It's not that I'm not into you, but I have some place else to be.

A Local Encounter that Changed my Perspective - The Right Place

sequinedeagle — Sun, 7 Apr 2013 13:13:38 GMT

It’s the kind of carnival scene I used to have nightmares about as a kid. The air’s so thick with humidity and smoke that I can hardly breathe. Lights of every colour flash wildly around me and at quickly increasing speeds. The noise makes my head spin. Russian women are shouting about cheap vodka buckets, while Thai boys shout about Ping-Pong shows. A tuk-tuk advertising Muay Thai is driving by chanting its hypnotic mantra of ‘tomorrow night, tomorrow night,’ over and over. Music thumps out from every bar and sunburnt tourists are laughing at drugged-up monkeys dressed in tutus, or cheering at strippers dancing on tables. The scent of sweat, beer, sewerage and cigarettes wraps around me like an unwelcome hug. Then an over-enthusiastic pamphlet waving Lady Boy accidently smacks me in the face and I decide I've had enough of this.
I dart ninja-like through the crowds, away from Bangla Road and down on to the beach. I can still hear the noise and see the lights, but I feel a whole lot calmer sitting down here. The weight of my reason for travelling to Thailand is beginning to sink in. I’m not sure why I thought I’d find any answers here. Maybe I've come to the wrong place?
I am staring out across the ocean, trying my hardest to ignore the woman doing topless yoga nearby, when I see three burning specks of light rising up from the beach and drifting across the sky. I stand up and walk toward where the lanterns are coming from, leaving the topless woman to her downward facing dog.
The boy selling the lanterns is named Arun. He is smoking a cigarette. I light one up myself. The night is hot and we are both wearing black shorts and white singlets. The only difference between us is that he is smiling and I am not.
“Why you so sad?”
I’m not sure how to tell him, so I don’t say anything at all.
“Here, light a lantern and let it go. Then, no more worries,” he hands me a lantern and shows me how to light it.
I can’t hear the carnival at this end of the beach, just the ocean. My face has stopped hurting from where I got hit. The air smells of salt and our cigarettes. The only light comes from a string of fairy lights in the trees behind us and the lantern in my hand.
The lantern fills with hot air and drifts up toward the stars. As I watch it float away, I say a silent pray. Some of the weight is lifted from my shoulders. Some of the grief is released from my chest.
I smile.
Arun laughs.
“See?” he says, “No worries!”
I think I've come to right place.

Coffee Bean, Coffee Gone

sequinedeagle — Tue, 25 Oct 2011 18:58:00 GMT

Fresh morning air rushes through invisible cracks in my window. I squirm in my seat, trying to position myself to receive the least amount of cold wind. The lack of caffeine in my blood is causing a throbbing pain to grow inside my head and my legs are cramped into a shape only suitable for contortion artists.

Hidden behind dark sunglasses, my sleep deprived eyes roam across the countryside as it whizzes by. Uninspiring empty fields dotted only with the occasional cow fill my vision. The sky is a dull grey in the murky morning light. I can hardly decide whether the barren exterior environment or the drab interior of the bus are more appealing. They are both depressing me.

I need coffee and maybe a big shady tree to lie down beneath and nap a while. That isn’t likely to happen. Strict schedule. No drinking coffee on the bus.

The appearance of twisted dead trees amongst the cows begins to rouse my foggy mind into action. Great grey trunks forcing their way through the earth, great forked crab claws snapping at the sky. Exhausted arms surrendering to the power of the wind. Relinquishing their place in the sky.

“Coffee stop: ten minutes!”

I feel my mouth water, my pupils dilate, my pulse quicken at the words.

Spurred on by the promise of caffeine I force myself to participate in the world, I begin to see further than the empty field and dead trees. I notice that the sun has begun to peep over the scarp, burning the horizon with a golden strip of fire. I see that birds have already begun to gather on the roadside. Scavengers. Waiting for a car to hit a careless animal so they can pick the bones clean. I notice the country quirks. The sign for G-Spot ice-cream, ‘The sexiest ice-cream in the South West’. The giggle that ripples through the bus as we pass it. The sculpture of the emu stretching its neck through the wreck of a car. The clouds clearing to reveal dappled patches of blue.

The smell of the fresh earth seeping through the invisible cracks in the window. The absence of traffic.

We pull up in the carpark. Disembark. Order our tonics. A coffee is plonked down in front of me and I gulp it down eagerly. The headache begins to subside. I stare out across the café as the group chatters happily. Where are you from? What do you do?

The journey has just begun and already I long for some time to myself. For more sleep. For less people. Don’t ask what I do. Don’t ask where I’m from.

As I slurp up the last of my coffee I relax my eyebrows, previously scrunched into a menacing scowl to dissuade my travelling companies from getting close. I mentally slap myself. You’re here. No work. All play! Don’t waste it. Smile, you idiot.

