Boo!

So, I have a bit of an embarrassing admission to make.

I know it’s not the norm, or cool, or mature.

I love being scared.

In fact, often, when my housemate, Bek Sibenaler  jumps out from the door she’s been hiding behind for 15 minutes and screams at me and scares that absolute shit out of me, I screech a little, but then I jump around clapping my hands and laughing like I’ve just won Tattslotto. I’ve been known to yell “YAAAY!” Who the fuck says “yay”?

It’s not just that the adrenalin is pumping and everything just got REALLY EXCITING, it’s that the surprise makes me really really happy. Sometimes when I get a little tired or bored during the day- like during assembly- I re-live the experience in my head, and find myself grinning ear to ear and making a quiet little clap. Which must look odd to the kids, I just hope the unlikely hope that the principal has said something worthy of a golf applause.

As a mature, responsible woman with years of experience and insight, I’d like to blame this weird fetish on my parents.

Firstly; The Man From The Moors.

We had a fabulous freedom growing up in a small country town. My cousins and I would walk back and forth from my nan n pop’s to home and my brother, friends and I would just roam around trying to cause havoc where none was to found. My dad had an old army coat and horrible mask that he would don if he knew there were any night wonderings, especially if my aunt was involved – he and his brothers liked nothing more than to scare her. He would jump out at us yelling and turn us all into soft piles of scrambled intestines on the ground. I loved it so much. Apparently, when asked what I wanted for my 6^th birthday party, I asked for “The Man From The Moors”.  I hadn’t figured out it was dad. So there were10 or so little girls sitting around the table outside in the Autumn sun, enjoying fairybread n chocolate crackles, when out jumped The Man From The Moors. I am told that amidst the screams and upturned chairs that I remained in my seat, clapping and yelling; “He’s here!”

Growing up, my parents often had social gatherings. They involved cards and cool snacks and alcohol and music and we kids were allowed to do what ever we wanted to keep ourselves entertained. This usually involved Star Wars or scary movies- the small town of Rochester was brewing quite the bunch of little Sci Fi Goths. I managed to get through some of the scariest films of all time before I hit my teens: Amityville Horror, Exorcist, The Omen series. When the gatherings were at my grandmother’s, my cousins and I would sit up and watch all the old black and white vampire and werewolf films until we passed out, exhausted by prolonged suspense scenes.

I continued into my teen years loving scary stuff. It is the justified stereotyped condition of teenage girls to be fascinated by vampires and Lost Boys fed that nicely. Birthday parties lying around in the dark watching Halloween, Nightmare on Elm Street and Texas Chainsaw Massacre fed the delight of both anticipating the worst but surviving it with a squeal or giggle. The dread of knowing what was coming but still being in the safety of your circle of friends. Maybe using the fear as an excuse to grab the arm or hand of a cute guy nearby.

I had the fabulous luck of becoming a high school teacher. It was a bit accidental but I’m very thankful for it. Kids are fucking funny. I helped design a reward points system at one school which was to reward kids for hard work and respectful behaviour. They were given fairly and consistently for the types of behaviour we wanted to encourage. Kids should only expect to get a maximum of one per class. I gave 5 to a kid who snuck into the little props room of my drama room and jumped out when I went in to get the stilts giving me one of the most fantastic frights of my life. I literally couldn't breathe for a minute. There was a moment when the poor kid though he’d given me a heart attack. Until I laughed.  A sit on the floor, tears pouring, snorting laugh.

And this year I get to teach scary stories as a genre. Oh My Goodness, I've had such joy watching my students identify and use the features of a scary scene in their work, their gradual awareness of how to create suspense, their use of camera shots and angles in making their own zombie story boards. But more than the satisfaction of the teaching and learning process is the satisfaction of witnessing their squeals and jumps and hiding behind their hands when they watch something scary. We've watched scenes from Scream and Jurassic Park and the Harry Potter spider scene and Monsters Inc. It's mostly hiding and chasing and telephones and footsteps and close ups of fear and something out at everyone- totally appropriate. And when they really get the glee burst from a particular scene, when it's made them jump and forget their façades of bravado, they want to watch it again and again. And I'm in love with being a teacher. Tomorrow we watch a scene from The Grudge recommended by my assistant teacher. I could only do a worksheet about what we see and hear for half of the scene because I was too scared to watch the end. I can't wait for the kids to see it!

So here I am, sharing a house with two 24 year olds and one is an expert scarer. I also have a friend, Stacey McGyver Cooper, who does a pretty excellent job. I sometimes have to wait 2 minute before walking inside my house, or pause before heading outside my room to the bathroom. Because I never know when I'm going to be scared. To tremble and giggle and know and not know. Makes life saa much fun! 

As Home As A Home Can Be For Me.

I went up to the shop this morning to buy vegies so soft my finger went through one of the sweet potatoes when I put it on the counter, despite it costing as much as an organic vegie grown in Gwyneth Paltrow’s garden. A kid in just a nappy, sitting on top of the check out counter screwed up her nose and said “yuk one” when it happened. There was a camp dog roaming around inside and two women yelling at each other about to box on.  Calls of “Annaleeeeeeea!” followed me. A strange kid gave me a high five. It took me an hour in the stifling heat to go 300 meters and back because of the chit chat each way.

