeless local facts:
1) The always-closed general store near Stan’s Fish and Chip Shop – the one with only a box of tissues and a couple of faded Shelleys Creaming Soda bottles from 1952 in the window (indeed it has been this way since my mother can remember) - contains upstairs a long dead old lady who is now just a skeleton in a rocking chair. Versions vary from her remains being sporadically attended to by indifferent nesting rodents to her vaporously haunting local buildings wielding a cleaver in search of a long deceased swindling ex-lover.
2) If you walk under the awning of the Funeral Directors, a building just half a block away from the above, you will, without fail or recompense, receive seven years of bad luck. No negotiations can be entered into on this matter. You will receive seven years of very bad luck. Venture under said awning at your own risk.
Of course, after school and on our way for twenty cents worth of chips with tartare sauce from Stan’s, we would invariably push each other under this canopy and then point and laugh at the imminent seven years of misfortune unavoidably bestowed upon the hapless victim. This was great fun as long as the victim wasn’t you. In fact, those of us in the know would always walk on the outside of any group, in the gutter or even across the road if necessary. We knew to Trust Noone near that awning. It wasn’t worth it.
Walking “down the street” on my mission this week, I noticed that many of these old businesses are still there. The Old Lady Shop is still closed and still has the same bottles of soda (the post war shop fittings must now be worth a fortune!) and, although Stan has upgraded his establishment, painting over the Hawaiian Palm Tree scene wall and installing an expresso machine, he still makes the best burgers in town.
But the Funeral Directors is now a Real Estate Agent. A river-clay coloured and cement rendered Real Estate Agent.
The building is still essentially the same, but there are now brightly illuminated illustration boards of local properties in the large and newly re-furbished windows, all backed by earth-toned curtains. The awning is painted to match the now flat, bland, concreted walls.
Staggering home after a long day of finding nothing I liked in the shops, and after intital wistfulness at the change, I finally had to laugh. Perhaps the legend is not lost? Perhaps it is intensified! Perhaps now if you find yourself under the awning you are doomed to seven years selling houses! EGAD!
I crossed to the other side of the road, just to be safe. :D
You know, it's times like these that I wish I had my old blog entries back. Don’t worry, I have asked for them to be returned and am waiting and it is all good - it’s just that this week a funny thing happened and it would be handy to be able to link back to some old ramblings for context.
Anyone who remembers way back to the old Modblog days, right back to when I first started blogging in early 2005, might remember that I used to be a bit of a career girl. I was a marine biologist and had a nice office with an ocean view at the National Marine Science Centre in Coffs Harbour. It all sounds very sun-tanny and dolphin-y and good, but for many years I had felt like I had taken the wrong path and was not cut out for academia. I found myself hating the science and politics and the higher I got on the ol' career ladder, the less I saw of the ocean and the more I saw of infernal statistical spreadsheets and small-willied men with giant chips on their shoulders.
Finally I got the gumption to take a leap of faith and pack it all in. I saw out the end of my contract and decided to move overseas, pushing the button marked idiot to see what came out. It was at about this time I met the handsome Fundinator, love of my life.
I hadn’t been in the UK long when, after a short series of interesting temp and bar jobs, I found myself working for a small family-run plastic moulding company. I was employed as their office manager; however, they soon asked me if I would champion a new product: a plastic imitation seagull egg. This egg was part of a larger project to mediate nuisance seagull populations, first in Gloucestershire and then growing nationwide around the UK and eventually through parts of Europe. I laughed at the cosmos: coastal ecology had found me again and, through a combined effort, the egg was a resounding success.
Fast forward and my lovely Mum is sick. Funds and I were planning to move back to Australia anyway, but the news that she needs help kind of fast-tracked things and the next thing I know I am waving a tearful goodbye to my babe with plans to meet up in Australia in a few months time. I didn't know what I would do to get by when I did get home, all I knew is that I wanted to see my Mum and lend her a hand in her time of need.
Just before leaving the UK, however, there was some unfathomably terrible news. The mother of my oldest and bestest friend (Nat) had had a heart attack while at the wheel of her car and had crashed head-on into a building. She died instantly.
Now I am not going to go into any more details about the accident save to say that the beautiful, funny, generous, unforgettable force of a woman concerned was like my ‘other mother’. Even at 37 years old I still called her ‘Aunty Pat’. But now my Aunty Pat is gone.
Rather than go directly to Mums in New South Wales (who was doing alright), I immediately changed my flight plans to include Perth, Western Australia.
It was all arranged. I would spend a week or so with Nat (crying and hugging and laughing and drinking too many nasty girlie cocktails, as you do) and then I would go on to Mums where I would sort out her medical situation and look after her while she recovers, get some kind of temp work, wait for the Fundinator to join me and just generally start again.
Then the phone rang.
It rang twice, actually.
The first time, a friend of a friend of Nat’s had heard that I was in town and was a qualified biologist and they were desperate for someone to help them with some fieldwork. Could I possibly start immediately?
I apologised and turned it down. I had to get to Mums and had already booked the flight. Besides, I didn’t want to go back to science. As a matter of fact, something pretty damn amazing would have to turn up for me to even think about going back to any of that kind of caper.
