Shutting Leo Out

Over the week or so I'd stayed at Kathy and Gary's, Leo and I grew close. We took trips together, worked together, and seemed to enjoy an intuitive bond. Naturally, we had discussed how wonderful it's been. We pondered our age difference, over 20 years, and the way we each see our individual futures, our hopes and plans and wondered if we could converge our paths and attempt to build a relationship. In fact, the seafood dinner at the harbour restaurant was the perfect opportunity for Leo to put his cards on the table, and find out whether I was game.

In spite of, or perhaps as result of, the strange pull we experienced towards each other, I hesitated to run with it. There was awkwardness, as, try as I might, I couldn't bring myself to see through the fog of fear and uncertainty. I kept thinking of how romantic taking this path with him would be, how wild and entirely the way I pictured the true life I should be leading to be - untethered, in harmony with the moment, off the grid. With a person I am in synch with, with whom I experience mutual empathy and love. But the truth, as I had to admit it to myself later on, was, that although I felt love for him, I had not fallen in love with him. Not as yet, anyway - from experience, it takes me more than just one week. And perhaps that indicated some great deficiency in my emotional makeup, a failure to engage my feelings. Perhaps I could've overridden this temporary, trivial and superficial resistance. Or perhaps in the back of my mind I was preoccupied with thoughts of home, my sister, my parents, and the uncertainty of when I'll be needed. Still, I couldn't help it, and it stood against my character to try and fake it.

Leo was understanding, as men who possess the mature capacity for empathy, and an appreciation of the complexities of life, tend to do. We left it be, for now.

The Gordon-Franklin river cruise is a beautiful, serene ride, once the extremely touristy bellowing loudspeaker announcements of 'and you can purchase one of those at….' touting souvenir tat subsides. Still, I suppose it is part and parcel of taking this sort of cruise. The boat manoeuvred out the harbour through Hells Gates - for us, an exciting feat, as we'd seen it from the Macquarie Head beach angle, and now got to experience just how narrow it was, and the cause for many a shipwreck. Once through, a massive rock lobster was waved at us from shore by a couple of successful fishermen, returning from their early morning run. We then careened towards the Gordon river as the boat glided into the silent forest.

The Gordon-Franklin river

 

The photo which changed the course of a river (or, rather, kept it)

It was lovely, especially since I'd taken my precautionary sickness pill, and was in a borderline-psychedelic, dreamlike state. It was, however, frustrating to see, but not be allowed to actually walk through the dense forest. This was a preservation requirement, of course, as these areas are untouched by human hand nor trampled by its foot. Having already had a chance to walk through some Tasmanian rainforest, I couldn't help but feel slightly short-changed – to see but not touch. In fact, when we did dock for a rapid ten minute trot around a decked path within the forest, we were sternly warned not to touch anything. It was a little too much nannying for our liking, the place was too beautiful not to connect with its inhabitants physically. And after all, as far I was aware - according to my hippy wannabe guru, Susan of Wilmot - trees like being hugged. This was all too contrived, too artificially constructed as a plastic bubble within a world of wonder. At one point our attention was even directed at what was purported to be the hide of a tiger snake, but the guide oddly seemed to know it was going to be there before we got to the spot. I knew snakes are territorial, and therefore easy to monitor by a wildlife expert, but Leo and I narrowed our eyes in suspicion. Could a faux-snakeskin have been left on the log as a permanent photo-op? Who could tell.
 
Having been herded back onto the boat, it then carried on to Sarah Island, upon which - could it be?... - who awaited to guide us through the site, but those same actors from the Ship That Never Was production! Understandable, as the play is the story of an attempted escape from the island. This was truly a conglomerate, a labyrinth of tourist traps from which there was no escape. We were permitted, though, this time, to walk through the island unaided, free to fondle the flora to our heart's content. We wafted from ruin to ruin, hut remain to hut remain, taking in the feel of the place and catching a passing hammed-up anecdote from the thespians, as they waxed lyrical about life on the Island, bringing it all back to life as if we'd been transported back in time.