The end of last year, when I was helping my friend clean out her wardrobe as she packed to leave the island, I came across a pair of gumboots. They weren’t hers so she figured they must have belonged to the previous inhabitant. Lucky for me, they were my size. Since living up here I have often thought about buying some but never got around to it. So later today, when the rain had kicked in and I was embarking on the long, 100 metre trek to school, I popped on my wellies and searched through my boxes of crap for my brolly and took off through the rain and puddles and mud. One of the puddles was so deep I was worried I wouldn’t make it through – it had tadpoles so big I thought at first glance they were fish. But gumboots make sloshing fun - why have I sloshed through mud puddles in sandals for 2 years?

The rain is heavy and incessant, it has been a big wet. The frogs’ croaking reverberates through the yard and into my bedroom window. We have to keep turning the music up to hear over the rain and then we yell over the top of it. I got hot and sweaty and then had a shower and then got muddy and chilled from getting stuck in the rain. My mattress smells of mold and kept waking me up when I rolled over last night. And apparently a dog spewed on it last year – “Just grass though”.. My beautiful bed cover from the hill tribes in Northern Thailand that I heaved across the country is damp and I can’t shut the louvers properly. The sheets feel like sweat. My clothes are in vacuum sealed bags under my bed because I have a wardrobe the size of a tissue box, and my towel won’t dry. The plates in the kitchen cupboard have mouse and/or gecko shit on them. My hair hasn’t been dry in 4 days, it’s so wet and humid my eyebrows have gone curly. I have 7 mozzie bites on my back (my house mate counted them). I am sharing a house again, once again a third. One of my house mates bought us all Nerf guns and I feel unnerved that a) I am playing war at my age and b) I enjoy being shot randomly – hanging out the washing, brushing my teeth, making a cup of tea.. And of course I love to shoot in a sneak attack but I get too excited to aim properly. It was so wet last night we had to move the gas BBQ inside for our Australia Day roo burgers (“It’s just not the same cooking in a frypan”..)– thank god for a long, open entrance-way with a hundred louvers that don’t shut. Worked a treat.

I have been a little worried about my return this year, a lot of my friends have left the island and I feel like I should be making moves and settling down somewhere.  I feel scared that I’ve been out of the real world too long. But as the frogs compete with the rain and the Jezables and my house mate singing I feel pretty happy to be home.

An Aussie Holiday

I am spending my summer holidays in Australia – a whole 6 weeks or so, for the first time in over 3 years. It wasn’t by choice – I had big plans for South America or Cambodia, but friends are getting married right smack bang in the middle and the opportunity for those kinds of celebrations with friends is coming along less these days.

At first I had no idea how to spend the time – it’s so expensive in Australia, especially when you don’t have a home base but it has turned into the loveliest opportunity to catch up with friends which is the perfect holiday for me at the moment because I miss my friends and family heaps n stuff.

Bali: Luxury. 4 days of uninterrupted conversation with girls I miss constantly. Big questions about future and past. Champagne and margaritas and Nasi Goreng and walks on the beach. And shopping. Quality time a long time coming. Made me miss my life in Juc but got to holiday with the best bits of that life by a pool in the tropics. With cheap drinks.

Melbourne: The time to be a daughter which is always too much and not enough time. And the role I hate leaving the most. And be an aunt, which is never enough time. But they create the best Christmas spirit possible, especially when you get to see movies like Thor. To see Christmas lights and trees and phenomenal buskers. For Christmas, bursting to within an inch of my life, with my family. Too much spiced rum and fun times with a new friend. And to see the women who inspire me to live strong and happily and write- cannot thank you enough for that. Tequila and the constant inconstant weather. And Deb, my always rock. And crazy, sometimes violent, sometimes naked city people.

Sunshine Coast: A return to all things wonderful. Oceans without crocodiles, sunshine. Bush. A breeze that makes you want to take your clothes off. New Years with fireworks and amazing lightening storms. Drinks and sex on a deck in the warm air. New friends with the honest openness that resolves my decision to believe in people rather than a god. Climbing mountains and walking coastlines too lovely to look at. Open spaces, so much space and time. And BATS! So chaotic moving towards their streamlined merging. The most beautifully wild silhouette. A woman who will hold my hand and take me walking when life is hard and a man who devours life and inspires everyone else to. Fuck he loves life.

And then a catch up with a school mate who I haven’t seen in maybe 20 years. It was so great to catch up with him and his wife as they are such great people, but it was mostly great because they knew me before all the loss and sadness and confusion and craziness and I was still there. The girl from Rochy is still here (and I don’t just mean my obsession with a good checked shirt). Some days the weight of loss – partner and babies and dogs and home – makes it so hard to take a step, makes me breathless. Even after so many days they turned into years – I am still heavy with it. But for an hour and a half I was someone who had never gone through any of that, I was someone who had a lot of things and people in common, but none had anything to do with that baggage, instead it was the girl that sat on a wooden bench, trying to sit comfortably in a summer uniform that was too short, listening to this very funny friend’s jokes while trying not to spill beetroot from my Tuck-shop soggy salad roll.

