Tag: travel

Thank god for red wine.

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There is one pal who unquestioningly accompanies me on all of my journeys out here. It’s Shiraz. She’s been so supportive.

On these chilly winter nights when it’s just me sitting around my tv-less lounge room in a dashing ensemble of tights and a poncho – mind, I don’t want to sound too pathetic here, I’m not that bloody lonely – she will come and sit with me, bringing a beer-goggle shine to the room.

There is only a small smattering of flies in my otherwise perfect outback ointment. The job is bonzer, I have a stunning jogging track that I share with the kangaroos on the river and my house has a mighty fine feel about it, even without the beer goggles.

But I haven’t had hordes of lasses or lads lining up at the bar to be my friend, as I expected. I thought there would be no easier place to make some new mates. In Funnamulla it took mere minutes before I was ensconced with the curly-haired Josephine laughing over embarrassing school stories. I found myself a pseudo mum just a few days later.

It’s a different story for Charleville. I don’t even have a nickname for the town yet. It’s scandalous!

My best mate here is the journo from the other paper. I thought I’d hate him on principal, but he’s actually a nice guy and I’m hardly in a position to be choosey. I’ve also developed a soft spot for Steve from the Thai restaurant and Fred from Fat Freddy’s burger joint. I get along well with Rob from the produce store and my ol’ favourite Graham at the hardware store.

The school is a gold mine. It’s my Everest. It sits there, taunting me with its bounty of fun-loving, ridiculously good-looking young folk. Occasionally I get invited through the cast iron gates and I get to see what I’m missing out on. But I haven’t managed to wangle a dinner party invitation yet.

At one of my missions into the school, it was for a story on distance education kids gathering from their isolated bush properties, I found myself quizzing the teacher in a similar manner to the barristers I’ve been studying in court.

“So how long have you been in Charleville,” I asked the art teacher. I elicited that she’s been here six years, loves the place, watches the footy on the weekend, drinks at the pub which is scarily close to my pad and she has a cosy group of mates.

“Oh I’m so pleased to hear that,” I can recall pandering to her. “I’m just new in town and haven’t made many friends yet,” I told her, pathetically searching out some sort of companionship like a forlorn fox. “I’m sure you’ll love it,” she told me with a disgusting amount of cheer, clearly missing my searching enquiries.

I do bloody love it here, I thought. I’d just like someone for Shiraz and I to share our risottos and cheese platters with.

Perhaps my friend-making standards are too high. It seems a mockingly short time ago that I was lamenting making too many friends and having to put up with all the teary goodbyes. What a woe!

It’s a confronting struggle for me. Friendships are often easier for me to make than spaghetti bolognaise. But that was the point of coming here – I was craving a challenge.

Of course, my friend-making machine is slightly inhibited by my status in the town. As the reporter from the local rag I am definitely not trustworthy, to some, I’m flattered by the lashings of suspicion poured upon me by many locals. “We can’t talk to you, you’ll just put whatever we say in that paper,” they tell me.

“Will I ever make any friends,” I begged of Robert today. “Nah, you’ll be right,” he assured me.

And the people in Charleville are, on balance, brilliantly friendly. One geezer in the street yesterday dipped his Akubra and said “g’day sweetheart,” with genuine sentiment. And when I’m at the footy – which surprisingly is now the highlight of my life, but more on that later – or at any event which requires me to squint my brow and squiggle away in my notebook, people are absurdly friendly and helpful.

It’s boggling me, frankly.

In an attempt to cope with the lack of new pals I’ve taken to reinvigorating time-worn friendships. I often find myself scouring the facebook chat bar for company. When I lived in BrisVegas I never opened that bar. I couldn’t shake the fear that I might get stuck chatting to someone who had changed their name on the social network in an attempt to be funny or disguise their identity. Those people are so lame (ha!).

Now, I’m catching up with old mates from America, Sweden, Indo, Spain, Coffs Harbour, everywhere but bloody Charleville. Of course, Shiraz and I have some pretty witty conversation with these backpackers, but it’s not good enough. Something must be done.

Luckily, there is one little trick I’m yet to yank out of my bag. This one involves Shiraz.

I’m going to send her behind enemy lines and thrown a little social lubricant at a few folk who I’ve earmarked as good friend material. I’ve already checked that they’ve got cars and jobs. Top of my list are the ladies who I’ve caught throwing their head back and laughing with reckless abandon while walking along the street with their pals. I reckon with the help of Shiraz we’re going to get along just fine.

Astro smut.

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It’s hardly a tough crowd at the Cosmos centre on a Monday night. The grey nomads have unhooked their caravans or trailers, donned colourful woollen scarves and beanies and loosened up their shoulder muscles in pre-stargazing anticipation. The friendly folk at the door of the shed show the mostly-city crew what country hospitality is all about. There is not a local in sight, myself and the guides excluded, although I am recently arrived so probably still classed as a blow-in. Our host, Jane, tells us it took a lot of chook raffles to build the observatory. She has the nomads eating out of her palm before they’ve even seen the telescopes.