Ruin

Described as a "living hell", the British penal settlement was nigh impossible to escape, due to its location, making boat access very tricky. The unruly labour force was used in turning the place into a profitable pine logging and shipbuilding enterprise. A means to discipline and control the uncontrollable, conditions on the island were, as to be expected, extremely harsh, particularly as supplies were short and difficult to transport across from the mainland. Lasting only eleven years, the place was practically a fully functioning village, attempting to utilise any of the inmates' skills to keep it going. However the challenging access forced its closure in its penal capacity, later on to be used as an occasional pine logging resource only.

Sarah Island 1822-1833

 

 

Once the island has been sufficiently explored, the actors were popped back into their boxes, and us ignorant uncouth masses were hoiked back on the boat for a hearty lunch - mounds of smoked salmon, although oddly nothing from the local rainbow trout farms we had pointed out to us on the way. The boat then lulled gently back to the Strahan harbour.
 
On our return, Gary was having a late afternoon nap, which meant we were jobless. This was to be my final evening here, and I took it upon myself to prepare dinner. When he awoke, Gary brought out a bottle of wine 'for my last night', and we supped on my rather delicious borscht. With Kathy being veggie (and on a diet of no sugar, salt, yeast or fun), Gary often reminded me of a ravenous dog forced to live on lettuce leaves. I asked Leo about it and he said that they had a BBQ one night, and despite the meat being extremely sinewy, Gary scoffed the lot, gnawing on the bones and leaving absolutely nothing for the distraught cat. I saw that as a sign of deep commitment - an enthusiastic bone gnawer voluntarily opting for an exclusively leafy lifestyle.
 
After dinner, the wine, the stories, Leo and I took a long sunset walk along the harbour, ruminating how amazing life can be when you just allow it to happen. It was a beautiful evening.
 
The next day I got up early to make up for yesterday's laziness and got to work on the carrots in the garden. Gary took pity on me about midday and sent me off to cook lunch for us three, Kathy having gone to work. I came through again with a hearty veggie curry, although suddenly realised I might've taken this rare opportunity to throw some animal protein on the hob for the flesh-yearning guys. Thankfully, whatever disappointment they were experiencing was not evident, and Gary fell into a chatty mood again, embarking on a talking spree. This time, unfortunately, I was forced to stop him mid-flow, as I had to rush for the bus headed to Margate - a tiny town near Hobart - Tassie's capital - to meet my next host.

This all meant a hurried goodbye with Leo, who drove me to the bus stop. The stress of rushing, my conflicted heart, the anger at Leo for wanting more and not having the opportunity to search my own feelings further, caused a less than adequate parting, with me practically storming off - frustrated at my inadequacy at a final tender moment. This was the last I saw of him. 
 

Letting Leo In

My dad was a man of contradictions. I know, you could say that about literally every person who's ever lived. But this seems to be an attribute of his, which reflects his existential internal rift. I could always rely on him for the darkest sense of humour, for slaying sacred cows whenever possible. At the same time, he remained throughout his life a very serious man - considered, fearful of rash decisions, often to a point of constipated inaction, which frustrated the rest of the family. He was a devout Socialist his whole life, yet followed conservative social norms in the most dogmatic fashion. 

Probably due to his strict upbringing, he was both respectfully fearful of the wrath of authority, yet a rebel at heart. He would never question doctors, lawyers, teachers, people who have reached the top echelons of social hierarchy, and this blind subservient compliancy ultimately contributed to his demise, failing to press for second opinions on diagnosis, or dispute lackadaisical courses of treatment. Yet he dedicated his later life, after years as a metal shop mechanic, to union work - naively, perhaps, ignoring any trace of corruption or skewed ideals, proceeding with a focused conviction of the value of integrity and culpability of humanity for each other's wellbeing - acting as legal advisor in work tribunals. Thereby he had found a way to question authority in the most fundamental way, but one which worked for him: finding where the rules were misappropriated or manipulated and ensuring justice is served, protecting the little man from the malevolent Capitalist.