I love travelling but sometimes the incentive is to not be surrounded by what I lost in Victoria, to have new adventures that allow me to indulge in my love of wonder as much as possible. And to move quickly enough to not have to feel the weight of the past. But this holiday has been a reconnection to someone who I forgot about a bit, to the girl and woman I was before settling down in Juc – who I forgot about in trying to deal with and move on. And in that is a relief, I forgot I had existed before and that helps me shove the weight off – even if it’s just to the side for a bit, it’s a respite.

My wonderful friend wrote a blog recently about the impact family and friends have on the person we become. She wondered how strong the elastic is that allows us to move and change and wander. Having been able to spend time with my friends and family this summer showed me it is very hard to break those ties and snapped me back into the world and people who helped form me into the quite amazing woman I am today. It has been liberating.

This is dedicated to all of my friends and family. But especially to Kate, Fev, Duey, Hocko and Mini, who have given me, me again. 

A rock.

Tonight my friend’s youngest girl wanted to sit on my lap. She was wrapped up in a poncho with only curls and dimples left popping out. I felt not a little overwhelmed with the privilege. 

It was not the first time. I have watched “Tangled” with her snuggled on my knee and suffered through “High School Musical” – I didn’t whinge or wriggle because she was delighting in it and snuggled on my knee. I have seen her dimples flash wide while she showed me how she can “swim”(jump fearlessly and skill-lessly through the water). She has performed "Dancing Queen" and some aerobic dancing moves of her own for me. I have multi-coloured her nails. But tonight on my knee she complained because I was rocking. I didn’t realize I was even moving- it wasn’t my normal, restless, I-can’t-stand-being-still twitching, it was the physical memory of comfort. 

My mother always rocked me. If ever she was patient enough to have me on her knee she rocked– even as a teen, if I gave her the chance to hold me for a minute, she’d rock. So it annoyed Dimples but I had the chance to remember the comfort of the rock – and it was totally about comforting me, not her.

The memory is so bittersweet, I will not ever share what my mother – and before her my grandmothers, shared with me. I will not share those moments of nurturing, I can’t pass on the rocking to my own. Mostly, I go about my days pretty well – and I have some pretty awesome days that most of my friends are jealous of. But randomly, with no warning, I know: I will not be a mother. I will not be a grandmother. I will not rock a child of my own. I will not feel my heartbeat through her skin as I hold her. I will not see my eyes in hers. And it floors me. 

For a moment, I cannot breathe, I am caught still in my horror. No-one sees this, it is just a moment but it is such a hopelessness.  I am the last of me and the comfort of rocking.

Kiss 2

What I miss, what I miss

is a kiss.

The softest touch,

but such a touch-

holding their heart beat on their lips.

The whisper of breath,

a sigh.

Winding, finding its way down,

wrapping around my heart and warming it.

Reminding it to keep beating.

Fluidity.

It’s interesting how pernicious I feel about the truth. In just one night, not even one entire one, a breath or moment even- your world can be so full of possibilities. And so devoid of them.  It is a fluid, fluctuating situation.  A world of total possibility. But absolutely not. I guess that’s what makes it interesting; Flux. 

A Thank You Note.

Only afterwards did it hit me.  Only when standing in the midday sun, no shade, in the middle of nowhere did I realize it’s quite an assumption that when you say to a total stranger, “Can you pick me up in 2 hours?” and he says “Yep!” that he will, indeed turn up for a fare worth roughly 2 bucks. What if he picked up a bigger fare? Fell asleep? Rolled his tuk tuk? We had no phone coverage, no way of getting back other than a 10 km walk on dirt roads under the blasting sun. But I only had 2 minutes to wonder about this because we were approximately 2 minutes early and our tuk tuk driver was approximately exactly on time. Of course he was, because the people of Sri Lanka had been so helpful and reliable and eager to help us see and appreciate their beautiful country that after a week we had very comfortably made such assumptions that we would be totally OK. And we were.

My extremely brief moment of concern made me realize what a total lack of concern I had experienced over our travels through Sri Lanka. Despite strangers leading us through the city to their school, giving us tours around gardens and unexpected massages while drinking a cup of tea, we never felt any concern. A little bemused at times but mostly we just enjoyed a very interesting, sometimes crazy ride which occasionally led to us handing over cash for a bit of shopping we didn’t even realize we were doing.  Over the last 4 months I had felt very much pummeled by the concerns of making decisions about where to go and what to do and how to pay for it but now I was smiling and laughing all over the place.

I have been in situations where I felt quite a bit of apprehension – often in my own country in the city I know best, but I have also had to teach myself to not be held by fear and to trust more rather than expect everyone to be out to rip you off or lead you astray. I remember how defensive I was when I first arrived in Istanbul over 10 years ago and how I eventually realized that the majority of people genuinely want to be helpful and want you to have a good experience in their home. I have met far more people who love their country and want you to love it too than people who want to take advantage of you.  I have shared really wonderful moments with people wanting to know about my country and my life, and who are so generous in sharing part of theirs.  I wonder though whether this is how tourists find Australians?  It is a real national pride when you want to appreciate and share your place and culture with others, I’m not sure this is the case with many Australians who seem to think patriotism is about proving why only some are worthy of a place in such a huge space. Except in the Northern Territory, there live people as keen as any Thai, Sri Lankan, Guatemalan, Turk or Nepalese person to help you love love love their strange, exotic world. 

