The train to Melbourne rattles soothingly along the tracks that carve
through a brown and barren Victorian countryside. The environment is
dried to the point of kindling combustibility, but it seems that luck
alone saved the area from the apocalyptic fires that scorched other
parts of the state. Domesticated animals siphon any available
nutrition out of the desolate fields, and their dilapidated barb
wired boundaries steal the land from the native inhabitants. Sparse
trees offer variety to the monotony I watch pass by, but bring little
relief to shade starved animals that seek shelter from a harsh
Australian sun.
Long distance travel often offers a great opportunity to sleep, read,
write and most importantly, introspection. Shane always ops for the
first option, leaving me free to spend the time on this trip as I see
fit. Unfortunately, an elderly lady is using the train as a chance to
give her captive audience an exhaustive run down on everything that
has ever happened to her, or her amazingly talented children. She
didn't seem to have a particular destination, and is probably using
the trip as a purely social outing. She had already displayed the
questionable nature of her intelligence by asking the most suspect
looking character on the train, me, to guard her things while she
went to the toilet. I felt like riffling through her possessions on
principle, but the people around me had already taken too much
interest in how such a sketchy looking dude was going to handle being
so ruthlessly harassed by family photos.
Being trapped next to her, I didn't WANT to be anti-social, but the
desire wasn't strong enough to stop me from BEING anti-social.
Luckily, technology has made some stunning advances in the field of
anti-social behaviour and I used my MP3 to maximum effect. It gave
her cause to pause, then she continued on in a raised voice to ensure
that I, and the entire cabin continued to enjoy the benefit of her
wisdom.
It's hard to write, let alone think, with music blaring so loudly in
your ears but I wasn't prepared to completely fill my head with
someone else's opinions and experiences. Thankfully I feel
sufficiently inspired by finally leaving Orbost, albeit three months
earlier than I thought I would be. My bad luck charm continues to
effect every farm I work on as the corn pollination run out after
just four weeks. It seemed like a shame at first as the work was
easy, the weather was pleasant, the people were friendly and the corn
itself was absolutely delicious. I used to think that all corn was
just corn, but there is such a wealth of variety that it seems
remarkable that particular strains are not marketed for the
differences.
I was disappointed to be leaving at first, but once I got used the
idea, the universe started giving me plenty of reasons to celebrate
the fact. Firstly, a few days off quickly helped us to discover there
is absolutely zero to do in Orbost to entertain yourself. Other than
just getting pissed. Or dreaming of how soon you can get the hell out
of there. Secondly, the pub owner decided on a personal whim to
change his initial offer of $45 a week refund if we stayed at least
four weeks, to a stingier 10% off the total amount we paid. His size
and surliness convinced us to cheerfully agree that $67.50 was far
better for us than the $180 we thought we were getting.
With my wandering eye and runaway libido tempered by a lady too smart
to come to Orbost, the only things I did with women were platonic.
And thankfully so. Never had I heard the term 'bunny boiler' used so
liberally. Never has its use seemed so applicable as well. In small
towns everybody knows each other, and everybody has already slept
with everyone else half decent. Speculation and rumours were rife. It
seems stalking was an accepted form of courtship. I did a double take
of one hot Mum, largely because she only had one kid instead of the
three or more that every other teenager had there, and a few people
later detailed the possible repercussions of the act that had been
discussed ad naseum amongst the community.
One girl inexplicably took such a shine to me, the word marriage was
thrown around far too many times for me to feel comfortable.
Admittedly, I feel nervous if it is mentioned once, and even if it
has nothing to do with me, and how anyone could consider someone so
commitment phobic as me the marrying kind simply boggles my mind. I
spent enough time with her to determine how much of a threat she
posed, and I'll sleep better back in Melbourne not having to guess
whether the night time noises out my bedroom window are affected by a
fertile imagination or basic survival instinct.
Four years ago I had a prolonged de tangling from a relationship that
had soured to the point of toxicity, and soon after I hit the road
and embraced a lifestyle of transience. I soon came to realise that a
large part of the appeal of this sort of lifestyle was the
impossibility of commitment. Instead of having to explain my unwanted
yet undeniable misogamy, my constant movement rather succinctly
justified my reluctance to become emotionally involved. Yeah it's
escapism, but the upside of my time with the Queen of Irrationality
was being shown the pleasure of being a traveling bachelor, and the
fact that the only person affected is me.