The world is ok.

She Sells Sea Shells By The Shell Shore

sequinedeagle — Sat, 24 Sep 2011 17:06:00 GMT

I point my toes like a ballerina and swing my leg back and forth, carving a gentle arc straight into the floor. As I stand out in the open, the wind forces the smell of salt and far-away-lands into my nostrils, pushing the sensation deeper and deeper into my subconscious until when I shut my eyes I can truly believe I’m standing on the edge of nothing. Facing the world, but not close enough to be part of it. In the cemetery, although not quite dead yet.

I can feel my skin being quickly withered by the radiation, the solar rays falling all around me from the crimson sky above, peppering my shoulders with dark marks and turning my cheeks into a reflection of itself. As the land continues to be built up and torn down around me, millions of long-dead bodies constantly being shifted from the sea to land to sea again as the moon drags the tide back across the world, I imagine myself as one of them.

As an empty shell of my former self. Left to bake in the heat, faded from the sun, my imperfections long ago smoothed by the gentle rhythmic lull of the waves. My mundane worries washed away with the currents long ago. My soft, vulnerable body broken down back into the elements it was created from. Returned to the Earth as we all must, as those lying before me here already have been. But as I run my hand back along the gentle arc I’ve made in the floor of tiny shells beneath my feet, gathering a handful of the billions of long ago lost souls who’ve come to rest here I long to see another human face again. The thought that these creatures, the dominating species of this bay on the edge of the world, ended up as just another mass of forgotten souls is pulling me from my need to disappear with them.

I long to be seen again. To flaunt the presence of my soul to those who can still appreciate it. I succumb to the pull of those far-away-lands my mind can sense, those full of music and flesh, those where the tourists who earlier combed this beach must all retire to when the sun goes down. Where they must have gone while I’m left here, the only life in sight.

The beach will lie in wait for me. The ghosts of those shells former lives lingering for another millennium, then another after that, until the people stop coming. Until those far-away lands move too far away. Until there’s no soul left to be buried in the great cemetery here. Until the Earth herself succumbs to the tides of the universe, breaking down into her elements, lost forever beneath the cosmic waves.

Giants

sequinedeagle — Sat, 24 Sep 2011 16:59:00 GMT

The different colours have morphed into a blur of green as I race faster and faster along the path. Flashes of brown and bright spots of sunlight infiltrate my vision occasionally, but for the most part all I can sense is the green colours whizzing by me and the sounds my body makes as it moves. The deafening thump of my heart as it works to pump oxygen to my cells. The wheeze of my breathe as I desperately try to expel the poisonous gases building up in my lungs. The scratching of my shoes on the dirt path disintegrating beneath me. All these sounds creating a symphony of noise as I sprint through the overgrown trees.

I’m not alone here. That is why I am running. Here in this place where thousand year old trees shoot up toward the heavens past the field of vision of the naked eye, like the Faraway Tree of Enid Blyton’s fantasy. Some of their trunks are so wide, that once a fire has roared through and gutted their inner core, a car is able to drive right through. This place hangs precariously from the bottom of the Earth. Her roots bound by gravity, but her urge to break free and soar higher than the clouds is felt by everyone here.

But everyone shouldn’t be here. In this forest where Giants rule and we are but another insignificant creature scurrying through the undergrowth. The comfort that comes from feeling so small is ruined by those chattering tourists. By those children squawking like parrots for more food. Those guides explaining the grand role they have in making this forest special, their carefully projected voices echoing through the trees.

So I run.

I run as fast as I can away from the noises. Away from the people. Until I can find a place where I am alone. Alone with the forest. Alone with the Universe. Left with my thoughts and my thoughts alone. To contemplate our place here. To contemplate the grand plan of the Universe. How our lives are so fleeting. Meer half second sparks in comparison with the life of these Giants.

I find my comfort here, hanging on the underside of the world, cowering beneath the shadow of these mighty trunks. To know that they will see more than I ever will, even though they spend their entire lives in one place. To know that wherever your path takes you, however you end your story, these Faraway trees are still there, holding up the sky, extending the Universes grand plan. Extending the potential for our own species to grow and evolve. To be greater than we have been. To appreciate Time.

And so I keep running, keep moving to see where this path may take me. Because here I learn that no matter where that path my lead, the world neither starts nor ends with us.

The Chair

sequinedeagle — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 18:13:00 GMT

The sky above me moves in thick, gelatinous ripples, distorting the sunlight until it filters down to me in a rain of shattered diamonds. Even at this shallow depth, the world above takes on an alien appearance, the blue sky and green ocean blending together and eventually fading into the darkness of the sea floor. I take a deep breathe of the cool air contained within my tank, the regulator emitting a furious stream of bubbles as I exhale. Several of the fish nearby dart away at the imposing, bubble blowing presence I create, but the remainder of the hundreds of fish in the tightly packed school continue to swirl around me as though I’m nothing more than another one of the jetty’s barnacle covered pylons.