Remembering my dad as I was growing up is in one of two modes - with an almost permanent slight grin, one side of the mouth curving upwards underneath his occasional moustache and hefty nose, a twinkle in his eyes as he's just dispensed some satirical or cutting - but never hurtful - observation. The other mode was as a stern, dictatorial, stubborn and arbitrary figure, unmoved by pleas or reasoning. If dad said no, it was pointless to try and argue. His word was Law. A fun, boundary-basher on one hand, a stone wall the other.

Later on, as an adult, his third mode was revealed - the depressive. Of a generation where introspective self-awareness was considered an indulgent waste of time and 'philosophising', his ultimate derisive term for anything deeper than the practical, he was ill-equipped to handle his crippling depression and nihilism, which also played a part in his deterioration.

But remembering him as a whole, complex person, divided within himself, is for me best encapsulated in a particular moment towards his final days. I was helping my dedicated mum and sister look after him, as he was deteriorating towards the unavoidable cul-de-sac in the most horrific fashion. My mum was out one morning, and I had managed to convince him to eat something so he could take his bundle of medications - food had been one of his absolute joys in life, now all but completely gone with the progress of the illness - and at his request brought him a thin slice of pumpernickel bread, smeared with cream cheese and sprinkled with chopped onion. My dad had a proclivity for the simple foods of his Germanic childhood. He ate up, with some effort. But did not manage to keep it down. As I was cleaning up, dismissing his unnecessary embarrassed apologies, he looked up at me with that little smile of his and said: 'well at least it tasted good coming up too'.

Ol' metal shop fingers and me

A transit van pulled up across the road from me, and an American man in his 50s disembarked. I knew he was an American, because he had that slick yet slightly outdated small-town look only American men in their 50s manage to achieve - a golf shirt, Bermuda shorts, a white moustache, round framed glasses and a straw hat. Like he stepped out of a Stephen King novel. But not evil.

Strahan - first impression

He walked over cautiously, having been tasked with collecting me, and politely enquired whether I was the right person, but I knew that was Leo, the man from the letter of introduction I read at Susan's house a few days earlier. As premonitioned, Leo and I hit it off straight away. He wasted no time unfolding his ideology to me - all about self-sufficiency and anti-consumerism, intending to spend the rest of his life as a handyman / Wwoofer, living off trading his many craft skills, rather than participating in our capitalist society of pointless accumulation.

Leo had been a handyman his entire life and was indeed very handy, for the moment with a pair of pliers, busily plastering the cracked walls of our hosts' house, and in the planning stages of building a chicken run, weather conditions permitting. The hosts, Kathy and Gary, greeted me with warmth, promptly introducing me to the cat, Tashi, the three chooks and the two goats (on loan) and I was fed home baked scones with jam and yoghurt. My work here was to be mainly hardcore weeding, transplanting and yet more transplanting. It was great actually, I learned a fair bit about vegetable growing just from the few days I spent listening to Gary (also an American) talk about his carrots.

Gary and Kathy were specialist trekking guides in Nepal, and when not tending to the house or garden, were busy organising the next expedition to the Himalayas. They were full of anecdotes from their adventures: from scrotum dwelling ticks, to men-hating lesbian trekkers challenging a fellow trekker - a policeman - to a fight, and to drunken monks on donkeys making "fuck" gestures at a puzzled and bemused Gary and Kathy. They never did find out what that was about.





