The Gates of Hell, Complete with Devils

More Art by Susan

We arrived at the charming town of Wilmot, just south of Devonport, not far from Cradle Mountain - a World Heritage Area - entering a pleasant little cottage with a bountiful garden, clearly lovingly cared for. Susan explained that as far as she was concerned, Wwoofing is not only about work, but also about learning, a philosophy I could not disagree with. As I discovered - at first to my delight - she  meant it , and as the next few days progressed, she instructed me on correct weeding, wrapping trees in wire and mulching, and I got down to some hard graft.

 

 
Alas, the balance was quickly disproportionately tipped as I was listening significantly more than working. Susan talked NON-STOP, albeit enthusiastically and knowledgably - on Tassie's disappearing indigenous forests and wildlife, the problems of logging and mining, and rather a lot of general tree chat. But more than that, acres of talk of her past ailments, of being hounded by the local farmers angered by her anti-pesticide and anti-forestry propaganda, who would throw dead wallabies over her gate, and of dejected berserk lovers setting fire to her front porch.

Still, Susan was a genuine hippy with the best of intentions. She was a true believer in community, a non-dual universe and accountability for each other, forever exploring ways of improving the environment and helping others. We had some bonding moments of warmth and kindness - after I'd suffered bad sunburn at the end of the first day's work, with the UV index being clearly harsher than in Victoria, she provided a soothing rub with her aloe vera plant, which certainly saved me from several agonising days.

This was also where I'd  encountered the first hint of Tassie's strong link to spiritual practices, in particular influenced by indigenous ritualistic paganism and shamanism. On the bookshelf in my room I found a Book of Shadows of disreputable and mysterious origin, and I was so fascinated and delighted with it, Susan offered to give it to me. However, already aware that her gifts invariably carry a hefty price tag in various unexpected forms, I declined, a decision I regret to this day. It was quite a special book.

Most serendipitously, Susan showed me a letter of introduction she had received from a fellow Wwoofer, which made rather an impact. Sent to all hosts in the Wwoofing community, this initiative was unprecedented and very old-worldly. It carried a certain gallantry and consideration I was impressed with. The person's name itself struck an intuitively familiar chord, such that I knew we would have a significant connection, despite the chances of us bumping into each other, or being at the same location at the same time, being entirely negligible. Leo was out there, and his presence vibrated through the molecules of air, and gently mingled with mine.

There was no doubt Susan's immense expanse of knowledge was illuminating, as it turned out she was also one of the first permaculture instructors, working with Bill Mollison, the "Father of Permaculture", and teaching it for 14 years. However, the incessant chatter was growing more and more controlling, with any attempted input from me completely shut out and unwelcome. She began following me around, criticising things like my method of preparing an egg, or arguing - with no one in particular - about the basics of a band setting up their instruments for recording, me having mentioned I played in a band. Any work I attempted in the garden was scrutinised to an inch of its life. Basically I could do no right.

She also grew erratic in her expectations. She cried a lot. She told me to have time off then huffed at me about how she'd been working non-stop and what have i been doing. It was getting difficult, in particular as I depended on her for making contact with my family, trying to keep track of how things were progressing with my sister, as she now had a treatment plan and was shortly due to begin chemotherapy.

The idea behind Wwoofing, as previously explained, entails working for your host 4-6 hours per day, and, depending on whatever was agreed, you get a bed or shelter and 3 meals a day in return. Supposedly you work about half a day, which leaves the other half for exploration and, well, for making the most of your stay in the area, as essentially this is an ethical and pan-beneficial way of travelling. If you're at all unhappy, or the host is being unreasonable, you're only required to stay a minimum of 2 nights. 

Thankfully, despite all of her manoeuvres and attempts to control my whereabouts, I did manage to go on one fantastic hike to the local falls, off the Forth River and through a beautiful rainforest. Setting off trepitatiously on a trail not far from Susan's house, plenty of wallaby, rabbit and wombat rears were spotted disappearing into the thicket upon hearing my clumsy footsteps. However, it was mainly the eerie silence with the occasional bird squawk and man-sized ferns growing amongst the gum and pine trees, which made it a memorable experience. It was really just me and the animals, and i kept having to reassure myself that i was still on the right track. My marks were bright pink ribbons tied to a branch every so often. There were several occasions where I experienced anxious rapid heartbeat, and i kept expecting to stumble upon those fabled snakes, having been warned about them so many times, but no - none were to be seen. I suppose my stumble through the forest was making enough noise to scare them off. Or perhaps THEY NEVER EXISTED.

The walk took me past Lake Barrington and eventually, at a crossroads, I mistakenly took the upper route viewing the Forth Falls from the less frequented vantage point above them, rather than the conventional water's edge. Not the intended destination, but a beauty spot nonetheless, I chose not to regard this as an accidental pioneering attempt of unchartered territory, but mark the expedition a success.