The water’s temperature drops as I slip into the shadows of the jetty. At this time of year on Western Australia’s coast line, the water wasn’t that warm to begin with. As more schools of fish zoom by me, their scales flashing like tiny underwater disco balls, I let my eyes feast on my new surroundings. The seabed is littered with starfish gently tumbling along to an undisclosed location, skittish crabs hurrying in and out of the tiny holes they call home, endless arms of seaweed swaying lazily in the current and, standing out from it all - a chair.

I settle on my knees, careful not to let my fins disturb any creatures hiding nearby and stare at this most unusual sight of a piece of furniture nestled in the sand before me.

It’s not an uncommon type of chair by any means. Just a regular fold up, blue and white striped camping chair, probably dropped over the side of the jetty by a bleary eyed fisherman, left to rust beneath the waves.

It had landed perfectly upright, just on the edge of the jetty’s shelter as to provide any soul who took the time to rest their water-logged body a beautifully dappled shadow to bathe their face in.

The fish ignore this intruder as easily as they ignore me, regarding it as simply something that was neither predator nor prey and therefore irrelevant in their undersea lives.

The chair beckons me to rest a while, to remove my cumbersome tank and buoyancy vest, to throw my regulator to the sharks and take a refreshing breathe of salt water, to commit myself to a life undersea.

I force my eyes to look elsewhere, to resist the peculiar charms of the chair-beneath-the-waves. The fisherman’s chair so carelessly abandoned.

I kick my way back along the jetty toward the shore, leaving the chair for the weary mermaids and lazy seals that may pass this way.

As I pull my heavy form up onto the shore and look back out across the shore, watching today’s fishermen throw out their lines, oblivious to the world their baited hooks are sinking into I begin to miss my chair. My future life beneath the sea waits for me still.

You're How Big?

sequinedeagle — Fri, 9 Sep 2011 18:42:00 GMT

And there it was.

This gigantic structure of breathtaking beauty, presence and stature, right there in my view. An Australian icon rising up in front of me: threatening to black out the sun. After such a long journey there, seeing it was like finding a cool refreshing beverage in the middle of the Sahara – so very satisfying. With the sunset burning through the sky with dramatic slashes of oranges, purples, reds ands pinks, the experience was even more magical than imagined.

I had been expecting big. I know the history, had read all the facts. I knew it was big. But still, as the car rolled around the bend and it came into view I was utterly blown away with just how big it managed to be.

It’s unbelievable that this massive structure was just there, surrounded by nothingness, the empty space beside it only accentuating its sheer size. It was beautiful too, all curving, soft lines, pale pink in the right light and with this almost nonchalant way of just being. Just there in the middle-of-nowhere. Just existing. Not caring who saw it, if any one ever did. Of course it’d been seen by human eyes before, but standing there I felt like it was just me, alone in the world with this beast. It was a vulnerable, but humbling feeling.

And it’s not Uluru - as is many peoples first guess when I speak this way.

This isn’t the only one of its kind. Not by a long shot. I’ve seen others. Touched some. Climbed some. Taken the typical tourist snaps of me pushing them over, holding them up, ninja-kicking them into oblivion. They are the Leaning Tower of Pisa of Australia. There are hundreds all around the country. Some with meaning, many with no purpose at all.

I have an almost obsessive fascination with icons of this kind. I think it’s amazing that they even exist. Appearing in the most bizarre places to stun and amaze the unassuming traveller. This particular mind blowing, thought provoking, emotion swelling structure of my explorer dreams is located in the self proclaimed middle-of-nowhere: Kimba, South Australia. And it’s a giant pink and grey galah. Giant.

A galah, so huge it looms over the whole town: protecting the dusty buildings and ensuring no development creeps in too close to steal its middle-of-nowhere title. It’s fantastic. It serves no purpose at all other than to exist. There’s no galah wildlife refuge in Kimba. There’s no famous ‘local galah saves baby’ story to build a monument for. The giant galah in Kimba is simply an oversized bird set up on the edge of town to serve as a gimmick to take photos of.

I absolutely love it.

My quest is to see them all. So far I’ve got an orange, camera, cassowary, gumboot, kangaroo and galah checked off my ‘big things’ list, but I won’t be completely satisfied until my eyes have feasted on every single one.

The mission continues.

Not Being An Idiot

sequinedeagle — Tue, 6 Sep 2011 17:56:00 GMT

We offered him a ride in the bus. There was a spare seat and the sun had set already, causing the temperature to drop sharply. He insisted though that he’d take the stairs up the steep hill and meet us at our rooms. We expected to beat him there, us being in a vehicle and him being on foot. Maybe he’d turn up a few minutes after us with red cheeks and a shortness of breathe.