*Ahem*
Ring-ring - A couple of days later the phone chimed again. This time it was another of Nat’s friends who had also heard I was in town. She works for a different environmental consulting company - one that has just expanded, leaving them desperate for senior staff. The managing director had sent an email around saying if anyone knew anyone who was available to ask them to make contact.
I sighed, feeling all eyes expectantly on me. Did noone understand that I wasn’t Ecology Girl any more?
Nevertheless, I rang the guy late in the afternoon and left a voice mail saying “Look, I received this interesting call today regarding your company. To be honest, I’m not looking for work but feel free to contact me at this number if you would like to chat”
He rang back at 8 o’clock the next morning.
To cut the rest of the story short, through the power of aloofness and not giving two pebbly poos, I now find myself with what could be my dream job - with what is almost a dream pay-packet! I had the hide to ask for everything ever I wanted - including six figures - and, although I didn’t quite attain my stupidly exorbitant fee, there was no way I could possibly turn it down.
It's a project management position with no direct science involved - I'll have minions for that - and very little politics (though there is always politics in any job). It includes almost the full spectrum of amazing Australian ecosystems and I get a day off in leiu of every day that I am away travelling all over the place. PLUS I have time enough before I start to go and help my Mum AND I also have enough flexibility that I can fly across to see her if/when the need arises.
I squintily agreed (my heart pounding in my chest) to take the position, with the provisio that I would give him 3 months and if the company wasn’t up to scratch, I would be leaving.
Hee hee!
So. it looks like Fundy and I will be starting our next chapter in Perth, Western Australia, place of my birth. And I will get to write plenty of little travel stories as I get mightily paid to see parts of my own country that I have never experienced before. Things are looking interesting… veerrrry interesting… :D
Here I sit befuddled with jetlag, beer in hand to the right, bickies and dip to the left, and the AFL Grand Final on a large screen in front of me. Yep, that’s right, I am back in the land of Oz. I am home.
Well not strictly home, I suppose (as I am currently of no fixed address); but back in the country of my birth with my backpack exploded all over the spare-bedroom floor of my oldest and most hospitable friend. I am in Mandura, just south of Perth, Western Australia.
It is so very strange to be back. It has been two years since standing on Aussie soil and, in the rare daylight moments I have been awake, I have been absolutely enthralled by localisms that used to be so familiar they completely escaped my notice. Bottlebrush, people! Rainbow lorikeets! Daggy old flannelette shirts! WOW!
As a matter of fact, I feel the calling for a list:
Jetlagged observations on returning to Australia
The accents. Oh my GOD! - the exquisitly hideous harshness! Heehee. And the funny inflexion that makes everything seem like a question yet is held forth in such a manner that you know you are not expected to answer. Maaaaate!?! :D
Separate hot and cold taps in the shower (instead of those weird European dial-type contraptions). So logical. So right.
Top-loading washing machines! Extra-Hooray! No more leftover socks that I can’t pop in at the last minute after having already starting the cycle (because the infernal English front-loading door has self-locked). Happy days!
Power plugs that fit my power cords. No more adapters for my laptop and mobile charger and hair-dryer. Oh funny little electrical face, how I have missed thee!
Colourful plastic money. Soooo prrrrreeettty... *pats vibrant and conveniently-washable dollar notes*… now I just have to remember that they are real… :D
Aussie beer ads. And Aussie beer! Half-melted ice in the esky and frosty-cold at last. :D
Got the bottlebrush – now for the bottles!...
But blah to jetlag. So sleepy. Must nap now... *Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz*........
It's official. I have landed in Outer Space. And Outer Space is otherwise known as the United Arab Emirates city of Dubai.
I have never been anywhere quite like it in my life. It's crazy. It really is like being on another planet. Or at least like the constuction site for one. On this planet there is alot of money and alot of crazy drivers. It is so hot that it is almost impossible to go outside. Everything boasts a matt of beige desert dust.
But that is another blog.
This blog is just to report that I have finally and sadly left the UK. This means that I have also left Fundy. Not in the left and never coming back sense, of course; but we are now apart for a good few months until we can tie up some loose ends and raise the necessary moola for him to follow me to Australia.
God it was hard to say goodbye. It was horrible saying goodbye to everyone - but blowing kisses to The Fundinator from the back window of the taxi as it pulled out for the airport was a killer. With blurred vision I watched him leaning on Red (the blue Escort) getting smaller and smaller as he waved a stoic farewell backed by the mock-Tudor facade of our cheapo airport hotel. We had decided it would be easier if he didn't come to the airport (and perhaps it was).
The good news is that *herald the trumpets*: HIS AUSSIE VISA HAS BEEN APPROVED! WooHOO!!!
So, it's just a matter of being patient.
In the meantime I am lucky enough to have some interesting travels. Like I say, at the moment I am in Outer Space Dubai, which might be just enough to keep me diverted. At least for now.
That and trying to work out this new efx2 stuff. I'll also be double posting over at australosquilla at blogspot until I can work it all out.