In Sri Lanka we were humbled by a man who thanked us – as Australians- on behalf of all of Sri Lanka, for the help our country had given theirs after the tsunami. He didn’t know us, we weren’t buying anything from him, but as our well-fed, holidaying first world selves were drinking tea and getting a massage he thanked us profusely. He summed up for me why I had not felt any reason not to trust the people we met and what a wonderful thing appreciation is, for what we have and what others give us. The Sri Lankans gave us so much; jumping in a tuk tuk and asking a stranger to recommend the best off the beaten track beach or restaurant, being shown through physically and culturally amazing places, shaking the hand of a Buddhist teacher and getting some insight into his – and his students- lives, watching 6 year old entrepreneurs rap dance for cash on the top of a mountain, learning about cricket and curries and their history and beliefs are the moments that make me want to travel for the rest of my life. I love that I have had the opportunity to be in places where I can be so trusting in the hands of the locals and it’s one thing I can take with me when I go home in the hope I can help someone love my country as much as I do.  And when I meet a Sri Lankan in Melbourne or Darwin or Jan Juc, I’ll shake their hand and thank them on behalf of their country for making my heart smile again when it had been a little concerned. 

Sri Lankan Hijackings

So, we have managed to be hijacked three-four times in two days since we arrived in Sri Lanka.

The difference is, unlike India, these hijackings did not involve:

•      Food poisoning resulting in shitting and vomiting simultaneously
• Being driven two hours to buy illicit alcohol for my host family
• Being cornered and plied with dodgy alcohol and asked if I wanted to watch blue movies with same host family.
•  Eating at a leper colony. Food made by lepers.

 And unlike Vietnam we were not stolen away after our excellent tuk tuk tour of  Saigon to have a higher price demanded or else risk being abandoned in a very seedy, non-touristy area in 35 degree heat and 213 % humidity whilst jet-lagged and, again, confused.

Instead….

We arrived at Colombo airport with a severe case of dry bikkies due to the bright ideas that the first night of holidays brings. We had hijacked ourselves – instead of buying Toblerone and Chubby Sticks and tobacco at Duty Free we detoured….Announced: “Hey:  “I’ve been sick for a week but it’s officially holidays so let’s pay $90 each for a mix of vodka, gin and mojitos before 9 + hours of travel….Instead of buying water to drink on the plane let’s stay at the bar and buy some sort of other ridiculously expensive drink… that’s an absolutely excellent idea.”

5 hours after said mix of toxins and we were delayed in Dubai airport for 2 hours. And no alcohol to get rid of a chronic case of the D.Ts. It was quite bad. We hated the world a bit. And everyone in it.

Aaaanywaaay..

Arrived at Colombo at sometime between 10 pm the night before and 8 am the day after tomorrow. No idea what day or time zone or place in the world we were. And clearly we looked it because we were accosted in the very quiet, civilized airport full of tourists who clearly looked less befuddled than we. “Yes maam, you need taxi? Driver? Bus? Tractor?”

“Umm…Where are we? And do you know where we might be going?”

So instead of getting a taxi to the train station we ended up with a private driver all the way to Kandy – one of the best decisions we have ever made – we got to stop for fresh tropical fruit, sleep and arrive at Kandy 3 hours before the train. In our travel stupor we organized the same driver organized to pick us up the day after next to take us to Sigiryia rock. A supposed must. Ok.

So we spent our extra hours mixing duty free vodka into soda bottles and drinking by the pool on a national holiday when alcohol consumption was banned. It was an awesome night of enlightened banter. Epiphanies included.

On awakening after 28 hour of vodka and jet-lagged induce sleep we went for a walk around the lake. Only to be accosted by a giant lizard and a toothless, fanatical Buddhist cricket fan Sri Lankan who wanted to point out the very huge and obvious temple we should pray to. Yep, we see it. And we should also follow him to his school because he is also a teacher- of a school that our fellow Australian Ricky Ponting supports and recently in the last ten years visited. Righto.

Hijacked, at least not by ourselves so with no sense of guilt, we had a tour of his school where the students were away for the weekend but the monkeys were keen as chips for any kind of action. We were shown the one outdoor classroom for 1200 students – it did have a very large blackboard where Ricky Ponting did some kind of speech, the bathroom-sized kitchen and the Ricky Ponting built bubble taps that the monkeys had destroyed. We were then led to the shop where we could – and would- buy beautiful fabrics that the students had managed to screen print without Ricky Ponting. And buy tickets to some kind of dancing festival, which the teacher may or may not be partaking in and which may or may not involve monkeys and elephants. “You will see baby elephant dance, monkey dance, butterfly dance, cobra dance!” An hour, 3 cups of tea and shitloads of cash later we got back to the hotel, collapsing by the pool. Hard. Luckily we thought best to assume the tickets were valid and went to the festival to see some seriously excellent traditional dancing, although all animals were evident only via interpretive dance. Not in any kind of real world as we had clearly left that behind. Thank the gods.

Next day we hopped in the car to drive an hour and arrive at…a Herb n Spice Garden. Huh?  The car stopped, we hopped out bewildered – this was not a rock – and an extremely animated man told us all about the plants and herbal medicines possible for piles, gall stones, tinnitus, diabetes, cholesterol and other ailments we had no experience of. Dude- what fixes a case of the too many vodkas? A severe case of  What The Fuck Am I Doing? And Where and When? But he had a Sri Lankan version of a Jim Carrey face – it was so dynamic and mesmerizing that we walked out with creams for hair removal, colds and hair moisturizer – in case the hair remover didn’t work at least it will be super soft.