We head out to the shed with our pupils raring to dilate. As the roof slides back and the temperature plummets, Jane begins explaining things about focal lengths and cluster stars. I hastily check that my plus-one, a certified grey nomad complete with a camper trailer and a work-free schedule, has no idea what these terms mean. My aunt is also clueless. Luckily, Jane caters to such amateurs and I quickly grasp how far away a light year is. A bloody long way. The terms light-year and light-speed are bandied about as if we’re talking about the distance to Birdsville, or Perth. Then, Jane breaks out her laser pointer which looks as if its kissing the stars. “I wish I had a pointer like that,” one nomad whispered to her husband.
Jane points out a seemingly inconsequential star, with a double-barrelled name I cannot recall. The one next to it is Saturn, she tells us in revered tones, the lord of the rings. Apparently it is the pulverised rocks reflecting off the sun that allow us to see the rings around the gassy planet when we all bustle around the three telescopes. “If Earth is a pea, Saturn is a basketball,” our telescope attendant, Karen, tells us helpfully putting Saturn’s size in perspective. She adds that it’s about minus-180 degrees up there, spoiling the idea that we are hard done by in the chilly night air. “Oh it’s pretty fascinating,” one lady gushes into the telescope. My aunt reckons she thought it’d be much bigger.

Jane explains things well, talking of the milk in the Milky Way and describing stars as either toddlers, mature stars who have left home or dead stars. There’s enough science talk to impress the few amateur astronomers hanging around the stripped back shed and enough fluff to impress the others. We check out the jewel box cluster, where Jane handily describes the stars as grouping together like bees to a honey pot. Then the telescopes are pointed directly up, although Jane admits the machines don’t like standing on their heads. The audience heartily agree that they also don’t like that position. Jane shows us M6, a catalogue star that we would not be able to see without the telescope. A couple of shooting stars wow us all in the middle of Jane’s show. “Ah, a bit of comet rubbish,” she says, cheerfully dismissing them. We move on to the pair of stars the Cosmos ladies call Sapphire and Topaz. The blokes laconically prefer to call this duo the blue and yellow double star. The stars actually twinkle through the scope, reminding me of a blazing campfire. A few geezers in the group are clearly impressed with the crisp country sky. ‘You wouldn’t get this in the city,” one bloke tells his pal.

We are shown Omega Centauri, a globular cluster. “Can you see a ball of stars,” the attendant asks one eager amateur. “Yes, I can see a fuzz ball,” he replies. “That’s about 5 to 10 million stars.” We are told that we’re now in deep sky. I reckon that sounds delightfully like astro smut.

Jane points out a few extra stars and some creative constellations. I struggle to join the dots to create a dolphin or a fly. The rest of the group nod their heads and murmur that they’ve seen the designs, but I was doubtful whether some of the crew even had their glasses back on. The general consensus was that the Greek astronomers had drunk far too much red wine when they saw the fancy shapes in the night sky. However, the Aboriginal spirit god and the emu standing on its head were as easy to spot as a dead roo at dusk. Jane promises that once we’ve seen these shapes we’ll be able to impress our mates at barbeques forever. It’s an exciting thought. We were all getting pretty cold by the end of the show and a fair few of the crowd were stomping their feet to warm up. There was even talk of kettles being put to boil. And so the nomads headed back to their camps and their kettles with another outback tale for their mates back home.

Instant but daggy soul nourishment.

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It is certainly not an activity that is likely to give any twenty-something street cred. In fact, you’re more likely to come off looking extremely uncool and, actually rather dirty. Not as uncool as the kids that wear their pants low enough to show a large thatch of underpants, but definitely less cool than the people with piercings.

Luckily appearances don’t matter and my love of gardening is growing faster than my spinach out the front. I love the digging, watching proudly as my seedlings shoot up and I don’t even mind getting little patches of soil on my forehead that stealthily stay there for hours.

I’ve probably got the grottiest fingernails in Charleville at the moment. Dirt is spewing out from beneath my nails and I seem to be leaving a trail of black splotches behind me, Hansel and Gretel style. But I can barely care, I’m just so pleased with my new plants. I keep popping outside to check on them, much like a dog would with a bone it had buried.

My love for spending time shoving my hands into wormy lounge rooms has deep-seated roots (ha ha). My brother’s delight in telling me about my knack of feasting on worms when I was a toddler. Unfortunately there is photographic evidence. Just a little blond girls sitting in the garden with dirt spread liberally around her mouth, all over her fingers, hands arms and down the front of her shirt. I wonder why I wasn’t wearing a bib, really or just what  was my mum thinking, letting a small child loose in a worm factory?

