Tag: family

Drive me crazy.

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If somebody asked me about the benefits of long car trips, I would ask whether the positive gains would extend beyond reaching a destination. Last night Potter and I survived another 10-hour car trip, tempers still intact. It’s not always the case.

We live eight hours from the closest family members in a place where air fares are still at 1980s prices. So long drives are as avoidable as getting sunbburnt at the cricket. 

Yesterday’s mission began without promise. Potter lounged away with just his hangover for company, insisting he wanted to leave the next day. Compromise was not a word in my dictionary as I stormed around cleaning, packing and insisting we were going to leave imminently. 

The fun truly began once we hit the long stretches of red dirt, with just a few stray emus and some bad music to keep us company. Boots sat in the back opening his mouth wide enough to impress a dentist as he drank in the freedom of being on the road and the promise of cooler eastern temperatures. In the cab, Potter and I found ample ways to amuse ourselves. Our favourite game is a rather complicated affair called Goat. In this stimulating game the passenger and driver compete to be the first to spot a goat. They express this by yelling Goat at a reasonable volume. Bloody exciting, that game.

Often I will read to Ben while he is driving. Now, isn’t that sweet. 

On a trip to the Windorah Yabbie Races earlier this year we had an extra passenger, let’s call her Smella, and she introduced us to a game that required cognitive effort. It begins with the sentence ‘daddy’s gunna buy you a diamond ring’, then the first player must make up an ending to the sentence. For example, ‘and if that diamond  ring don’t shine, daddy’s gunna buy you a ball of twine.’ That continues on and one. It’s highly entertaining. We gave it a shot yesterday but it was interrupted by a badly-timed fart that was much funnier than the real  game. The confined space reglations were consultated about the legalities of flatulence on long trips. For the record, the rules state that if all passengers are participating then no retribution can be dished out.

And to think that this is the fun side of the car ride.

Things really head downhill when the mumbles begin. No one in the car can be bothered with enunciation so the car is filled with an increasing din of ‘pardon’, ‘huh’, ‘what’, ‘what did you say’ and then finally ‘speak f******* properly’. Usually we’ll sit in silence for about 10kms before the perpetrator of such impatience feels bad enough to sneak a hand onto the other’s knee. Instantly the spat is forgotten. There is no place for grudges with at least four hours to go.

Then there is the passenger ettiquitte, which includes advising the driver on speed limits and rogue wildlife. Last night I learned that yelling the new speed limit and smacking the upper arm is as well received as food poisoning at Christmas.

But let’s not forget the good points. One of the most glorious things about these trips is the sense of teamwork. With just 40km to go, when the moon is sitting far above the horizon and the driver’s yawns are more frequent than the roos jumping in front of the vehicle, that’s when you realise that you’re in it together and the company you had was a million times better than doing it alone. The mumbling probably wasn’t too bad.

And then the next morning, when you wake up 10 hours east of home with family to make you breakfast, it was all worth it.

The art of eating mandarins while driving.

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My 1905 kilometre journey to Charleville did not begin well.

It was just a small fire under the hood. No big deal.

My nose, which has put many trackers to shame, sensed something was amiss as I climbed the first large hill out of Tamworth. My spirits sank as the bushfire-in-the-car smell overwhelmed my sensitive nasal passages. A brief look under the hood told me that cars are worse than goldfish. They need constant attention.

In my three-month absence, and I admit I had even forgotten that I owned a car while I was riding trains in China, some rodents had made themselves a little nest in my engine. The rat poo and other anonymous debris made great kindling next to my engine.

I dithered over whether I needed to pour water over the fire, or whether water would harm my vintage car. The plastic spoon I found nearby melted when it touched the powerful engine, so I found two sticks and scraped the junk out. Two sticks can help in many situations, I’m told.

After such a superb beginning, the Tamworth to Coffs Harbour leg was quite relaxing. It can be done in four hours, but I took five, soaking up the scenery and generally dragging the chain. Occasionally I’d look at the speedo and realise I was going 20 or 30 under the speed limit. I could barely care, I was so relaxed.

The beauty of my road trip is that I’ll get to see some crazy relatives and mates on my way.

In Coffs Harbour I crashed with my beachy cousins. There were a few beautiful moments. I found myself screaming Jet lyrics into an unplugged microphone while my 14-year-old cousin strummed his acoustic guitar. His grogeous sister was at death’s door in the next room, but no-one minded the impromptu air-guitar championships hosted next door.

The moment reminded me that families can crash through walls of inhibitions to take you back to your roots, your childhood.

James even took some time out of his hectic schedule to wake me up with some Green Day after I overslept in my uber-laid-back frame of mind. A leisurely cup of tea with my beautiful aunt, which could have been extended to three or four brews, ensured I was at least an hour late departing.

I was consumed with a master-of-my-own-destiny sensation as I sped up the highway towards Queensland. I was empowered by my beast, knowing I could turn the wheels in any direction. As I cruised out of town I imagined I was off on a trip around Australia. Unfortunately my dismal bank balance took Uluru off the agenda.

I managed a quick visit with my cousin on the Gold Coast, catching up with her daughter who seems to be growing up faster than chickens on steroids. A few nights ago, on the Sunshine Coast, my brother satisfied my need to eat steak with mashed potatoes and mushrooms smothered in cream and spices. He is a brilliant cook and also knows how to play doof-doof music just a few decibels above bearable.

I chilled with a few mates in Brisbane, luxuriating in the hospitality of my mates’ couches. My detox has been hampered slightly with all of the festivities. However, I have managed to trade beer for antioxidant-rich red wine.