Being travel guides also meant that Kathy and Gary were generously encouraging that Leo and I see the local sights. One night, Kathy drove us all to see Short Tail Shearwaters, AKA mutton birds - the only source of food for the original settlers, still today scoffed with 

Nesting Mutton Birds

pleasure by old-timers, a practice not favoured by a wildlife champion such as Kathy. The bird were flying in from a few weeks spent over the ocean, so they can relieve their nesting partners from their shifts, the nests based in holes in the dunes. Here they would spend the night together, then allow the nesting partner to fly off for their turn of ocean feeding. We weren't allowed to shine any direct strong lights at them, so Kathy used green cellophane wrapped around a torch to dim it, and we stood on the shore, the smell of the ocean heavy, the stars high above us, watching low flying birds screeching all around like demented bats, causing sand to blow into our already squinty eyes. Then Gary got out the single malt and all was well. 

Flocking Short Tail Shearwaters, AKA mutton birds

I had a little walk into town the next day and discovered sadly that its entire population was employed in some form of the tourist industry, a reality which was true for most small towns in the Southern hemisphere, I was to discover. Local industries have all but shrivelled dead. One woman here even turned her back garden into a native-rainforest mini museum - with entry fee of course, irritating her neighbours with the overgrown trees obscuring the sun and blocking the gutters, making it worse by tackily naming it The Magic Cottage. However, the town's main tourist attractions were the Gordon-Franklin river cruise, taking you through the untouched vast rainforests, the steam train journey previously mentioned - going to Queenstown and back, and a couple of sea-plane or helicopter rides. There was also a daily showing of The Ship That Never Was, a humorous audience participation play, depicting the story of the last ship built at Sarah Island, which was about to sail for the new prison at Port Arthur, and of the convicts who mutinied and hijacked it, escaping to Chile. Down by the Tourist Info Centre, every day at 5.30. Tickets at the door.

 

Over the next few days, Leo and I became exploration companions, with a shared passion for making the most of our free time visiting as many beauty spots. We had his trusty van, which was fortunate, as most attractions in the area were definitely a driving distance away.





Macquarie Heads



On a day off we drove to Macquarie Heads, a part of the coast with a view of Hell's Gates and a decent picnic spot to boot. It also is the start of a beach with some of the largest sand dunes and therefor THE hotspot for quad biking - both legal and illicit, as well as a reluctant graveyard for crashed vehicles. Ocean Beach, as this is known, stretches north 30k, all to way to Trial Harbour . Leo and I braved the giant dune greeting us by the parking area, getting extremely out of breath up the steep wall of sand, but it was worth it - the vast beach was spectacular, and we even managed to avoid getting run over by any of the zooming quadders and bikers.



View of Hell's Gates

Henty Dunes - white and green meeting

We then drove further down, to Henty Dunes - immense forests on one side, the crashing waves of the ocean on the other, endless white sand dunes in between. We got caught up in the emotion of the moment, melodramatically contemplating deliberately getting lost, wobbling our way towards the ocean, our feet sinking in the soft sand as we go, but the prevailing presence of noisy quad bikes allowed us to follow their tracks back to the parking area.

We then headed back to Strahan, and braved the unmissable-only-play-in-town, The Ship That Never Was - surprisingly not entirely torturous and quite fun, especially as you're given a spray bottle to go mad with during a certain bit in the show, getting all the other tourists in the audience wet in their nylon shirts.


Tourist spraying - it's a sport

We ended the day having dinner at a lovely fish shop. Ironically, the local fish were all exported, so the ones we enjoyed were brought in from Hobart - and here we were, sitting by the harbour, fishing boats everywhere.

Leo was shaping up to be a real boost to my enthusiasm for experiencing every moment to the full and becoming a yea-sayer. Even to naff, cheesy, touristy theatre productions, shelling my armour of cynicism, at least for the duration. His fervour was contagious, and he wanted to share it all with me. We reasoned that as lone Wwoofers, who don't normally get a chance to partner up as joyfully as we clearly have, we should take advantage of this unexpected duality and take the lavish - at least for us destitute types - Gordon-Franklin river cruise. And with that, the very next morning we wolfed down our quinoa porridge and jetted down to the harbour again, to catch our boat.
 