I stopped eating worms, apparently, when my horrid brother – he’s not horrid anymore, but all brothers are bad news when you’re three and they’re older and insisting that you are not allowed to spray them with the hose – told me there was a juicy little worm on the driveway. For some reason the pale gray foot-long, translucent wormie that was stretched along the driveway did not make me salivate. I ran screaming from my nasty little brother and didn’t see the value in gardens until I started university, aged 18.

My sweet-as-a-barrel surfer boyfriend bought me a wee love fern to remind me of him while I was away in college. Of course, it was just a housewarming gift and nothing so sentimental, but I got immense enjoyment embarrassing him with talk about him giving me a fern that symbolised our unity. The joke was on me, ultimately, when I left the fern in my dorm one summer, forgetting that it needed attention or it would scab up and die. Fernie was dead by term three.

Jack and I made it through the death of our plant and tried again with a proper garden when we lived together briefly in Brisbane. We foraged for dirt at the local nursery, by far the least cool 20-year-olds I knew. The garden attendant even asked if we were married. We were mortified, but the man with the shovel continued, asking us if we had kids. Oh, it was laughable. And it jinxed the garden, I reckon. We were just country kids adapting to city life like a fish adapts to living on the beach.

At first the lump of dirt we’d bought gave off on a sinister grave-like look. The mound of freshly-turned dirt disturbed the poor lady next door, but the bush turkeys loved it. They loved the spinach seedlings, too. And the strawberries. The tomatoes were probably their favourite.

I’m not sure I ate even one vegie out of that patch, but I spent at least $150 trying to get some sort of edible greenery happening in my backyard.

I lost interest in vegies for a while, resigning myself to a life of buying plastic produce from the supermarkets. As an interesting aside I left a pear in my parents fridge when I went to China. It was still blemish free when I returned ten weeks later. Go figure.

The worm-eater within rose again when I moved into a house that already had a few herbs growing. All I had to do was water those suckers.

Soon enough I roped Pashmina Nick in to give a hand. Having an oldest brother with a horticultural business is very handy in the gardening game. I took advantage of his broken heart one Sunday and told him it’d be good for him to replace the dirt in one of my troublesome beds and then chuck some seedlings in. It was the most innocent fun he’d had in a long time, I’m certain, and while his liver was recovering my garden was flourishing.

The tomatoes and spinach coloured my meals nearly everyday. It was a happy time. Occasionally I’d take my morning cuppa to my garden and speculate on the future of my eggplant plant. I admit that sometimes I would have a quick chat to the herbs, but only the coriander, which is unashamedly my favourite.

I gave most of the garden away to mates when I pulled the plug on BrisVegas. I reckon most of those plants have sadly passed away now. Giving the lucky bamboo to the black-thumb, Sophie was certainly an error.

There was always going to be a garden in Charleville. Best of all, it would probably even be cool out here in the land of farms and utes and big hats. My dad got me started with a few trays of lettuces. They’re blooming out here in the Queensland sun. As he predicted, they have been good for my soul, quite calming and they engender a feeling of responsibility that I sometimes lack with my happy-go-lucky lifestyle.

Garnering a sense of satisfaction from those plants is almost effortless. A little water and a little love and BOOM, you’ve got some bloody lettuce.

Today I added spinach, tomato plants and some zucchini to my patch. It felt amazing to start something on a journey of life. This is how pregnant women feel, I reckon. Although carrying the over-sized bag of potting mix down the main street was not easy and did not make me look cool.

My garden is already good company. Of course, it won’t keep me warm at night and it certainly will not be the big-spoon. That would be pretty dirty, really. Instead it touches a spot that surreptitiously brightens my day, my life.

Funnamulla, a place of learning.

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Night vision goggles give green vision, I found out yesterday. Today I learned that water lettuce is a real nuisance in freshwater river. It could probably destroy a boat motor with its lanky root system. On Monday I learned that an affray is just a fancy word for a fight in a public place.

Tonight I learned that I don’t quite have the courage to walk into an Outback pub by myself. It’s more disappointing than realising you cannot cry when you’re trying to be heart-broken.

I’ve been hanging out in Cunnamulla this week. My journey from Brisbane to Charleville – which takes just eight hours – has spanned visits to Tamworth, Sydney, China, Laos, Cambodia, Coffs Harbour, the Gold Coast, the Sunshine Coast and Cunnamulla. My destination eludes me, but the travel sensation is richly embedded in my psyche.

I prefer to call this place Funnamulla. It is so packed full of character it’s hard to walk down the bare streets without finding something to amuse my city brain.

A few days ago I noticed a charming sign on the way into tow. It read ‘slow down or piss off.’ There is no chance to ponder what the sign writer is getting at here, except perhaps in which direction one should piss off to. I’m guessing the local doesn’t care, so long as your hooning car isn’t spotted outside the Cunnamulla Hotel.