Eventually, after visiting gardens and a temple – amazing and beautiful and still a little unsure of how n why we got there – we arrived at Sigriyra Rock. Where another super animated Captain of the Hijack opened the car door for us and took us on a very educational, historical tour of the foundations of the crazy-arsed glamorous castle of a dude who killed his father and therefore had to have a very well- protected fortress that could also hold and bathe 500- women. And the guests who weren’t his relations out to kill him. It was such a beautiful place and without our unexpected guide we might not have seen that the very old wall paintings of women had “very big boobs” or that the painter had made a couple of mistakes so that some originally had three nipples and three boobs. Very culturally significant in the history of Sri Lanka. We might also have not appreciated the truly awe-inspiring effort it must have taken to build such a huge palace on the top of a massive mountain. And we would not have had so many photos taken of us sweaty faced, hard of breath and clearly terrified of the heights we were climbing on rickety stairs and tiny, steep steps. It is a really stunning place made more so by the stories he told us- with genuine pride- of the way it once was.

In just a few days we felt like we really had experienced the real and dynamic Sri Lanka. So the happy news is that, unlike some places where to be hijacked can be a little scary, so far our Sri Lankan experience suggests we should just say yes to all the happy, friendly peeps here and all will be pretty fucking cool. A little confusing perhaps, but cool.

AFL Withdrawal

It is 2.15 on a Friday afternoon. The students have left. One of the benefits of working here is that we finish early on Fridays, we can go by 2pm if not sneak out even earlier.  What is not a benefit is that sometimes, like today, we have to do PD on Friday afternoons and SATURDAYS!!!!!

This sucks arse big time, just to lose a Saturday sucks arse but what really sucks arse is that tomorrow is the 29^th September.  The PD starts at 9.30 am, exactly the time that the live coverage of the AfL Grand Final begins.

I’m not a massive footy head. I have friends and family who have followed the whole season with far more dedication than I have. But I really like watching live games and I really like watching the GF.  I really like watching Buddy Franklin (and maaaany other individuals; Harry O’Brien, Eddie Betts, Juddy, all the Joey’s legends….but they’re unfortunately not playing) Who wouldn’t enjoy the spectacle, usually it is a very social event, lots of people, alcohol, food, alcohol, yelling at the TV, more food and alcohol. Sometimes people fall off things, or over things- not necessarily because they’re cheering hard.  And it’s Aussie. It’s our tradition, my tradition, to watch it with drink in hand trying really hard to concentrate despite feeding my very short attention span vodka. To feel a sense of mateship and appreciate big, beautifully shaped men chase a ball and each other displaying athleticism, grace and violence. My favorite place to watch it was at my friends’ house in Jan Juc. The match coincided with Gordo’s birthday, so he generally had a bottle of birthday grog to dispose of.  But he was not always the one to fall over. We’d have great food and great peeps and big discussions, about footy and surf and the holidays and the dread of term 4 and I loved it. In the early days people would continue till they fell off or over things, climbed things, got lost or passed out. Later days involved eating and drinking, women chasing kids around while men developed tunnel vision and pretended they didn’t have partners or kids. One year we all ended up lying around in that curious stage of long term drinking that makes you feel both drunk and hungover at the same time, watching Tele-Tubbies with some of the kids. And eating chips and chocolate and cheese that had been sitting around all day. But always we were together and sharing the experience and loving footy.

And last year I got to go to the Grand Final for the first, and probably the last, time in my life. It’s hard to get tickets so I tried really hard to appreciate it even though it was last minute and ridiculously freezing for September and I had been on a drinking binge in Juc the night before. I had to drive back to Melbourne through hail then try and find as many warm clothes as I could hiding at mum and dad’s and as a result I went to the Collingwood-Cats GF wearing tights, trackie pants, hiking boots, a thermal, a flanny, gloves and a ski jacket. I looked like I had just emerged from hiking trip through the Grampians that involved mad Bunyips dragging me through the bush then getting me drunk. Luckily, my last minute spare ticket was for the corporate section where all the guys were in suits and ties and the women were in designer skinny jeans, sky high heels, perfect hair and makeup and none of them looked like they’d been partying with mad Bunyips.

Once the siren went however and I saw some of my old Joey’s boys running through the banner, and I knocked back three pints of cider, I loved every freezing minute of it and will remember it forever. Especially ‘cause the Cats beat the Pies.

