An Echidna Says What?

My plan for the day was to go to Melbourne, then catch the ferry to Tasmania. More exotic words have never been uttered by this excited traveller. I boarded the bus from Dunkeld nice and early, to arrive in groovy Melbourne in plenty of time to get the feel of the place. This city immediately struck me as ace, and i haven't even made it to St Kilda yet - the epicentre of Aussie hipsterdom. People seemed so much friendlier than in Sydney for some reason. Relaxed, smiling and welcoming, less erm wary and short on the ol' fuse. But I only had a few hours to sample that sweet Melbourne nectar, and was going to try and gulp in as much as possible.



Flinders St Station

Yarra River and Flinders St

To start off, I explored Chinatown - as is my habit - and Flinders Street which runs along the Yarra river, and was delighted to find everywhere I went many a sushi kiosk, selling decent grade, fresh yet affordable varieties. Sushi, a favourite delicacy of mine, tends to be on the pricy side in most big cities, even and especially in Japan, I'm told. But here, on the Port Phillip Bay, off the Tasman Sea and the South Pacific Ocean, fresh seafood is in abundance. On top of which, Australia's relative proximity to South East Asia, guarantees a myriad of authentic cuisines from that region of the world. Lucky me! I allowed myself a small indulgence in the shape of a temaki roll, and roamed the streets, avoiding near death by passing trams and skateboarding daredevils.

St Kilda I was pretty much sworn into visiting by a Melbourne friend, at the time UK based and endlessly homesick. She cajoled me with stories of how gloriously cool it is, before making me take a blood oath I would not neglect to visit it, her eyes weepy and her lips quivering in imploration. And in all, St Kilda does pretty much encapsulate the spirit of beach life, together with a good dose of bohemian chic and young fusion gastro artistry, enhanced by the multi-cultural demographic.

But as it stood that long day, I knew I had insufficient resources to indulge in an appropriate amount of exploration. Walking along the shore, I stopped for some pricey but scrumptious mussels with a lovely beer at one of the seafront eateries. The weather wasn't quite sunny, as the season was, in fact, autumn, but nonetheless the beach was full of very active people, at ease in stylish swimwear and taking part in much sport, more often than not at the same time. I felt overdressed in my combats and hiking boots.

As the sun began to set, I made my way to the harbour, to locate and board The Spirit of Tasmania ferry, having taken a precautionary Dramamine, as I am a sea-sickness coward. I then ceremoniously took my place on deck, to be met by a surprisingly cutting Antarctic wind, as we regally sailed off the southern shores.

I was intently watching the water for any signs of dolphins or whales, having been reliably informed that the beasts are everywhere. Not a worry, I was told - you cannot encounter a puddle-sized body of water without witnessing a frolicking dolphin or a magnificent whale dive-bombing by way of a friendly hello at the very least, is what people have told me. Just try and avoid them, see if you can. Harass you, they will. By the end of your trip, you'll be intimately acquainted with the majority of sea-life, and bored to tears with the whole thing. You'll be sick of the sight of these cetaceans. Those people, I came to realise as months passed devoid of sea mammals, were the same ones telling tales of snakes at every turn - they are clearly vicious and deliberate liars, and should be disciplined for their wildly exaggerated fibs.

By the time the sun had completely gone down i'd snapped quite a few obligatory sunset photos with my numb icy fingers, hoping to capture a rogue flipper or spraying blowhole, until eventually forced to admit defeat and seek shelter below deck.

With the Dramamine beginning to take effect, at the end of this long day, I yearned for sleep. Exploring the ferry's potential hidden alcoves, I stumbled a disused cinema - disused for its original purpose, that is, although at full capacity as a makeshift dormitory, crammed with already snoozing passengers. Here I managed to get a few hours' rest, albeit sitting up against the wall, after an attempt to lie down was foiled by a sadistic crew member who was clearly hired specifically to walk into various parts of the ferry at 4am and wake everyone up, pointing out we're blocking the paths to the fire exits. Cue sleepy irritable people shuffling back up into their seats until he'd gone, then slump back onto the floor again.
 