Earlier this morning I spotted a caravan parking itself across the street. I could tell it was purposefully trying to get in the way of oncoming traffic. There was no beeping. No one minded, they just slowed down to check out what was going on and silently moved past on the other side of the road. Most folk waved to the guy who clearly got his licence before driving tests included reverse parallel manoeuvres.

I love the people here the most. One lady I met the other day was describing a friend of hers. “She’ll put her hand up for any bun fight going ‘round,” she told me. Obviously she is not talking about baked goods here, but rather her mate’s poor track record arriving at events she said she’d attend. In some cases the lingo is so powerful my mind takes off into a fantasy land where I imagine the ladies in the town stripping off and throwing sesame seed creations at one another. The day that happens I’ll be a very happy little journalist.

My boss determines the length a story should be based on whether the tale is a ‘ripper’ or not. It’s an excellent criteria, I reckon.

The beauty of living out here, I’ve found, is that your expectations are shattered the moment anything happens. Anything at all. The interview with the man about the water weeds today far surpassed my planned afternoon writing about what happened in court. I cannot wait to roll out my facts about the root-length of the infectious weed at the next dinner party I attend.

Yesterday I was summoned to take photos of the army’s new MHR 90 helicopter that was landing in town. The army were doing some training exercises and because the trainer is marrying the daughter of a local couple, he thought it’d be nice to join in the Funnamulla shenanigans for the afternoon.

About 17 locals, myself included, rocked up for a guided tour of the $42 million aircraft. Some little girls got their 15 minutes in the cockpit. One of the more enthusiastic young’uns was keen to fly the beast, but the army lads managed to prise her away from the chopper kicking and screaming.

I tried on the night vision goggles and quizzed the friendly AJ with abandon. It was a fantastic moment, easily outshining my afternoon plans of fastidiously checking facebook.

And I did have my day in court on Monday. That threw up a few surprises.

Firstly, I was shocked that I’d never come before a magistrate before. Surely some of my more impressive antics could have warranted some time before a grey-haired man wearing a gown. Secondly, I now know that an affray is not the newsreader having pronunciation issues. It’s a public brawl. (At least I think that’s what it is. If I’ve got that wrong could someone please correct me before deadline on Tuesday?)

Another fact that came into sharp focus on Monday was my dire note-taking skills. Gosh, my hand was writhing after a day jotting down the details of Cunnamulla’s less savoury incidents.

This town is unique. It has spunk. Tonight, after I had shamefully avoided the local watering hole, I was meandering along the streets when I noticed a man sitting in the middle of the road with a high-visibility vest on. I have no idea what this dude’s caper was. Maybe it’s a new form of hitch-hiking that ensures the traffic actually stops for you? I’m still confused about that man.

The night sky is an attraction in itself out here. The streets are quiet, but the skies are bustling with stars blazing down at me.

The only issue I have with the cute little town is the pooches. There are plenty of dogs in Funnamulla, too. And these beasts are getting years’ worth of amusement at my expense. I reek of fear when I pass by their fences. Their barking becomes feverish as I quicken my pace, determined not to let the bloodthirsty monsters get the better of me.

The biggest surprise this week is how much I have enjoyed living in this desert-rimmed town where there is nothing much, bar a chilly frenzied breeze to keep me company at night. I’ve traded the Chinese summer for frosty mornings and a beachy, boozy holiday for early starts. It has been thrilling.

I never imagined I could be so happy sitting alone on a Friday night, sober.

Welcome to the wild wild west.

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The drive to Cunnamulla began innocently enough.

I waved goodbye to my mate Sophie as the first tinges of the sunrise kissed the sky. There have been too many goodbyes recently, I thought, just resisting the urge to beep my horn before 6am on a Sunday.

As I headed west, the sunrise made up for my cold toes. Clouds were illuminated to a shade of pink most 5-year-old girls can only dream of painting their bedrooms. The red orb gradually arced across the horizon, the changing colours mirroring the shift in the landscape. Soon enough I left behind the lush coastal fields, trading the greenery for red soils and vertically-challenged shrubs.

As I lost radio transmissions and, of course, mobile phone reception, things headed south, steadily.

I abandoned the radio static in favour of my own soulful tunes. “Ammmmaaayyyzzzziiiinnngggg ggrrrrraaacccceeee,” I began, loving that no one was around to point out my lack of tone. “How sweet the ….”

BOOM …

“Arrrrgggghhhhh.”

I wish someone had been there to hear my kick-ass scream as I ploughed down a kamikaze kangaroo. Some company to still my racing heart or commiserate seeing the poor animal fly in the air as I flicked it out from my tyres would also have been nice.

But, there I was, alone on a road where you can go half an hour without seeing another car. In that time you will probably see hundreds of roo carcasses littering the road, but they’re not really hopping company. Ha ha – I had plenty of time to become desensitised to the involuntary slaughter and pen some horrible dad jokes. I even began to have bull-bar envy.