Wwoofin' and a-trampin' in the Grampians

The bus journey north felt very long, but, still suffering from jetlag daze, I kept snoozily dropping off and great big chunks of the way disappeared. I got my first glimpses of kangaroos on the way, through my droopy eyelids. Some living, some not so much. After a few days spent trying to find my way around brand new environments, it was lovely having a break, letting go of the controls, and entrusting the bus driver with getting us to our destination, through the immense landscape.

I was met by my cousin and his van in Narrabri. We knew virtually nothing about each other's current lives, and as we caught up I had flashbacks to how much I enjoyed playing with him as kids, whenever my family would visit his family in their rural home, usually for a whole weekend of running barefoot on the grass, visiting farmyard animals and going swimming in the nearby lake. He was a very sweet child, and as it turns out, an utter sweetheart as an adult too!  

A town called Ma... er Narrabri

Him and his wife, a New-Zealander, whom I've met for the first time, both lovingly looked after me for the next days. I was a good-for-nothing rag, sleeping a lot and unable to do much else, other than exploring the neighbourhood, reading, and sleeping some more. Their kids – a one year old boy and a 3 year old girl - were sweet as pie and I enjoyed their cheery company.

Realising how badly jetlagged I still was, even a week after landing, I was fortunate to have this time to get my body clock in order. The house was right on a lake so I gradually took longer walks, went into town, visited my hosts' workplaces, but generally chilled out. Stimulation was thin on the ground in this one horse town, unless you get excited by the cotton industry. A good thing too, in my current state of mind. 

 

 

Lake Narrabri

In actuality, though, this was also time for the realisation of how hard my sister's breast cancer diagnosis had hit me - indeed I was shocked at my own reaction, when, at times, hours were spent sobbing uncontrollably, which must have been a delight for my patient hosts. I am not a crier - to a worryingly robotic extent some would say - but here I was clueless as to how I can come to terms with the situation - on a trip of a lifetime, having to find some way of enjoying it, whilst being entirely pre-occupied with worry over possible developments. I contacted home whenever I could, which was not often, this being an era slightly preceding ease of online instant messaging, but of course, that could not entirely assuage my, nor my family's, concerns. After a few days of sombre meandering, and certainly not a moment too soon for the my cousin's family's continuing peaceful existence, I left Narrabri to carry on with my plans, rested, grateful and apprehensive.

The next stop was to be my first Wwoofing experience, in the Grampians National Park, a beautiful nature reserve, roughly the size of Mauritius, but a mere speck on the map of Australia. I would be based at a bed and breakfast and farm on the outskirts of the small village of Dunkeld, Victoria, not far from Melbourne. Well, I say not far – in real terms about 4 hours' journey away. It's hard to convey just how mindbogglingly big this country is, the area covered so far being a teeny-tiny part of it, and yet I’ve already travelled almost 30 hours in total!

Sunrise on Serra B&B

Margaret was friendly enough when we discussed arrangements and expectations on the phone prior to my arrival. Like many in the Wwoofing community, she was very much into all things new-age - apart from the B&B she ran - Sunrise on Serra, so named after the one of the Grampian mountain ranges visible from her house - she also worked teaching pottery to adults with learning difficulties and practiced Reiki. She had a sweet horse called Gypsy - my first ever horsey friend, a cow called Sunny and two Siamese cats - Ninja and Ling.