Woke up in time for sun rising over the Devonport shoreline, feeling groggy but thrilled. Determined to ignore the heavy scattering of used sick bags decorating the main hall, some successfully, some less so, I purchased a reviving hot chocolate and went up on deck wrapped in a blanket, to enjoy the nearing Tasmanian shore. I'd heard Devonport, where we were to disembark, is a drearily boring town, but having been to Hamilton, this one seemed in comparison pastorally quaint and full of character from a distance, and I was optimistic.


Devonport shore and The Spirit of Tasmania ferry

Alas, upon disembarkation, my distorted perspective was made clear, as I found myself in what is supposed to be one of the two biggest cities in Tassie, currently numbering myself, three people in the process of putting up some kind of podium and chairs in the middle of the pedestrianised high street, and several excitable gulls. 

Devonport life

My next Wwoofing host, Susan, I was already intuitively apprehensive about, as our phone interaction to agree the details of my visit was awkward, bordering on odd. We'd arranged to meet at the ferry harbour, but there was no sign of her. I rang her from a rogue phone booth, and she answered. Bad sign - shouldn't she already be well on the way? No, she was just about to get in the shower. I should go into town for now, she counselled helpfully, and meet her by a travel shop called the Backpackers Barn. This sort of miscommunication did not bode well for my stay, but for the time being I put these concerns out of mind and went in search of said shop. Devonport being the one-gull-town it clearly was, i found the place easily enough. There was really nothing else to do but idly hang around, as this was early morning and there was a distinct absence of living souls, and everything still shut.

Luckily, one of the shops had opened to sell the early edition of the local daily rag. Here I found the friendliest man in Tasmania, who wore my suspicious defences down by cheerfully reassuring me I can leave my rucksack at the back of his store while I explore the high street, a venture which took a whole of five minutes, generously put. I trundled back to the store, which also offered souvenirs and knickknacks for sale, and was allowed to browse for an inordinate amount of time. The tolerant shopkeeper kept me entertained with cheery conversation, whilst i mooched around, picking things up then putting them down, enquiring about items we both knew i wasn't intending to buy, passing the time until Susan turns up.
 
She descended, cyclonically, attired in a dangerously flammable polyester orange pantsuit ensemble, tastefully paired with an olive and white shirt, which I later discovered were her Sunday best, saved for special occasions. Truly a vision which would remain burned in my memory for years to come. Her sputtering van was held together with rope, and adorned with a 'Save Tassie farms - The Greens' sticker on the windscreen. She then informed me we were to stop en route and hang up some of her artwork at the local dentists' office.

A hobbyist artist to boot, I thought - oh dear God no. Indeed, her photography consisted of your bog-standard hallucinogen enthusiast adolescent and their first Nikon fare, i.e. nature landscapes with semi-psychedelic themes - but lacking the originality. Lots of ferns and dragonflies in mirror image prints. As for her paintings... well. Those were not good. To her credit, she'd been doggedly at it her whole life, there was conviction and passion there. To top it all off, she had recently taken up a glasswork course at the local college, producing her best and most vaguely interesting work - glass panes with leaf inserts and Japanese calligraphy citing warnings for humanity against harming the environment. She was certainly consistent with her agenda.
 

On the way to her smallholding Susan regaled me with tales of all the misfortunes which befell her over the past five decades, describing in detail the adhesions she's had for years in her gut unbeknownst to her, getting sicker and sicker; how she was assaulted and her house set on fire - two unrelated incidents; how her children never wanted to see her. I was at first very shocked, of course, and sympathetic, but gradually alarm bells began sounding quite loudly - it's never a good sign when people dump their entire emotional baggage onto you straight away. Echoes of Margie of Dunkeld, my previous Wwoofing host, reverberated. She too got straight down to an uncomfortable degree of personal revelations, but it at least had a relevance to a conversation we were having at the time, and otherwise she'd kept appropriate boundaries, allowing for a gradual closeness to develop. 


Tasmanian rainforests

We drove on through lush rainforests, which Susan explained were fast diminishing due to over deforestation, the by-product of a disproportionately developed logging and mining industry on this small wild island. Economical diversity was thin on the ground with hardly any other industries flourishing, and many desperate farmers were forced to join in or be bought out. There is growing activism, she explained, campaigning to stop and reverse the process, but money speaks and so far not much headway has been made. The sad truth was that the incredible and extremely rare regional plant and wildlife were under serious threat by all this.