Just days before, as Friday night was kicking into gear my mate Tracey had warned me about the foolish habits of Australia’s famous national emblem. “If you see a kangaroo don’t swerve that mother f**ker,” she advised me, sagely. “Just take it down.”

At the time I had laughed along with her. I recall taking a sip of my Pinot, loving the dramatic way she packaged her drive-safely-and-give-us-a-call-when-you-get-there advice.

Her astute words echoed in my ears for the half an hour it took to calm my pulse, memories of my laughter mocking me.

My concern about the dearth of radio stations was replaced with a simmering anxiety about kangaroos. I was lucky it did not destroy my radiator, leaving me marooned in a sea of long, straight roads. Instead it just dislodged my bumper, reshaped my number plate and generally gave my car just a little more character.

I rolled into St George at midday, six hours of driving down and just four to go. I was excited and exhilarated, noticing the isolation and feeling the slightly heightened sense of danger that I always associate with the Aussie outback.

My brother instructed me to pump up my spare tyre, just in case (and I had plenty of time to indulge in awful just-in-case fantasies). I obliged and decided that I’d made such good time that I should probably lock my keys in the car. What a fun little trick!

The solo nature of my trip hit home as I stood at the petrol station knowing that I had no mates or brothers or Scandinavians that could pull out two sticks and fix my car. Surprisingly, I was buoyed by this thought, relishing the thought that I was on an intense adventure.

I waltzed into the shop with nothing to lose and introduced myself to Tony, the helpful petrol-station attendant.

“Any chance you’ve got experience breaking into cars,” I asked, mustering an I-know-I’m-useless-but-please-help-me smile. Obviously, I have a wealth of experience with this particular grin.

“Aww, whaddya done,” Tony asked, playing me.

I confessed my idiot-city-slicker status and my crime, but won him over with the news that I was moving to Charleville to work for the local rag.

He was delighted at first, but then gave me a strange look, clearly wondering why anyone would move to Charleville. “I’m looking for an adventure,” I told him, shrugging my shoulders.

“Nar, you’ll be all right,” he relented, slightly, then added “you got a fella with you?”

I gave him a look that said I clearly do not need a man to accompany me to the country. “No, it’s just me,” I said, trying not to sound like too much of a loser.

He scratched his head, a bit bamboozled. “Ah well, do you like a bit of the right arm then,” he asked, miming bringing a beer glass to the lips with his right arm and simultaneously tipping his neck back. I returned the gesture and nodded, “sure, I like to drink.”

“Well, you’ll be fine then.”

Half an hour later Tony had cracked open the passenger door, given a strange look to the lettuce plants I was transporting across the state, and waved me off.

Optimism was on my side. I was thrilled that I’d managed to lock my keys in the car, get them back out and make a new friend.

Soon enough, I passed my first 53-metre road train, which provided a neat little adrenalin rush.

The roads were relentlessly straight, stretching to a blur on the horizon. I began to think I was seeing mirages, a town perhaps, or a petrol station, but they were just dead roos, taunting me.

Petrol became an issue about 100 kilometres from Cunnamulla. The gauge was reaching toward the big E with an enthusiasm my car usually saves for harbouring mandarin peels. With 50 kilometres to go I began to see a slight malevolence in the stark landscape. I had enough food to last the night out here, but what about water? Or would I try to walk to Cunnamulla? Would the person that stopped to help me be an Ivan Milat enthusiast? Would there even be a petrol station open on a Sunday afternoon in a town with a population of 1300 people?

The questions haunted me as the petrol light beamed at me. With 35 kilometres to go I started counting every movement the odometer made.

My kangaroo anxiety was replaced with petrol panic.

Of course, I made it to town, buzzing with nerves and delighting in the spontaneous and candid excitement I had found on the journey. One less-remarkable hour later I arrived at my lodgings, a sheep and cattle farm in the middle of splendid nothingness.

A crisp sunset and a friendly face welcomed me to the west, to the adventurous lifestyle I had hoped for.

What would happen tomorrow? I had no idea. It was the perfect moment.

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.

The finer points of skinny dipping.

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There is no better sensation than swimming naked in the ocean under a full moon with a few friends. It is the finest pleasure imaginable, for me.

Imagine a quiet beach in southern Cambodia, there is no one else around, just the moon shining down approvingly on your skinny dipping intentions and the sand beneath your feet. It looks good and feels even better, right.

Now, add a few close friends, and some new ones just to shake things up. You all strip your clothes off and run towards the ocean, letting out a few quick squeals with an abandon that rekindles the sort of joy you have not felt since you were a kid and your dad bought you a chocolate back from a work trip. It’s truly thrilling.

Hang on, it gets better.

You hit the waves and the salt water rushes over your body. There are no pesky cossies to get between you and the water and the reflection of the luscious moon, so it feels completely natural.

That moment, just a few short days ago, was my nirvana. As the waves crashed around me I felt an intense happiness stain my soul. It was a bountiful reward for the challenges I have faced getting to that moment.