Forth Falls

On my third day at Susan's she informed me she was going to nearby Sheffield - the town of murals, apparently - to pick up her alcoholic lover, Colin. I was welcome to tag along for the ride, but she was only going to be there a mere half hour. Happy to get out of the house for however short a time, and with the prospect of an extra person around the house to take the pressure off me, alcoholic or not, i agreed. I had a quick wander around town - yet another mysterious oddity of a place with the main street decorated in wall sized outdoor murals, western-style, on the walls of the shops, featuring scenes from a bar, a stable and other 19th century imagery.



 

The olden days, Sheffield, Tassie

It also had, for some unknown reason, a completely out of place specialist Scottish café, complete with an in-house bagpipes player, demoralising and irritating the customers, and a world weary waitress, both dolled up in tartan. Hmmm.  We collected Colin and his aggressive dog, Rock, and hurried back. But my oh my if for a moment I thought things were going to improve. The atmosphere was intense, every word the man uttered was hissed at and belittled. It wasn't pretty. I really felt for the poor chap. I went to bed early, leaving them to their charming dynamic, not before I'd been coerced into watching a sort of Aussie music revival festival on TV, featuring stars of the 60s 70s and 80s making a spectacle of themselves in overly tight sparkly leotards and smeared tired makeup. Needless to say none of the songs were familiar. That is until Leo Sayer appeared on the screen. That man is a truly hard working guy. 

The next morning I woke up feeling suffocated. Susan was already pottering around passive-aggressively, commenting out of the corner of her mouth that 'maybe you should have the day off' but didn't seem convinced about it, and I sensed a definite angry rant in the works if I had. I knew I had to get out, for good. The plan had been to spend a week or two at Susan's, visit the Cradle Mountain and Lake St Clair National Park for a couple of days, then head off to the next Wwoofing spot, which had already been tentatively arranged, pending confirmation of exact dates. But this plan, as it stood, was clearly not going to work out. I made some excuse about going to the nearest shop - 1.5 miles away, where I sought advice about the quickest way out of town. They seemed very sympathetic over my predicament, and said I could easily hitch a ride out of there if I just hang around outside the shop for the next hour or two, as there'll be plenty of people stopping for petrol on their way to Cradle Mountain. Very kindly they offered to ask about a lift on my behalf.

I went back to the house and warily informed Susan i was leaving. In response I got a vicious snarl and was manipulated to hang on till after lunch, despite me mentioning the time factor - Wilmot is not a place you can easily get out of after dark. The bus service runs twice a week. I rushed the meal and our awkward goodbyes, and headed back down to the shop, to make it just in time for a sweet Goth girl in a tiny red Fiat, who happened to be a staff member of the Cradle Mountain Lodge, walking in for a can of Red Bull on her way to work! Well, that extraordinary bit of luck couldn't be ignored, and I knew I was making the right decision after all - I did feel a bit bad things didn't work out at Susan's, and I was wondering if I should've grit my teeth and bore it just a few more days. But no, all signs pointed out and away! 

A sign of good things to come

Baby Echidna

The Tassie Goth Melanie drove me all the way to the Cosy Cabins campgrounds at the Cradle Mountain resort, a stunning national park in the north west, where I got out of the car and immediately encountered an alive and well echidna munching some button grass around the campsite welcome plaque - another sign!





I registered at reception with the most cheerful and remarkable George Dubbuya Bush doppelgänger, and spent the rest of the afternoon at a presentation about the all the park had to offer, followed by a feeding demonstration at the Tasmanian Devil centre.



‘Devils @ Cradle’ managing director, Wade Anthony, and devil keeper Nicole Dyble with Ossa and BJ

Here I went mad taking photos of these odd animals running around with bits of rabbit in their mouths, chasing each other and screeching, a most amusing display. I even got to pet one, although the handler seemed unnaturally attached to the creatures, in particular to the female - we could touch her " but only on the back from the waist down please!". To be fair though, he was very passionate and dedicated, and as such, great to listen to speaking about them. These animal have become endangered due to the spread of an extremely nasty disease known as DFTD (Devil Facial Tumour Disease), at first thought to have been a type of genetic cancer, several affected animals having been first spotted in 1996, but has since been discovered to be a transmitted viral disease, impacting only this species. The causes are still speculated on but may have something to do with carcinogenic flame retardant materials, perhaps linked with various detrimental industries around the forests. Susan's calls for environmental injustice rang in my ears! There has been a campaign ever since to preserve the species, with a strategy of developing an insurance population in captivity. Cradle Mountain National Park was one of the spots where this was in place.

A Demanding Devil

I ended the day with a lovely light evening's walk, where I saw a wombat for the first time - probably the sweetest creature ever and a close relative of Winnie the Pooh! Or perhaps an inspiration for the much maligned Ewoks.  Saw some wallabies too.