So last Saturday, after having had a pretty hard couple of months (no, that does not include beaching in Lagos..), I got to watch the semi-final with some fellow Aussies while we sat around chopping a thousand kilos of tomatoes, eggplants, onions and garlic to make relish. Earlier I had made the odd FB comment that I started watching the footy in my undies (and that Buddy Franklin was welcome in there anytime..), I’d like to clarify that was before I went visiting these new friends…Once dressed and as respectable as it gets I went to the relish extravaganza and had one of the best mornings I’ve had since I’ve been in Turkey and it alleviated some of my homesickness. Because I am homesick, which has caught me by surprise, I miss Australia and my life there. I miss the island and the random insanity of it. I miss my friends and my clifftop track. I miss the open spaces and the bush and the beach. I miss my volatile Pajero. I miss driving and the Tiwi dinner club and the food and the coffee. I miss gluten free bread and the quiet and the stars. But last Saturday, hanging with some really cool new friends watching the footy and bawling my eyes out form the onions was Aussie awesome. So I was very excited about being able to do something similar tomorrow. Instead, I will be sitting in a conference hall, listening to really loud Turkish being translated into really loud English through headphones telling me all about Learning styles. And by “listening” I mean streaming the footy and checking FB and my emails and maybe writing another blog. I am a Global Learner after all, I learn best by doing more than one at once. So I guess I’ll learn a lot. And you bastards in Oz or watching the GF somewhere in the world better FB me so I don’t feel so homesick! And Go Hawks!

The Necessities.

Well. It has been an interesting “orientation” to my new school and home.

The school campus is a long way from anywhere. It’s on the Asian side of Istanbul which is now the “cool” side because it is very much a less touristy region than the Euro side. Because of the isolation we have to rely on school service buses which go to various places at various times or use the local buses – we haven’t had time to get onto those yet, so I can describe that inevitable getting lost experience at a later time. So sometimes the service buses go to the local shopping centre, it has supermarkets, an “Electro World”, some restaurants and clothes shops, you can get most things you need, although not a lot of things you want.. There are various other shopping centers such as IKEA where everyone buys everything to furnish their homes so they all look the same. They also run to other suburbs and into the Euro side some days. This means of course that:

 a) It’s great that we have our own, free transport system and we should shut the hell up and not complain and

b) We are totally reliant on a bus service in terms of where and when we go and when we return. Which has made a few of us feel very much like caged, restless, ungrateful guinea pigs.

There is always a taxi option but they are notoriously sleezy and not really any more likely to know where you’re going than you are. Which means it can take ages to get anywhere and often involves the driver pulling over 3-4 times to ask other taxi drivers, random pedestrians etc to get directions. Sometimes they even make phone calls – god know who to.

So during this period of orientation we had to work through a week – including our weekend- listening to a baffling amount of information that we will never remember about how we have to pay for phones being registered and for screen doors if we want to keep the monster mozzies out while not getting paid for six weeks and not getting paid for the exhausting orientation period at all. About which buses we could catch to places we can’t remember the name of and also can’t remember why they suggested we go there in the first place. Is there a fresh food market? Is it where we catch a ferry to the Euro side? Is it where we take our phones to be registered? Is there a fucking BAR????

And soooo sleep deprived. Because one of the advantages of living here is that it’s so close to the new airport – we can fly to lots of places if we ever get paid and get to have a weekend where we don’t work. So with this advantage comes the constant, constant, all day and night despite supposed time restrictions noise rushing, buzzing, roar of planes over our heads. The varying degrees of noise and proximity passing over head reminds you of either travel or to duck the fuck under your desk or bed because this mother is about to land immediately on top of you.

Then, after the working days and weeks there was the constant need to go shopping for essentials like sheets, towels, fans, toilet paper, food ( if there was enough time) . Racing around Ikea and huge supermarkets like we were in some kind of demented trolley filling race yelling at each other as we raced passed: Where did you get the clothes horse? Has anyone found peanut butter?  Coathangers? Coathangers? I NEED COATHANGERS!!!!! Scanning passing trollies with fear of the forgotten or jealousy over something someone else found that you know you will not have time to get. In fatigue falling into the Ikea deathtrap of buying crazy shit you don’t need even more readily. Nope, don’t have any sheets or pillows but do have a food screen thing to put over cakes I don’t bake or eat. 

Seriously, I don’t really love shopping at the best of times, but this kind of shopping under time constraints when exhausted and confused and not speaking the language was pretty overwhelming.

But now. I have sheets and towels. I have a phone that works and essentials in the fridge – like 4 types of hot chilli sauce, dried chillies and ginger..I have coffee. I have vodka. I have a heap of Lush products I didn’t really need but smell amazing. And there is a chance, a reasonable chance, that next weekend I don’t have to go shopping at all, the plan is to get shitfaced Friday night, go visit an island and lie around and swim all day Saturday and veg out in front of the new TV drinking wine on Sunday. No shops, no buses, bliss. 

To See or not to See?

In Essaouira, coastal Morocco, there are “wallists”. These are young men who lean on walls or wander laps around the Medina or kick the soccer ball around the beach trying to get the attention of a suitable woman. A not-Moroccan woman, perhaps a little older, perhaps cashed up enough to provide some apartment living in exchange for being half of a couple. There are a few other terms for this type of “career”. These current wallists obviously haven’t been too successful, it’s towards the end of the tourist season here and there and they’re still wandering around apartment/girlfriend-less. I think it’s to do with the stupid hat one dread-locked guy is wearing and his poor wallist friends are suffering from his shit fashion sense. I have not found them particularly appealing, and they, clearly have not found me so, there have been no calls of “bon jour”, “Hola” or “Excuse me” that pepper the street as I walk by and vendors anticipate getting some dirhams out of my wallet. Which is far more likely to happen than me putting them up in an apartment.