I should mention here that I am an avid skinny dipper. I have, perhaps, a disproportionate love for the pursuit. Some get their pleasure from partying or a nice cup of tea or a successful dinner party, a nice bottle of wine, even. Not me, all I need is a beach, or a pool, or even a puddle.

It all started, I reckon, with a story my cheeky dad once told me about skinny dipping at a party when he was younger. He’d jumped in the pool in the nude because he thought the patrons were a little dull. Then he strolled out naked, head held high, confident he’d instilled some character into the shenanigans. Or at least that is the embellished version.

After dad’s amusing inspiration I moved into a house with a pool. It was an open invitation to swim naked, regardless of the elderly lady living next door whose lounge room casually peeked onto our pool. Our daily jaunts were a highlight of my sharehousing life.

I’ve been to weddings where the bride and groom have stripped down, trading their suits and gowns for blissful immersion with a watchful moon. It seemed a superbly fun way to celebrate and share the nuptials.

Of course, I should note here that not all skinny dipping ends with such a heart-warming feeling. Take Dan of the Night, for instance, a backpacking reveller I met a few days ago.

He’d been indulging in a spot of night time natural bathing when a crafty Cambodian local thought his clothes would be better suited on their Khmer frame. I’m not sure how the thief looked in his garb, but I have a great vision of Dan running after the motorbike riders, in the nude, demanding his clothes back. The poor sucker also had his room key taken, so after the humbling trip from the beach to his hostel, in just the birthday suit, Dan had to ask for a replacement to get into his room.

His search for new clothes, however, was thwarted by the unhelpful receptionist who, no doubt, loved the sight of the naked Canadian. There was no key for Dan of the Night. No clothes, either.

He copped it well, I reckon, recovering his dignity and basking in the story of sleeping naked in front of the entire dorm. About 14 people had the chance to catch a glimpse of his tanned frame, apparently.

On our quieter beach, however, there were no nasties lurking in the shadows, except the beastly dogs, but that’s another story. So, the hot Swedes and I recovered our towels, bade farewell to the coast and ambled home.

Now, I’m tucked up in Beijing and delighting in the city life again.

Otres Beach, the haven of my trip, seems almost a lifetime away. But for a seasoned skinny dipper, it’s not too difficult to recall the moonlight shenanigans. Already I’m planning a sneaky trip to one of Australia’s mighty fine strips of sand.

Angkor Wat the?

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It was a cheap calendar that first sparked my interest in Cambodia’s famous ruins. I’d prefer to be harbouring a deep-seated Khmer history obsession, but the calendar offers a more simple brand of inspiration.

So, from June last year, after a month staring at spindly plants entwined with ancient stones, I was aching to see the Angkor temples in Cambodia. Of course, I had no idea what the temples represented, or if they were even temples at all. In fact, I had no idea what Angkor meant and only a hazy idea of where Cambodia was.

But, my love for pretty things prevailed and today I conquered the Angkor dream.

Along my travels I had collected a few meagre facts about the place from backpackers heading in the opposite direction. It’s not just one temple, as I’d ignorantly assumed, but a collection of temples spread out over about 140 square kilometres. Clearly, this was going to be a hectic day trip.

Another traveler informed me that it’s not essential to see all of the ruins, although three-day tickets are available. The idea of spending three days strolling around mossy, tree-infested stones in severe tropical heat appealed to me as much as one of those revolting fish massages where the fish eat your dead skin.

One day would be enough, I thought, planning to treat the temples like a cheese platter.

With this armory of facts my two Swedish pals and I set the alarm for 4.40am, our dedication to seeing the sunrise as firm as a bitter papaya.

The sunrise, luckily, was stunning. The colours were superb with the ruins basking in the sun’s morning glow. A few pigeons flew noisily around the tops of the temples, greeting us.

The place had an eerie quality about it in the dawn haze. I got the feeling some nice stuff had happened at the place, which was refreshing after visiting the confronting and poignant war museum yesterday.

Once we were at the temple, however, the question we’d been avoiding reared it’s complex head. “What was this place, anyway,” someone asked.

We sat around, struggling to rouse our minds with a strong coffee, watching the colours change, toying with the question.

We pooled our knowledge of the ruins, discovering that construction began in the ninth century and continued for a few centuries after that.

After we exhausted our communal supply of Angkor facts, we began congecturing. Perhaps it was palace for the King, after all it has a moat around it and I could see some horses trotting around the paddocks. Or perhaps it was just a place for the village meetings?

In our confusion, one of the ubiquitous hawkers grabbed my tired mind.

“You want book, lady,” he asked me. “Do I,” I wondered. I nodded, then shook my head, then looked away, then said hello, then asked the price, then said no again and looked away again.

“You’re giving this guy some weird signals,” one of the Swedes pointed out, rather astutely.