Yes this is a real animal

One such bizarre species we almost at once encountered, as Susan came to a sudden careening stop by the side of the rainforested road, to rescue an badly injured echidna. She persuaded me to remove my jacket - her own being far too dressy, evidently - and use it as a blanket to wrap the poor bloody creature in and bundle it into the van. She was kind enough to point out it was likely to have many tics and parasites residing amongst its spines, so I would be wise to disinfect my jacket once it's no longer in rescue mode. The remainder of the drive thus prompted a story about her nursing a gang of wallabies back to health, thereon in taking them with her wherever she went, including the Devonport shopping area. Now I wonder where she got that reputation as an oddball lady she mentioned in her stories...

The echidna, unfortunately, did not make it in spite of Susan's best efforts, joining the great roadkill gang in the sky. And I didn't remain with Susan very long either.  

On Taking Charge of Your Own Breakdown

It is one particular Monday that you wake up - no, that's not right. It is one particular Monday that your still-sleeping brain acknowledges that it must surely be morning, approaching the time the alarm clock is set to brutally screech its demand for attention, and responds by regressing to the terrible-twos, yelping: 'no! no!' and a distinct feeling of panic shudders through your body.

Yes, my friend, you are experiencing the first symptom of da downz.

You drag the time in bed to the moment you absolutely must get up, and then a little further. You resent your job, your own lethargy, every life choice you've ever made, as they all seem to have led to this point of having to rip yourself out of the cocooning comfort of your duvet. You agonise over your morning routine - you know what makes your day start in a positive, upbeat manner - vigorous exercise, a shower, a healthy snack, and off you trot, all light-footed and gay, ready for anything the day may dish out.

In reality your eyelids are heavy and your bones feel rheumatic, you try to shake off this blanket of sluggish darkness but all you manage to do is crawl to the sink, splash some water on your face, scrape the toothbrush over your teeth and threaten your hair into some sort of order. You open the fridge door gloomily and stare into the abyss. Nope, I don't deserve any of this. There is a glimmer of energy during which you, almost robot-like, pour yoghurt and muesli into a bowl with some fresh strawberries and feel vaguely ok about it. This prompts you to further optimistic action such as not wearing yesterday's top, even though it smells alright, but to reach for a clean, smart shirt and pair it with something sparkly to go on your ears and round your neck. I am woman.

You cast your mind back to the weekend - it's been a lovely, relaxed one, with just enough activity to feel it wasn't wasted, but not too much madness to have caused undue detrimental effects. True, it's Monday. But some Monday mornings transpire so much more smoothly. What's going on?

In actuality, it's difficult to diagnose. Nor does the cause really matter. It could be a knock-on effect from a rogue interaction the previous week - yes, there were some events which brought on mild distress. Perhaps some oddball hormonal changes you're not even aware of, the body being its usual Pandora's box of unpleasant surprises. It could be physical over-exertion at your chosen sport. Change of seasons, time of month, tension with friends, worry about family, blah blah blah, on and on and on. The important point here is to recognise this is no usual Monday blues, but an emotional crisis.

Still, it takes a while longer to fully acknowledge it. Throughout the day, you feel so tired that you could, in fact, drop down and sleep where you are. On the train. At the traffic light. Right there under the desk. At work, you try to drown it all out with tasks at hand. You take comfort in exchanging a few texts with friends and family. The fog, however, remains, and you try to downplay your nihilistic exhaustion and push on.

Experience had taught you that your usual routine of after-work sports is guaranteed to make you feel better. You love it all - the art of it, your training buddies, your sense of engaging with yourself, the tangible progression as you train.

But every fibre of your being rebels and stomps its foot sulkily - no. I want to go home. I want to go to bed. I want to speak to no one.

You get home, feeling guilty and ashamed of neglecting your own ambitions, abandoning a dedication to yourself. You avoid contact with those you share the living space with. Within moments you are in bed again, snacking on what could only be described as minimum effort but vaguely healthy comfort food - no point in making yourself feel any worse by going off course completely!  - and by 8pm you're nodding off, hoping that the morning will provide succour.