He beat us.

As we rolled into the parking bay in front of the entrance, there he was, hands on his hips, beaming smile across his face, not even breaking a sweat. Mohamed the hotel manager was the Mr. Deeds butler of Tasmania’s west coast: very, very sneaky. After that, Mohamed would surprise us at every turn. There he was at breakfast: checking our rooms were ok and we had plenty of food on our plates. There he was on the cruise, ensuring we knew the top notch service we were experiencing and making sure we all got copies of their free guide books. There he was in the pub, possibly trying to hide from us and our ‘very sneaky’ jokes.

And he wasn’t the last of Tasmania’s colourful characters.

There was the old man walking his oversized, fluffy black and white cat on one of those harnesses people put on especially speedy toddlers through some severely over grown grass (possibly pretending he was on safari and not in Tasmania). This seems odd, but at least he didn’t charge us for a photograph of himself and said cat like the man in the same town who walks his llama everyday. It wasn’t the most happening town.

Excitement levels boiled over in the case of mistaken identity in Sheffield involving a regular non-gay owner of a gay café which wasn’t actually gay at all. Turns out he simply thought that the colours on the rainbow flag were pretty and that tea cosy’s are a nice touch to any establishment. He was unsurprisingly not very knowledgeable about the local scene in the capital Hobart, but revealed that he gets asked about it a lot and is still not convinced that the rainbow flags he proudly flies outside his shop are symbolic of gay pride. We’ll see him at Mardi Gras later this year I’m sure.

Most frightening was the B&B owner who MUST have been replacing the mushrooms in her omelette for the magic kind and wouldn’t stop peddling Huon Pine wood shavings on to us (it has hundreds of uses apparently). We were absolutely charmed by her husband though, who managed to make 16 personalised snow globes in the short half hour that we left him alone in between trying to avoid his wife and having dinner. Brilliant.

My favourite however was Russ, who I met in the tavern. When I asked him what he does for a living he replied that he does what anyone who’s 78 and lives in Strahan would do: drink! He then preceded to skol his beer to the cheers of the locals around him. Apart from being thoroughly impressed by the retirees drinking abilities I was also struck by his worldly advice:

“If you don’t meet people when you travel you’re an idiot. If you don’t introduce the people you meet when travelling to other people then you’re an even BIGGER idiot”.

He then skolled another beer and set about introducing me to the entire town (luckily all 15 of them were conveniently at the pub that night).

Thanks Russ.

Going North

sequinedeagle — Fri, 26 Aug 2011 16:49:00 GMT

I swipe lazily at the ever present beads of sweat clinging to my brow. The air around me offers no relief from the harsh Broome sun beating down on my exposed shoulders. The humidity carries with it the smell of frangipanis and salt – thick and sweet and damp. Men lurch by in the heat, glancing at their watches, trying to time their arrival at the pub with the opening of the tavern doors. The sounds of their thirst mix with the ever present hum of cicadas and the buzz of flies zipping past my ears. As I count down the 14 minutes until the rickety town bus trundles back past the sweltering metal bench I’m perched on, I let my mind wander.

And there she is. She bursts through the humidity, through the dust and the heat like a shower of rain.

She rolls by in her air-conditioned car and invites me back to her air-conditioned home to share in the chicken and salad sandwiches I have left to welt in the shopping bags slumped at my feet. An ice cold beer opened expertly in the crook of her elbow. A glowing sunset dipping low into the calm ocean as the day ends. As the clouds crack open and the warm, sweet rain pelts down upon us, a wave of relief sweeps over our faces. We rush out onto the balcony and dance, arms outstretched, mouths open at the ready, laughter in our throats.

It only took a phone call. The rumors, all true. ‘Anything for a fan!” she beams: her hair left wild and free, not bothering to fight the harsh climate.

I ease my eyes open, wondering if the power of my mind has been strong enough to transport me into that world. Into the world of a musical darling. Still the empty road with its waves of heat shimmering from the tarmac as far as the eye can see. The unrelenting blanket of humidity still crushing down on me from all sides. As I let out a disappointed sigh, my ears catch the hint of a sound in the distance. Almost like a guitar. A guitar mixed with the whirring of an engine. The sound of an acoustic guitar drifting gently from the speaker of her car as she cruises down the highway toward the bus stop. Toward me.

My pulse quickens as the sound grows louder and the shape of her car edges over the horizon, like a mirage. I scoop up my shopping bags, savoring the rush of adrenaline in my veins, the anticipation of her arrival. Then, just as the clouds roll in, preparing for their role in tonight’s perfect dance, she arrives.

The bus: with her fan belt strumming steadily and motor growling heartily.

I am left standing at the bus stop, thumb still hovering over the call button of my phone. The illusion shattered.

Just like all mirages, this one has faded away into to thick tropical air almost as fast as it appeared.