I mucked around with the poor sucker for a little longer before settling on $5, which I thought was a good deal. He’d started at $28. But, alas, the next guy offered me the same book for $1. Oops. And, it was far too wordy to figure out what had happened at Angkor Wat, so we decided it’d be best to stroll around, leisurely, making up different uses for the stunning buildings.

Perhaps it had been a paintball field? Or a home for pretty girls to learn some manners?

The ambience of the place struck me, with Hindu-type music playing in the background and the smell of incense haunting our noses. The carvings which were etched upon most of the walls, were incredibly comprehensive, detailing all sorts of animals and deities going about their business.

I could not help imagining the place in all of its splendour, or thinking of the guys who must have toiled for years to make the incredible stones.

At Angkor Thom, the next temple on the list, my jaw dropped as I saw the huge faces that had been molded into the stones far above our heads. The profiles were impressively accurate. It was like a Magic Eye puzzle, seeing the stones and then the faces and then just stones again.

Our expert knowledge came to the fore again as we looked at each other with blank faces, wondering where the temple was with all the trees growing around the rocks. That was the original calendar image that sent me into a fever of wonderlust last June, so I thought I should pursue that.

The book paid for itself here, and we bargained with our surly tuk-tuk driver to take us to Ta Phrom.

For an extra $5 he took us the extra one kilometre. We rode along in our motorcycle-drawn chariot, checking out some smaller ruins and indulging in fantasies of ancient royalty and chauffeurs.

Ta Phrom did not disappoint. The silk-cotton trees (you can see the book coming handy again) had captured the old rocks and twisted them to their will, creating a sense of the time that had passed. The carvings stood proud against the branches, defiant.

I ambled around those ruins like Alice in the rabbit hole, overawed by their size and age. It was a powerful place, for me.

As we debriefed at the cafe, indulging in some cheesy snacks and wondering how we’d been awake for almost six hours when it was only 11am, we shared our impressions of the morning.

“It’s mysterious,” one of my pals pointed out, redundantly. “That’s all I know about it, that it’s mysterious.”

“It’s… ahh… yeah… they were good, I guess,” the other noted.

I’ll put their enthusiasm levels down to tiredness and a bad bout of diarrhoea one of them is suffering from.

I reckon they were bloody fantastic, the best ruins I have ever seen and definitely a highlight of my travels so far.

Clearly, favouring calendars over sleep-inducing history books is not a disadvantage.

Leeches and a starry, starry, starry night.

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I arrived at midday in Luang Namtha in northern Laos with a life-altering mission: to find some bloody friends.

A shower, hair-wash and book-swap was also on the agenda, but after three days on the road, alone, there was nothing more important than bursting my bubble of loneliness and creating a new opportunity for myself.

I saw a fluro green shirt with pink writing and ran for it, knowing that no self-respecting local would be wearing something so ridiculous as a shirt that shouted Full Moon Party to the world, but this was my kinda person. And Tomas insists it was laundry day.

As I approached the French-Canadians in a brimming tuk-tuk, I did not even bother to hide the desperation in my eyes. “Do you mind if I join you,” I panted at them, pining for some company. They tactfully ignored my pleading tone and, thinking that perhaps I’d be so grateful that I’d buy them dinner, they welcomed me into the fold.

At the travel agency I met the Scots and the five of us booked a two-day jungle trek. How’s that for committment, eh.

With a huge sigh of relief I cast aside my solitaire-playing days for a while. Then, the luck tide bought a fresh wave of recruits; five became nine and we set off for the hills.

We’d called ourselves the Awesomes, and I wondered if they’d live up to my lofty expectations after trekking with The Best Group in China. Mostly, I wondered if I’d ever begin to call groups something original.

Our launch point was a picturesque village, complete with a bamboo suspension bridge, leaf-roofed huts, gap-tooth locals and some smiling kids splashing in the river. I wondered what they thought of our bunch, tromping through their space with our colourful backpacks and clumpy shoes. Hopefully, we are not too invasive.

The first hill was always going to be a killer. Pon, our cheeky guide, told us the trek was easy-to-moderate, but if it was raining it malevolently changed to moderate-to-difficult. I reckon it’d be death-defying in the rain, as the mud and leaves were already mincing beneath our steps. Watching the fellow trekkers slip was better than the circus.

We trudged steadily up, brushing vines out of our faces and basking in the tropical scenery. The heat and rampant humidity adds an extra dimension. I have only ever trekked through mountains, and in refreshing altitude climates, but jungle treks, I soon found out, are a different brand of walk. As we huffed and puffed up the hill like a pack of recovering asthmatics, the sweat dripped from my eyebrows. All of our clothes looked as if they’d been taken out of the washing machine long before the spin cycle kicked in.

The scenery made up for it, however, and I had plenty of new mates to grill.