Ha! No such luck... a night of disturbing neurotic dreams and restlessness awaits. You awake in the same state as the previous day, exhausted and grumpy, but with one small advantage - now you know. You understand what's happening - this is an emotional crisis. It is pointless to fight it, as that would simply make things bad, worse, unbearable. Trying to push against a breakdown will only be fighting fire with fire, when currently what force you could muster is hardly a worthy opponent anyway. A reed versus a mighty oak.

 

Fine, you say, it's happening, and the thing to do is to just let it. Allow it to do its thing. Observe it happening, empathise, let yourself feel it, but not spiral with panic. Take a single step, achieve one small thing. Then another. Be present. Accept the circumstances will necessitate you forgoing a few duties - things that matter, even - but at the end of the day life will still go on if you rip up your itinerary for a few days and say to yourself, the self that is demanding care - what would you like to do?

All at once, with that realisation, with that surrender, you feel better - relieved, as a relationship of trust has been re-established with yourself. I am taken care of, by me. You are no longer frantic with the effort of fixing it, forcing it better, or even pretending it isn't there, but at peace. Breathing more easily, time slows down, the fog lifts a little. You look around - no great damage has been caused. Yes, you are still sluggish and a reluctant participant in life, but you know this too shall pass and you have taken the reins by relinquishing control.

 

Make Like a Bear

After my cockatoo encounter of terror, I felt I'd seen it all and was ready to face the wilderness. Nothing could phase me now. Like a wearisome warrior, with the echoes of battle still ringing in my ears and a faraway look in my eyes, I literally got back on the bike and cycled to the nearest Grampian trail. Ten minutes later, I was at the foot of the path up Mount Sturgeon.

Well that was easy, I thought, slightly embarrassed. Makes all the anxious preparation seem a tad ridiculous. Deranged birds and getting lost in the wild?... - pff, what was I so worried about?! With that, I began climbing. This was my first real hike, and what I'd been preparing for. In my trip planning stage, the intention was for hiking to feature heavily, particularly when I reach New Zealand later on, and I needed to get my sea legs, before attempting a several day tramp. Here was a well-trodden trail, frequented by day-trippers, young and frail alike. This should do me.

The path was steep and winding, and for the first couple of hours I was on an exposed incline. The sun was beating down and I was hacking my way through low shrubs and thorny bushes. No other hikers could be seen. At times I wondered whether the trail was a true one, but other than a couple of retraction incidents, I managed to stay on it. I kept a sharp eye out for snakes, but couldn't spot any, although I'd been warned they are everywhere, all I noticed were a couple of lizards. In fact, I'd been warned Australia was full of deadly animals. Lies, clearly.

On reaching the top, view was magnificent. I stopped for a short break, taking deep breaths and squinting in the sun.




Top of the Mount

Mt Sturgeon Trail Map

As I picked up the trail at the alternative starting point, as above, I had to return the way I came, a somewhat unnerving experience, the trail being as it was rocky, thorny, slippery and mainly steep. Incredibly, other than a grazed knee, I carried on unscathed. Gradually, as I got lower down, the trees began to surround me and the trail was more shaded and level.

I turned around when I heard a whoosh sound in the foliage, in time to see a gang of emus meandering down the slope just behind me. They were so bizarre and large, so out of place amongst the trees, and clashing with my own complacent ease of being all on my own, that I was immediately transported to a state of primal awe. My life of safety in a country where the most dangerous encounter with the wild, would be with a particularly bad tempered goat at the petting zoo, or a mangy urban fox, has all at once been put into perspective of how little I know of this world.

Odd bird

This encounter left me in a heightened state of awareness, which was just as well. For, following the path a little further down, I felt the blood in my veins turn icy as a 7 foot kangaroo loomed a few meters ahead of me. The animal was a good bit larger than those I'd seen until now - either harmlessly viewed from the safe distance of Margie's back garden, or roadkill by the side of the road. Alive it was, and entirely aware of my presence too. We both froze, and whatever ancient reflexes still flow in me clicked fully on. I knew that I need to remain still. Although in no way a bear, nor a dangerously carnivorous animal, I'd heard that roos in the wild would attack if feel under threat. And this being a particularly large specimen, I didn't wish to test my luck. I stood, watching it with my head slightly lowered, trying to steady my breath, and let it watch me, until I could sense that It knew I was no danger. After what seemed like an eternity, it looked away and hurried off.