She seemed really happy with me being there and wasn't too bothered about working me too hard, which was nice, this being my first experience. From reading people's accounts, at times farm owners try to take advantage of Wwoofers, demanding that they work longer than the maximum 6 hours per day, 6 days a week, and providing minimal conditions. Some even try to supplement and even replace their actual paid labour with this free resource, exploiting naïve Wwoofers. As the scheme is intended as a mutually beneficial and balanced arrangement, whereby backpackers could still use some of their time to explore the area they are visiting, it utterly defeats the object and is extremely unfair, particularly as even after 6 hours of manual labour one would usually be too exhausted to go on, say, a proper trek, let alone if being pressured into working any longer than that. Yes, the farming industry is a difficult and fragile one to survive in, some farm owners literally going hand to mouth, but there needs to be a clear trade or the whole thing falls apart, and those who took advantage got banned from participating. Similarly, workers not fulfilling their part of the deal got asked to leave by the farm owners, reported to the head office, and faced having their membership revoked.

From my correspondence with the various farm owners, I managed to get a good feel for the sort of person I was dealing with and their implied expectations. I sensed that my next farm stay was to be stricter and not as flexible, and was dreading it slightly, and therefore grateful for this soft initiation. However, I was not going to speculate and would reserve judgement for now.

My accommodation at Margaret's was a little soldier's cottage at the end of the garden, full of old gardening tools and other dust covered items, a mosquito net over a lumpy but ingratiating bed - it felt very much like a secluded hut in the jungle, with the sounds of night creatures all around me. It was very peaceful. Each morning I would wake at dawn and go to the main house, stopping on the way at the chicken coop to pick up a couple of eggs for our breakfast, then in the garden to pick some tomatoes. We'd have our delicious orange yolky and plump red nourishment with some toast, then get to work.

View of the Grampians' Serra range

Margaret had me doing some gardening, a little housework and masses of manure shifting – that stuff is fantastic for the garden, and I became an expert in transfer techniques of cow and horse-pat, first shovelled into the rusty wheelbarrow, then on to the vegetable and flower garden. It's a skill! The relationship with Gypsy was particularly gratifying, as it took several days to gain trust, but bit by bit she relaxed, and by the end would gallop towards me in glee whenever I was approaching and nudge me affectionately. Sunny the cow maintained respectful tolerance of my presence, but kept her distance.

In the evenings we would sit at the back of the house, watching kangaroos grazing at the edge of her land, sharing a glass of wine in the dusky sunset's diminishing light. She would tell me about her relationship history, fraught with challenging characters, and I would share alike about my troubled marriage. This is where I learned that getting close with your host could be a tricky line to tread. These were, at times, people thirsty for closeness and human contact, yet at the same time they had a business to run. The relationship formed was one of subordinate and master, disturbed by personal shades, making it difficult to manoeuvre and maintain boundaries. In this instance, the closer we got, the more Margaret was relying on me for answers to her personal problems, I had to work very hard to draw a line. This caused some tension and ultimately a degree of mistrust, a problem I later found to repeat.

In the meantime, though, I enjoyed my time there and was eager to see as much of the area as I could. At the first change I get, I planned to climb one of the mountain ranges, as the farm was right at the foot of the national park. To do so I had to use the farm bike to get to the start of the trail. This proved harder than anticipated... Being more of a rambler than a cyclist, I've always found cycling punishing and the cause of much deep bruising, scraping and slight but increasing panic throughout. As a child, I loved cycling, but only for short distances. It is possible I didn't do it enough to ever feel truly at home with it. Once a year, on Yom Kippur, when the roads were clear of traffic for 24 hours, my dad and I would embark on a cycling trip. Off we'd set, but as much as I wished for it to be an experience both bonding and cherished, I habitually came back feeling I'd let the man down with my low cycling capacity. As a rule we'd have to turn around and go back earlier than planned. And the slight sense of breathless exertion to keep up hounds me to this day.

In order to acclimatise to cycling again, I decided it would be easier to visit nearby Dunkeld first, supposedly a straightforward and quick trip. Internet access was scarce, and I needed to find an internet café so I could check emails and send updates to family and friends. Having memorised the map (not that there were many routes to choose from), I took off, trying to feel the wind in my hair, the sun on my face and revel in the rush of the open road. Somehow, though, I managed to take a wrong turn.