My favourite part of any day, and this is even more profound during a day of walking, is meal time. Banana leaves were fetched from the forest and spread across a rickety bamboo table. Vegetable curries were poured onto the leaves and we received a parcel of sticky rice each. Eating with hands was compulsary. I was in heaven.

But, the peace was short-lived. We encountered our first leeches as we strolled along the ridge, just a stone’s throw from the luchspot. The girls were screaming and desperately trying to pick them off their shoes. I had my first bite from an over-achieving thirsty sucker.

Then, my rampant dysentry reared its runny head.

A few moments after I re-joined the group I was the first to muddy the seat of my pants. I also managed to snag a pretty bruise on my inner arm after I caught a branch when I fell. Soon, we were all hitting the deck like a toddler trying to shuffle a pack of cards.

We stopped briefly at a stream for one of the guides to sharpen his knife on a stone. I’m sure it was just for dinner, but the thought of the local tigers kept my mind amused for a while.

Here is where the real trouble started. Pon, in an innocent-sounding, nonchalant voice tells us that the section ahead has many leeches. We’d been battling the bloodthirsty insects for some time already and were decidedly concerned by this relevation.

The avenue of leeches was torture, that we had paid for.

The slimy suckers littered the ground, as prevalent as the rotting leaves. Their heads reared up like a herd of angry stallions, desperately seeking some sweet, sweet tourist blood. We were constantly bashing them with sticks to get them off our shoes. I prefered a quick flicking action which I perfected as a kid on long school-bus rides with my brother. Back then, we’d flick each other’s foreheads until the other could handle it no longer. I never thought that sadistic game would come in useful, but I never anticipated the Laotian leeches to be so clever.

In fact, it was comical at times. The group would run through the jungle, as quick as possible, and then stop for a brief bashing to get the leeches off the shoes. Estonian, French, Austrian, Spanish and English swear words were flying around the bush like out-of-control frizbees. For almost 40 minutes the scream, run, scream, bash, swear, run, scream, swear, bash, scream, run routine was adhered to with Japanese precision.

Time flew by.

We stopped in the searing sun, in relative safety, to lick our wounds, calm our pulses and check inside our shoes. I screamed like a banshee when I saw two inside my trusty hiking boots; I was so disappointed in my boots.

Later on, as we chuckled about the episode, I felt something biting my inner thigh. Inhibitions were left on the track as I plunged my hand in my pants and pulled on a filthy leech. More screaming ensued as I got the sucker out, but the real trauma was not in the bite, it was the fear of a leech getting any closer to my panty line.

Accordingly, my hand stayed in my pants for the rest of the walk; paranoia, check.

It had been a torturous day, but arriving at a local village five hours from any civilisation put things sharply into perspective.

Pigs, ducks, chickens, dogs and cows of all ages wandered around the thatched huts. It was an idyllic setting by the river. After a quick swim, we played some games with the beautiful kids, a few of the crew pulling out enormous energy to teach the locals stuck in the mud and other running and tagging games. Their smiles were heart-warming, but I was touched by the kids’ threadbare clothes. The village was pleasant in so many ways, subsistence farming and kids seemingly enjoying a childhood, but I could not ignore the poverty, and served mysef a healthy slice of Western guilt.

Dinner was a feast. Tofu and tomato curry, beef curry and pumpkin soup satisfied our hike-induced appetites. I adore the guilt-free eating that comes with hiking.

The local whiskey, Lao Lao, was passed around the table. “Bottoms up,” Pon commanded us. Of course, we obliged.

The laughter at the table soon turned to talk of the stars. We were excited to be in the country with a clear sky and soon made ourselves a nest near the fire to observe the sky.

Our collective quest to spot a shooting star was disrupted by some pesky night-time playthings – the fireflys.

After a flash of light the group would yell out, collectively, in excitement. Moments later the flash would appear a few beats to the left and we’d simultaneously emit a loud sigh before we laughed at the easy error.

“If it changes direction, it’s not a shooting star,” the helpful Scotsman pointed out for the less astronomically-minded in the group.

The fireflys contibued to wink at us as we searched the solar system for movement. A few satellites kept us entertained as the group gradually peeled off to bed.

By 9pm a beautiful Bolivian lady and the fiesty Austrian remained on the blanket with me. We huddled together with a few beers and plenty of tales to share. Finding two solo female travelers provided perfect like-mindedness. Our laughter echoed off the trees as we told tales from home and abroad, still searching for shooting stars.

The fireflys were beautiful and provided endless entertainment for us star-gazers. At one point the Austrian lept onto her elbows, exclaiming “I hate the fucking fireflys. They’re so fucking mean!” And we laughed some more.

I believe we saw one real shooting star that night, but the real joy for me was the sense of community I felt with people I had met just hours before. The Awesomes were vastly different from the Best Group, but they were the balm that shooed my loneliness out the door, replacing it with new mates and memories of a night by a creek, with some insects, a dash of local whiskey and a sky full of stars to wish upon in some little village in northern Laos.