Food-wise, I’ve continued catching up on the avocados and cheese that I craved in China. I also tracked down a bag of mandarins at a road-side stall near Bellingen. I imagined the fruit would be sweet and luscious, a perfect companion for the long drive. Instead the citruses evoked a face similar to someone eating dirty socks in a badly-planned bet. Sour fruit makes great company, I found. Getting through the bag of mandarins certainly helped to kill time between Grafton and the Gold Coast.

If I was really peckish, and things did get a little tight when I finished the bag of mandarins and the carrots and the banana, I had a secret stash of vegies on the passenger floor.

My beautiful father had gifted me two trays of lettuce plants to take to my new home. He assured me that tending the plants would be good for my soul. For me, they kept my hunger paranoia at bay, but did not offer much companionship.

The inner-nerd that I tuck away discreetly got some time in the sun as I tuned in to ABC local radio. I felt incredibly grown up listening to Richard Fidler quiz successful scientists and artists.

It has been a long journey already.  I’ve loved having the time to contemplate hard issues, such as why the Australian pollies cannot seem to figure out how to stop refugee boats sinking in Australian waters. Sometimes the people in Canberra seem as useless as a packet of nicotine patches for a non-smoker, but I understand the issues are more complex than sticking to the speed limit. Still, it’s heartbreaking. Then, after a bout of anger I’d wonder why some people read fiction while others watch documentaries. I also spent a lot of time contemplating how mandarins become sweet and why others create wrinkles.

It’s been another blissful week, really, and the perfect way to end my three-month hiatus.

Tomorrow, the trip continues, with a ten-hour stint towards my new home where I plan to encounter many more adventures. I hope this one does not begin with a fire under the hood.

I’m certain, however, that the fire in my belly will keep the wheels turning. Stay tuned.

A delicious slice of reality.

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“Oh, you want a Power Pat do you,” my dad asks Bubble, one of my folks’ two new cats that I am not at all jealous of. The other, of course, is named Squeak.

A wicked grin spreads across his face as he rubs the cat down with a vigour I’ve see him employ while chopping wood. The feline purrs as if it’s just spotted a milk tanker with a slow leak.

We’ve already giggled with mum about her daggy house-clothes and discussed whether the neighbour a few farms down is buying wood with her pocket money.

It’s hilarious post-sausage-sandwich entertainment.

As I soak up the winter sun, just east of Tamworth, I notice how sweet it is to be home, sitting and laughing with my beautiful parents.

The final few days in Shanghai were impressive with Tsingtao and tequila by night, dumplings and noodles by day.

My local mate from India treated me to the best street food of my trip. I’d wandered aimlessly through the French Concession with some new pals from Denmark and Russia. We’d watched the dancers dance, the kites fly and the musicians fill Fuxing Park with their Oriental tunes.

It was the perfect goodbye to my tumultuous love affair with the Far East.

I was torn at the airport; excited about wrapping my arms around my Nanna, sharing tea with my girlfriends (it’s been a complete boy-fest in China with few female companions) and curious about my new job. But I hated the idea of  myadventure ending.

A well-timed email from my ever-pragmatic mother informed me that I would “come down to earth with a bang when you get back here.” The promise of avocadoes and brie drove me toward the departure gate.

And, it has been splendid.

The sunrise, after my 5am arrival in Sydney, was one of the best I’ve ever seen. It reminded me of Australia’s bountiful offerings. I’m lucky to call this country home.

My Nanna’s hug a few hours later was more warming than a glass of vintage liquor. She squeezed me hard, noting the six kilos I’ve carefully collected on my already-voluptuous frame. “You need to do some shrinking,” she instructed me.

“Aw, c’mon Nanna,” I pleaded with her. “It just shows I’ve had a great time.”

She frowned at me, clearly unmoved by my grin.

“Men love women with curves,” I cried, clearly clutching at straws.

“Not that many,” she laughed at me. I winked at her, delighted by her cheeky company.

I cooked a lamb roast, ate my (enhanced) body weight in salad and we looked at photos, lazing around like well-fed pandas.

Coming home ain’t so bad, I thought.

The dollar issue is a sore point, but my finances are so sorry I’ll just skim over that briefly. The cost of a bottle of milk is the equivalent of a night’s accommodation in China. That roughly equates to about 6 beers.

The Australian political landscape is also a sorry sight.

But, what Australia lacks in political smarts, it makes up for in the deli section. I decided to continue my train affair, broadening my rail horizons with a ride to Tamworth. It was the perfect time to catch up on some cheese-eating with my old pal Costello blue.

I luxuriated in the stark open paddocks with Dorothea Mackellar ringing in my ears. The contrasts to the obsessively-cultivated Chinese landscapes were fascinating. The stretching plains screamed to me that I was home.

My cheese-cravings were obsolete by the time I hugged Ma and Pa at the station, tears brushing at the corners of our eyes.

The detox plans I’d cleverly crafted a few nights ago flew out the window as I took in the contents of my parents’ cellar. We sat by the fire talking and laughing, as Dad’s queries about my trip became increasingly inquisitive. Luckily, my honest answers impressed my mischievous father.

Today, we cleaned and chilled, happy just to be back together. Ma even attached her halo and did my washing! I called a few mates and went for a jog. Pa and I rode bikes around the lucerne paddock and made plans to go fishing tomorrow, after our Mexican feast.

Now, as I sit in front of the fire at my folks’ pad with a glass of Pinot and Dad vigorously patting the cat, China feels like a hazy memory. That bang my Mum predicted I’d face – I’m determined to brush past it, my resilience honed after 10 weeks on the road.

The next adventure is about to begin. And, I’m certain there will be another adventure after that.

Reality: it’s what you make it.