Dangerous wild animal

Still standing there, the adrenaline coursing through my body, I was no longer the old me - I was now cave me, interacting with fauna, at one with nature. All that excitement and high hormonal release had an unexpected side effect, which was now becoming an urgency. Evidently, upon seeing a 7ft roo when alone in the wild for the first time, one is lucky not to soil oneself. Realising, I winced in horror - no, not here! Not now!... but to no avail, it was do or die. I listened out for human chatter or crackling of feet upon twigs, ensuring I was alone. Remembering conscientious respectful travel advice for the adventurer, I quickly dug a hole, and followed my gut instinct, as it were. Covering my little shame-grave, I felt quite the opposite, surprisingly. Like a child first boasting to their parents with pride - look, mummy, daddy, look what I made! - I felt even more alive. I was now literally part of nature. Had I not have been in a rush to get back to the main road before dark, I would've shed all my clothes there and then and frolicked in the woods as nature intended, celebrating my pagan joy.

Margie was going away that weekend, but had guests booked at the B&B. She called for reinforcement in the form of her not unattractive son Scott, to help with the registering, cleaning, cooking and to generally have someone there making sure I don't tear the place apart in an unexplained frenzy. It all went beautifully smoothly and we even organised a nice BBQ in the conservatory, chatting and drinking, and being The Good Hosts.

The next morning I cooked my scrambled eggs for the guests' breakfast, receiving accolades to my great relief. Scrambled eggs are difficult to get right to everyone's taste, and I'm not one to pander to those erring on the side of overcooking them. It is simply an insult to the eggs, especially freshly laid ones. They must be still creamy and with a sheen, not gravelly and dry.

Having fulfilled our duties of a thorough clean up and animal husbandry, we decided to go for a drive to Boroka lookout near Halls Gap. The drive itself was spectacular - Alpine dense green forests heavy with ferns lushly spilling over, tall fragrant trees, and hundreds of cicadas singing insanely everywhere. Here I got a proper view of the Grampians national park from the observation point. The only slight downer was how badly burned some areas were, consumed by massive fires, a constant risk. We wanted to climb up even higher to the fireman's hut for an even better view, but it too had burned down.

Grampians' Lookout

Getting back Scott and I just had time to say our goodbyes, before I had couple of precious hours to myself alone at the house, which felt pleasantly luxurious. Or so they should've been, but although it was the middle of the day, I couldn't ignore the heavy cloak of aloneness, which would take, I reckoned, a lot getting used to; every little noise was weird and every creak scary. The whole thing became spookier by the minute, not helped by the fact i found Manhunter, the book The Silence of the Lambs is based on, in Margy's library and was trying to relax with some light reading...

Red Dragon

Contrasting nicely with my overdose of nature and isolation, the next day Margie and I drove to the nearest town, Hamilton, where she was teaching her pottery class. I had the pleasure of feeling pavement under my feet, idly window-shopping, and scaring the locals with my obvious otherness. The chilly spring nights pushed me into the local department store to purchase a pair of long johns, which helped me through the remaining few days at the farm. Once Margie had finished her class, we rounded off the day at a "mingler" in the Dunkeld pub, where I was introduced to her smorgasbord of odd types she called friends. Several pints and bonding experiences later, we got back in her car and drove wobbilily back. Similarly the rest of the sodden ragtag crew made their merry way home. No surprise about the vast numbers of roadkill then.

My stay at Margie's was the perfect first Wwoofing experience - I got to get stuck in with some hard work, but not too punishingly so, hiked, climbed, mingled with the locals and had a good old fashioned Aussie barbie. I also began to fathom the complex Wwoofer-Wwoofee relationship, although being me, assumed I'd be smart enough to circumvent it next time... what a fool I was.

I managed to get a thank-you gift for Margie at dull but harmless Hamilton, and we had a cosy final dinner together, watching the sun setting over the southern tip of the Grampians one last time, kangaroos hopping around the surrounding paddocks and cockatoo calling in the sweet air. Goodbye Grampians.

Pits are Political

This winter, I let it all grow out. Usually at some point there'd be a social event requiring shorter sleeves and I would succumb, begrudgingly making my way to the nearby waxing salon. But somehow this year I managed to cultivate my pit-pets undisturbed.