Winnie the Wombat

Wallaby Scuffle

I enjoyed to an unnatural measure a bowl of pot noodles and bottle of beer, more so than all the healthy hearty meals I've had at Susan's put together, and knew once again I was finally on the right track. After some light chat with the other travellers at the communal kitchen I went to bed feeling positive for the first time in days. 

Ode to the Freezer

Growing up, my parents had the anxiety of recession hammered into them, a traumatic hangover from wartime Europe. They themselves lived in a city that was young and new, low on resources but high on hope. Essentials were scarce and nobody had more than barely enough, yet everyone shared and shared alike, sang and danced in the streets, there was no crime and everyone was beautiful. Ah the good ol' days eh?

One of the aspects, though, of growing up with scarcity is the deeply ingrained panic of the poor, to which people have different emotional responses. My mum was always the one to throw caution to the wind and say 'live!' whereas my dad's predisposition has been the counterbalance of frugality. More than that, he needed to know there was enough to spare. In particular, bread. And in extra particular, frozen bread.

Daily he would peek into the freezer and with a stern expression and pursed lips declare "need bread". That would be the linguistic approximation of what he said, as it had more emphasis on "need" and not much of a pronoun. Or maybe the nearest would be "must have bread". It had the quality of a guttural grunt.

It's a low-on-bread situation

It's not that we didn't have bread. No no no. We had a minimum of one fresh and two frozen loaves at all times, and therefore whenever our supplies dropped to one frozen and one fresh, my dad would take the family's level of peril up a notch from 'substantial' to 'severe', and not rest until he's retrieved an additional loaf or two from the nearest supermarket.

Likely scenario

Our freezer therefor functioned as a security blanket of food. Contained within it were always endless plastic containers of broths, stews, herbs, cooked and uncooked meats, pastry, bits of suet, frozen vegetables, and a couple of ancient containers of the worst and cheapest ice cream money can buy, now all crystallised and revolting, only taken out on special occasions or when my sister would feel psychologically sturdy enough to resist the glare of criticism from my parents.

Some people's ideal vehicle

Later on, my parents purchased a second freezer. At first, it was a honeymoon of sorts - no longer shall we suffer the threat of starvation (none of us has ever been anywhere in that vicinity). Now, years later, our second freeze box stands sad and under-appreciated, still full of meals and meats long forgotten, at the ready to reveal its glut if ever called upon.

My own perception of food's role as a reassurer has, unsurprisingly, been a powerful composite in my relationship with it. I won't go into the psychological and emotional implications, enough material there for a thick volume... but this became particularly noticeable at my previous beloved yet tiny flat, where all I had was a mini-fridge with an ice-box. The kitchen itself, too miniscule for adequate facilities, came complete with a shower cubicle in the corner to save on space. Here, despite my best efforts, I could never meal-plan ahead to my satisfaction - at best I could fit one small container and some herbs into that compartment. I couldn't see it then, but I was constantly on the verge of anxiety.

 

When this year I upgraded to a proper kitchen, the first thing I purchased was a full-sized fridge-freezer. Hideous wallpaper? Bit of a paint job. A cooker which is a serious electrical health and safety hazard? I'll wear rubber gloves when I use it. A rickety wardrobe? Stick some cardboard under it, it'll be alright. My budget prioritisation process became utterly blinkered, and like an out of control untamed horse galloped ahead wildly and unstoppably into the nearest white goods retail website. With fingers that are shaking with glee and anticipation I typed the words "fridge-freezer". Ohhhh the options! The items on sale! The user reviews! The features to choose from! And when I finally chose, and had to speak to a customer service adviser regarding the delivery, she exclaimed 'ooh I've got the same one - I. Love it.' That was enough for me, a spontaneous and earnest endorsement from someone like me. I knew we'd be very happy together, me and my new appliance.

My beloved


The immense sense of calm I gain by filling my freezer with nourishing consumables - soups, stews and dough I've concocted, herbs, and yes - bread, is invaluable. Not only does it put my mind at ease about The Future, as vague and intangible a term as that may be, but it gives me the delusion I'm fulfilling my role as a responsible adult to a satisfactory degree - without actually having to be one - as I sensibly look after, at least, one aspect of my expenditure, by not frivolously frittering money away on extravagant lunches.



Lunches for the next year - sorted

And lastly, it beautifully closes a full circle by providing me with a real sense of home - here is the frozen chicken broth (what's an Ashkenazi household without it); here is the leftover goulash my mum made when she visited months ago; here is my own kitchen triumph of a stir-fry captured and immortalised in ice as proof of competency at something, at least; And even though I don't even particularly eat bread these days - the evils of modern refined carbs etc - I still habitually hoard a loaf as a tribute to my dad; all providing a deep root of confidence in longevity and continuity - survival, if you will; and more than anything - belonging. A home.


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.