I think the general feeling was summed up yesterday on the beach, I was with a few girls watching some women (Aussie and English) do an arty sandy thing on the beach – I can think of a lot better ways to spend a Sunday morning but no one is drinking here so I think that’s why people end up doing sand art. Anyway, a Moroccan guy came up uninvited and looked us – with a total lack of subtlety- up and down. For quite an uncomfortably long time. Then he announced his judgment that the curvy blonde to my left was “The best” and tried to encourage her to consider being his 4^th wife. She politely declined. Then he turned to the girl next to me who had “beautiful milky skin” and tried his fabulous wit and charm on her. Both these girls are already married to Moroccan men. So he turned to me: “You! (pinching me around my stomach) Not much camels for you! Too skinny – you help me get one of these girls”. I less politely declined being his pimp. He was not impressed with me at all. Seriously? At least I’m not cruising strangers on the beach for spouse number 5 (as if one isn’t ever ENOUGH!!). 

So I am not particularly camel-worthy. Which is fine, I am not a curvy blonde with milky skin but I do know I have a few other qualities that might be appreciated. I guess the problem is you might have to get to know me to see them, they might not be evident on an initial meeting – especially while travelling when I look like I have slept in the sand with a stray cat bunked down in my hair. And this is the catch 22. We don’t want to be superficial and make judgments based on looks. We certainly don’t want to be judged on our looks. But we are.

I have just read Cate Moran’s How To Be A Woman (a must read for all women – and most men), a modern feminist’s “rant” (in the word’s of wise Erin). She ponders the fact that it is mainly women booking in for plastic surgery or some sort of re-jigging/re-youthing of their looks. She believes that not only are women doing this because they are so concerned about their looks, or losing their attractiveness, but that most men don’t seem to notice if anything has been done – so it is, in fact, not only scary in what it suggests about a woman’s identity and value being placed on her looks, but also that it is kind of pointless if they’re doing it for the opposite sex. Of course we really know all beauty adjustments are really done for ourselves. Or for the judgment of other women. She also points out that a lot of re-jigging happens post fertility time in a woman’s life, a connection between society’s perception of us as most attractive – and valuable- in our fertile years. Moran also declares her refusal to have anything re-jigged or re-youthed – she will take glory in hard won wrinkles and sags which are the marks of her very interesting life and motherhood. And I applaud her for that.

But.

I wonder if it is indeed an easier declaration made from one’s home with children and a husband who love you with all the sags and scars and wonky bits. For others it is a harder job to dismiss how other people perceive you. Because we are summed up superficially. I do it : She’s a blonde ditz. He’s a meathead. I wish I didn’t. I love that travel and new places mean you get stuck with people you wouldn’t normally choose to spend time with and discover a whole world of amazingly interesting people. But we still give people the once over. We eye them up and down – whether it’s in terms of possible friends, lovers or colleagues. We all judge people on their camel-worthyness. The wallists are relying on their looks for a means of living and that sounds like a shit gig yet to an extent, most of us have to do that at some part in our lives. We have to dress a certain way for work to be taken seriously (very much a necessity for women) or choose to look a particular way so that those with similar interests will recognize us (Ah Ha! Helloooo fellow Emo dude!! Let’s get together and compare the most effective deodorant when wearing black leather in summer). We primp to attract others.  This is why teenagers desperately believe in love at first sight – that someone will immediately see beyond their looks and awkwardness and insecurities and blemishes and see and love all the amazing inner qualities they have.  That dude on the beach did not see mine but that’s OK cause all I saw were his flaws too – and I don’t want to be traded for a camel anyway. But I will try and be less judgmental and hope that means I get to know more people and be a more inner camel-worthy person as a result. Don’t get me wrong, I won’t be giving up eye-liner or lip gloss, the (very) occasional skirt n heels but ultimately I know- we all do- regardless of what you declare or decide, what you nip or tuck, other than being as nice and healthy as you can, running a rake through your hair every now and again, brushing you or teeth and slapping on a big smile, you really can’t do much else about the way you look anyway.  Camels or no camels.

Un Momento Por Favor

 Which is not Portuguese but one of my favorite sayings.

A friend of mine has on his wall a photo of himself inside this huge barrel wave. On a surfboard of course. Not just hanging around drinking coffee. I love the picture because it is a picture of someone who is totally, one hundred percent, in the moment. As a photo he is snapped still but not passive, clearly fully involved in a moment of amazing.

And being fully in, yet alone really experiencing a moment, is hard. We tend to be either regretting/reflecting on a past moment or worrying/looking forward to a future moment and meanwhile we miss all the potentially amazing moments we’re actually in. I’ve been trying very deliberately for years to appreciate the present moments, not necessarily because they’re good but because they’re my life and that’s the only one I’ve got.  Also because another ridiculously insightful friend told me that any time spent regretting or wishing (reflecting is OK!) on the past was a complete waste of time because no matter what we will never, ever, ever change it. I always knew this but forgot it quite a bit, more out of habit probably – so many mornings with the beer-niggles conditions you a bit to close your eyes against the recent past and wince. Not so often now thanks Obi Wan Hock.