I found myself in a strange suburban labyrinth of cul-de-sacs, with the roads no longer paved, and paths so new they weren't even mapped yet. I cycled to and fro, getting deeper and deeper into the net of back alleys, a kind of white picket fence rural hell. Not a soul could be seen anywhere.  

Suddenly, I stopped in my tracks. Something was wrong. It was very quiet. The kind of quiet where no birds nor insects are audible. I looked ahead of me, and right there, on the path which just sort of carried on into the open horizon of mountains and forests, in an already disquieting scene of civilisation melting into wilderness, there were cockatoos. Dead ones. Lots and lots of large, white, dead cockatoos. There must have been 30 or 40 of them, scattered all around the path.

I froze, overwhelmed with odd terror. I looked around - still not a soul. Then I looked up. On the trees on both sides of the path, along the branches, were dozens of cockatoos, alive and ominously quiet. They were all staring at me. I couldn't work out whether they were sat in mourning over their fallen comrades, or am I witnessing the aftermath of some great tribal battle, the victorious side gloating over the corpses of the defeated.



Menace

slowly, as if facing a growling panther, I backed down the path, never taking my eyes off the trees. It was only when I reached the corner of the path that I dared turn the bike around and cycle away as fast as I could. I had to go a fair way before I got back on the main road, and managed to find my way into the village.

This was to be my first, and relatively tame, close encounter with the wild, within the same week.

 

Hitting the Ground Down Under

Landing in Sydney, I was, as expected, in a dreamlike state, the night-terrors kind. Thankfully, I sailed through immigration and customs, despite ominous forewarnings of having to turn right back should a grain of earth is found on the soles of my shoes, and I was launched into the hot and sticky arrivals lounge. I'd been vehemently advised to pre-reserve the first couple of nights' hostel stay, to avoid having to engage in any interaction on a level more complex than signing my name and collecting room keys on arrival. Smart.

A shuttle service was allegedly to be provided by the hostel, and fairly soon an overheated and irritable man could be spotted lurking in the foreground, making no attempt to identify himself to us waiting backpackers as the driver. Eventually, though, he deemed it convenient to absentmindedly ask us to follow him, then proceeded to drive around the city, losing his way frequently, negotiating U-turns in streets too narrow, and getting increasingly agitated. By the time I was dropped off, last of the group, steam was visibly emanating from his ears.

My hostel was an early 1800s colonial estate, converted into a labyrinth of dormitories. It was based centrally, albeit in an area far from desirable, one street down from a prostitution hub. Yet there were plenty of other hostels in the area, with convenient transport links to all parts of the city.
 

 I was shown to my room, shared with 5 others, 4 of whom were sound asleep in their cots, no doubt sleeping off a night of wild backpacker abandon, was my assumption. In spite of the midday sun, as well as the strong and distinctive sock-sweat odour, I immediately heaved myself onto my top bunk, fully clothed, and fell into a sound asleep for the next 7 hours.

I woke up with just time enough to make a few phone calls before dinner, confirming my Wwoofing farm stays. Farmers participating in the Wwoofing scheme can be peculiar characters, as my story will amply demonstrate later on, and negotiating your engagement can be a fickle and capricious process. One wrong word could often mean the arrangement is null and void, as sensitivity and volatility levels are on the higher end of the spectrum. A fair number expect housekeeping and/or babysitting duties, which, all things considered, may be a reasonable thing to contribute towards, but - let's face it - that's not why you're doing this. For me, it was about the opportunity to sink my hands in the mud, develop blisters, make friends with farmyard animals, just purge some of my supermarket urbanity by learning about the holistic natural process. I was therefore very vigilant in my choices of stays, knowing once I'm there I'd be totally at the mercy of the owners, in the middle of nowhere and alone. I'd heard stories, you see.

