I'm working up a sweat just
thinking about what to write. That's not because I'm whipping my brain like a
pack horse, it's just a constant by-product of life in Broome. Compared to
Hobart, it's like living inside an active volcano. Given that my body spent the
last few months fattening up for hibernation by eating Grizzly Bear size
servings, the latest acclimatisation has been more challenging for the extra
insulation I am carrying around. A week of sweating and summer salad rations
has helped bring my body back to being buffed like a bean pole.
There hadn't been much of a wet
season in my absence, although Mother Nature was still wringing the last few
drops out of the clouds when I arrived. They were more like summer showers than
severe storms and their only significance was equalling the amount of times it
rained in the whole 8 months I was here last year. As I write this, six weeks
after arriving, there has only been two cloudy days, and they both happened to
fall on my days off.
Once the wedding was done in
Melbourne, I couldn't get out of there fast enough once I was over-exposed to
my bogan heritage. My sister was still proudly sporting a 'Sweathog' jumper
that was given to her by our 18 years deceased Grandfather, adding a degree of
relevant nostalgia to it. The age of the garment gives those oblivious to the
'Sweathog' fad an indication of how long ago it actually happened. It was too
much reality to bear, and I had to bail before an over exposure 'Sweathog' lead
to the boganisation of my own wardrobe.
After a week in Melbourne, I was on
a plane to Broome. Nothing miraculous happened in transit, other than actually
boarding the plane on time, but the time flying gave me a chance to
transmogrify my misgivings about leaving Hobart into excitement about returning
to Broome. Such anticipation felt justified as I stepped off the plane and into
my adopted home's warm embrace. So many friends from last year had stayed on,
or returned for better reasons than merely seeing me again, although I derived
a degree of comfort from thinking that such was the case at the time.
Within 2 days or arriving though, I
was back in the uncomfortable position of being employed. The very day I
decided I wanted to pursue my interest in coffee making upon returning to
Broome, my old boss from Matsos called offering me the very same work I had
decided upon pursuing. Happy to repeat myself, in verse and experience, I
willingly accepted. Even though I was returning to the same business, my
station in life was to improve rather dramatically. From the lowly depths of
the dish pit, I walked into a morning bar and restaurant supervisor's position.
Cha-ching! It's not all smiling faces and fat pay checks though. I'm expected
to work more than 40 hours a week, and I have a degree of responsibility that
most people accept as part of adult life by age 25 at the latest. The signs are
not good that I'm going to accept that notion any time soon.
And the staff accommodation I was
promised has turned out the be the housing equivalent of cancer. The house is
terminal, and any sane person would quarantine it with the appropriate
authority, or humanely burn it to the ground out of pity. The place is pretty
much featureless unless you count all of the stains as being part of the
character. More holes in the floor than floor boards would offer any number of
biting terrors free and easy access to our blood were the house not perilously
raised upon stilts. Such aeroguard-free living becomes redundant when the
increased height furthers the risk of tipping the house over mid shag given all
its constituent parts are only being held together by collective will.
Thankfully enough, the common
denominator of the last 5 years of my life has helped me overlook such petty
concerns about survival. Reuniting with close friends and making wonderful new
friends has made living in a place that makes Satan's toilet look like
Shangri-la, and working in a restaurant whose quiet times are busier than most
places at their peak, worth only mentioning for the sake of being able to have
a whine. With no cheese to compliment my whine, and no time to mention everyone
worthy of mention, I will conclude this entry with a heartfelt thanks that I am
as far away from my sisters sweathog jumper that I am able to get without
leaving the country.