I’m much better at it than I used to be, in the past my thoughts would flash around so fast I couldn’t even be in the same time zone as my moments, but a bit of age, a bit of suffering, a shitload of travel and some yoga breathing means I can really appreciate a good moment. My most recent favorite: diving into the amazing, croc free blue ocean of Portugal despite being warned it is the coldest locals have experienced in a billion years. HA HA! I mocked, I’m Victorian! I have swum in Warrnambool in the winter! So in I ran and the cold sucked all the air out of me and gave me the equivalent of a brain freeze in all of my internal organs. There was a moment of sharp, painful, exhilarating, mind blowing cold. And I burst out of the water laughing and choking and spluttering and snorting like a mermaid on crack.  It was a moment of feeling totally alive and alove with the world.

But it still ain’t easy, my last session of yoga was about being very present in the moment and breathing through any pain in your body– the idea being that you only feel pain as it’s leaving your body. After three days of travelling and many hours of trying to sleep horizontally while being vertical there was a bit of pain to get the fuck out of my body. Which was great, so I was breathing and accepting and almost asleep while sitting up again when:

Brain: Hmmm, I wonder if they’re doing those fish tacos at The Green Room again today, I’m pretty hungry, I could go a couple for lunch.

Yoga teacher: If you feel your mind beginning to fill with thoughts, go back to the breathing, feel the pain and empty your mind of thoughts.

Brain: Fish tacos fish tacos fish tacos.

So a little bit more work to be done. To totally overuse a metaphor – which I very much enjoy doing- I’m thinking that a moment is a bit like a really cool bar with comfy couches and chairs and stuff. Sometimes we stick our heads in to see who’s there, sometimes we walk straight through to the dunnies, sometimes we prop at the bar and watch the TV screen on the wall. There might be those who stumble through and don’t even realize due to overindulging. I would like to be in a big old beanbag in the middle, arse fully settled on and reassuringly supported by the beans, drink in hand. I wouldn’t mind if I was in the way really, or if someone tripped over me, it could make for an interesting conversation (in my metaphor moments I won’t get punched in the face for being annoying). I’d like to be able to see and speak to everyone if I want of just watch them hanging out. I’d like to be totally in it and seeing and feeling all of it.

So while I sit in yet another airport drinking a really ordinary coffee I am fully prepared and on the verge of rip roaring excitement to experience a few barrel moments in Morocco. I am going to take a big yoga breath and suck it all in thanks very much.

Super Me

So today I went to see the new Spiderman movie. Much better than I expected after the lowlight that was the last one. And I was thinking; it is such and odd idea – to have spider superpowers but they are clearly extremely cool in dire situations, or when wanting to impress a romantic interest.

And all the way home I wondered what kind of superpowers I would like to have.

In our early twenties my cousins, brother and I once had a very interesting, very creative, very animated, very long, very entertaining and clearly very drunk discussion about what our superpowers were – what we had to offer at that point in our lives that none of the rest of us did. Then we had to explain the wonderful, awe inspiring and useful things we could do with that superpower. Mine was my driving license – I was the only one at that point who had one. I had a long list of reasons this was a fabulous and necessary superpower but to be honest it was never really going to be the stuff of Marvel inspiration, I have never been a reliable driver. "Exciting" some might say, "adventurous",  "dangerous" others might have complained. I can’t be relied on to concentrate for long periods of time, stay sober, follow road rules and speed limits or to stay away from the wheel after drinking….And for someone who doesn’t really cry a lot I have been known to cry very hard while driving – and big tears create serious visual obstacles. A pissy, speed loving, seatbeltless, distracted, belligerent, blubbering, irresponsible road menace does not a Marvel comic superhero make. It actually makes for a character who should be written out of a storyline for being dangerous to herself and others.  I would be the villain run over by the hero or zapped out of the car into another dimension where there were no cars, just looooong roads that had to be walked – or with really low cars but all roads paved with continual speed humps - as eternal punishment for my evil road doings.

So, what kind of super powers would I like?

The ability to fly would be best – like Superman being able to turn back time by flying reeeeeaaallly fast around the world, I would

a) Go back and erase a few tequila-fuelled misdemeanors and shit guy choices and

b) Get to my friends n family ASAP when I need to be known and loved and when I really miiiiiissss them!

Some kind of incredible martial artsy type fighting skills because

a) You look cool and

b) You look cool in leather.

Immortality-because I generally usually have a load of fun and don’t want it to stop ever. Plus you can be like 201 years old and still pick up young hot guys and not be the oldest person on the dance floor.

Telepathy-so the time zone which means I’m Facebooking everyone to see what’s going on in the middle of the Aussie night and feeling like a total loner won’t be necessary. I’ll know exactly what’s going on with ya’ll.

The renewal ability like in the new Spiderman-so when you have a little accident due to :

a) Tequila

b) Awesome sex

c) Drunk sex

d) Being older than you think when exercising

e) Being older than you think

Means you won’t be bruised and stiff and sore and confused but instead totally new within hours if not sooner. 

And super driving skills so you can never ever be a bad road user.

So for now that’s enough super powers I would like. The next installment will require some further reflection on - full circle – the superpowers I already possess. This self-discovery is likely to happen during the yoga sessions I have just found where you’re only allowed to focus on your breath and no thoughts are allowed to enter your mind whatsoever. During this time I’m going to focus on my superpowers. Along with stretching and strengthening this will be good value for the money. Look out Marvel, I’m coming!