There was also a call to confirm the first week's stay with my Narrabri dwelling distant relative and his family, arranged to help cushion the acclimatisation blow. I haven't see him since we were kids, and was quite excited about meeting family at this remote corner of the world! Besides, I was still reeling from the recent discovery of my sister's illness, and although I tried to put it out of my mind for the moment, it was stubbornly hanging in there like a hulking shadow over everything I did. I needed sympathetic company.

Once all arrangements were confirmed, I joined a hostel organised Korean buffet dinner in the green and pleasant yard. BBQ meat skewers and salads. It was cheap, tasty, and plentiful – just was I needed to aid my recovery. Having eaten, It made sense to venture out into the Sydney evening, for a drink in a local pub with some of the hostel guests already heading that way. However, I was beginning to sense that whilst a traveller in their 20s is greeted with a revellers’ carefree tribal yelp of inclusivity, a traveller in their 30s borders on falling into the hobo-weirdo category, to be treated with wary caution. My jetlagged state perhaps didn't help, as any attempt at an easy-going demeanour fell flat. Talking to people felt a chore. I tried some light pub chit-chat with a NZ guy, but, other than being introduced to the concept of ‘Movember’ for the first time (and he did have a magnificent 'tach), I was politely rebuffed. It may have been the jetlag, or not yet being in ‘travel mode’. Whatever the reason, I clearly needed to adjust and knew it was going to take time. I was also keen to get out of Sydney – urban city-scape was not what I came here for - and commence true traveling. But first, I had two days to get a taste of this city.

To that end, the next day I decided to walk around the city, allowing the residue of my haze engulf me like a cloud, and I began to relax a little bit. I started around Chinatown, which always makes me feel in an familiarly urban environment, as it's found in most Western cities, including London. I then walked to the Sydney Opera House, on the bay. I'm a sucker for harbours, marinas and seascape, and the whole area was very beautiful, water glistening, boats lapping, all that. Conveniently, I was right on the edge of the botanical gardens, a great big park - free to visit - and which has a wonderful feel to it, full of different types of odd flora and fauna.
 

One of the things I immediately noticed about Sydney and Australia in general is the incredible collection of birds I had never encountered before, roaming freely, which truly overwhelmed me. I was simply not prepared! Various big birds, particularly parrots and cockatoos, flying around everywhere! It’s quite something.
 

 

I also noticed gangs of huge flying foxes at the botanical gardens, in fact furry bats (but actually called flying foxes, clearly I'm not the only one with limited imagination),  zooming around in the midday sun. They were residents of the gardens but were apparently considered a pest and the city was trying to disposed of them.
 

After tiring myself out at the gardens, I found a travel agency and excitedly booked my ferry trip to Tasmania, where I planned to Wwoof extensively, then went out looking for some dinner. Having already scouted Chinatown, I was in the mood for some Asian food, and deposited myself in a lovely little Malay place, where I had a gorgeous veggie Laksa - a spicy, rich noodle soup made with coconut milk, herbs and tofu, savouring the bountiful, rich, glistening broth. Here I realised with sadness I must keep a sharp eye on my expenses, as budget was tight and so dining out, even for relatively cheap street food, was going to be a rare luxury. Included in price hostel breakfast, slow release energy snacks, dried fruit and nuts were going to feature heavily over the next few months...

 The next morning I only had a few hours before catching the northbound coach to my cousin's town, a 14 hour journey... in Australian terms a mere jaunt, of course. The annual Glebe Street Fair seemed like a decent place to pass my free morning. A suburb of Sydney, Glebe is a fairly trendy area, with dinky little boho shops and beautiful colonial houses. While I mooched around, a band played what they insisted referring to as "jazz", although twee folky tunes, with lyrics such as "...i gotta get rid of my pussycat, he'll be the end of me... " brought out the critic in me, and very quickly I removed myself from listening radius. Various market stalls and even pony rides were available, and I managed to procure a couple of gifts for my hosts, and got back in time for the bus, feeling a little like Captain Oates, perhaps somewhat less apprehensive and doomed.