Personally, I've always found natural pits sexy, on both genders. It's like a primal surprise that is usually hidden away, a little like the titillation of exposed skin in eras and cultures where covering up is the norm. It says to me "ah, pretend all you like, but we are primates, we are wild, we are sexual. And no matter how much you try to cover it up with faux-civilised demeanour, with tea-sets and buckled shoes, with sophisticated idioms, with cultural systems designed to keep the peace and the law, a simple raised arm will reveal our tussled, glistening, soft plume of animalistic shame". To me, it says truth.

 

And yet, relatively recently, about 100 years ago, following on from the Suffragettes' struggle for women's right to be heard, seen and treated equally to men, the 1920s' fashion brought forth its own version of freedom for women - the freedom to be unashamed of their bodies, to relish in unencumbering layers of fabric, not being forced to hide yourself away. Although part of a process still in its infancy, a mere sign of things to come, there was significance to it. Alas, it came with a price - yes, you were now granted the freedom to frolic near-nude, but in exchange you would have to diminish signs of sexual maturity. If you were going to act care-free, you had to be child-like, hence the figure in vogue was that of a young girl, scrawny and bosomless. It stood to reason that any visible post-pubescent hair had to go too. Fashion magazines and manufacturers of hair removal products cottoned on and sublimated the message further.

 

With the era of war re-shuffling priorities from the superficial to the utilitarian, it's taken another 40 years for body hair to make an appearance again, this time in the form of outright rebellion as part of women's lib of the 1960s. Then - nothing. Other than the occasional RCF (Really Crazy Female) such as Juliet Lewis or Courtney Love, and of course various kooky Europeans, we didn't get another gander at the furry friends until recently. Post-post-modern Nu Punk and social media where discussions on feminist issues finally found a more global stronghold, coupled with the need to constantly escalate the shocking and push the boundaries, lest we desynthesise so badly that we *gasp* switch off from our smartphones, brought on one of the latest "campaigns" - along with no-make-up-women - to proudly grow and display your pit hair. Often having dyed it for additional effect.

Global media's reaction has been to tolerantly roll its collective eyes and sigh, being as it is a fairly harmless call for wimmin's right to be who they are, unshackled by convention. Or is it indeed unshackled... for the focus is still fixed firmly on looks - this underarm hair is dyed, coiffed and displayed by those meeting the accepted paradigm of attractiveness, thus containing it within a safe margin - 'relax everyone, they may have a bit of pit hair but at least they're hot! Women's highest duty is still being fulfilled'. If you're ugly, fat, or old, you're only a step away from ostracisation if you dare to fail on this count too. Still, at least the door had re-opened for discourse.

All that background notwithstanding, considering my current conundrum proves trickier than I'd like to think. Firstly, it's the constant reaction my locks are likely to invoke, on the street or on any random social encounter, because people always seek the unusual as a talking point. There's an inherent need to assess levels of oddness in others and therefore the possibility of danger - possessing pits that are out of control is clearly a breach of convention and therefore one step away from criminal insanity! Or even simply as an opportunity to break the ice with jokey or frank chitchat - either way, it's bound to come up more often than not, becoming the inadvertent pivot of my summer. What a bore!

When sampling opinions on the subject from various acquaintances, the overwhelming majority response is a resounding 'yuck', an arbitrary 'it's wrong', 'it just looks horrible' and a complete inability to provide a solid justification to the double standard of men not having to dispose of theirs. It's amazing what a hundred years of public opinion conditioning can do.

In addition, I find myself considering the odd notion that it may not constitute appropriate work attire - would it be cause for HR involvement if I turn up sleeveless? And what about my chosen sport - would my training buddies, those who on occasion make direct contact with my oft-sweaty pits, feel put off and disgusted? Would I be putting them in an unfair situation? Some of them sport a full and pungent pit-mane themselves, why should I be deprived of the right?

These are questions I feel I shouldn't be having to ask, but do regardless. Waving the follicled pit flag seems to require a degree of real commitment, taking a stand. A political and involved stand, one which denotes more than it ought to. Every choice comes at a price. Looks like this one will be decided by a hair’s breadth.