Celestial whiteness

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It is 7:00 a.m; my bladder awakens me, you’ll have guessed.

Three days ago, we were living on the plains, stretching like a royal carpet in front of Aoraki, beyond question, the master of heights crowned with eternal snow. The King of the Southern Alps. Just like humble servants waiting for a mission from His Majesty, we wandered on the rock faces of His High Knights, discovering Alpine flora sheltering keas, the only parrots living in altitude, and most of all, fearing at the sound of avalanches roaring in the valley. Each day, we discovered the impenetrable magnanimity of the mountains, but clouds were always covering the one from whom we wanted a hearing. He is called Aoraki “The one piercing the clouds”. But, as the Maori stories go, He chooses who He reveals His charms to.

I open one eye and already, the window is calling me. Today is our last day surrounded by the Alps …will the hearing be granted? To my surprise, over the valley and its impassable glacier circle adorn with pillars grinding their teeth, the sky reveals itself under a shy morning Sun. Tongues of clouds shred at the bottom of rock walls and summits point their nose one by one. I run to the washroom, hard-fisted to jump into my hiking boots as soon as I get out, returning climbing on Mt Sebastopol, hopefully waiting for me with a fabulous view of the famous monarch.

After swallowing two slices of dry bread (thanks to a generous Brazilian who took pity on me, I was able to spread them with Nutella) I run to the never ending staircase climbing towards the Alpine lakes at the summit of Sebastopol. After 1:45 h of climbing, I am in the clouds. They are tough. The valley seems to attract them like chocolate eclairs seem to attract Mr. Lepage. So I come down again towards the Sun and half-way down, I have to sit on the ground. Here he is. Playing hide-and-seek through clouds, the glittering whiteness impresses me. The proud triangle, which seems to have been cut with a sword forged in Mt Olympus, invites to meditation. I just can’t move. Aoraki comes and goes through the white veils, and each time, He comes back even more majestic. And all around, the circle of gigantic mountains seems to answer His call and it seems to me they stand taller, whiter and more carved over the orange plain. I am under the impression that I’m earring thousands of kilometres of glaciers cracking in lieu of applause. The cry of a kea brings my body back to the cool rock and watching it fly, my eyes face thousands of dew drops adorning the robust plants and elegant heights of New Zealand. They form a silver coat on the carpet woven with all sorts of reds, ochers and greens. The moss is shining. Lichens are glittering. Here I am, filled with light, in the middle of the infinitely small and infinitely large.

I remember my friends who must be waiting for me in the valley. I run down the last stairs with a blissful smile on my face.

On the road, maybe 50 km after the valley, we stopped at the end of Lake Pukaki, huge oblong range at the foot of Aoraki. Finally, far from the clouds of the valley, the non interrupted hearing was granted. At the end of the turquoise lake, we were able to see a huge summit with refined lines, standing tall as if to bless the adjacent valleys. A simple smile was enough for our goodbye.

One week ago, we took a plane from Christchurch to Sydney, leaving behind a magic country, but in front of us so many friends to meet again. The flight was done on a splendid day. And just below us. In the middle of millennial mountains, Aoraki was standing tall, as to say Thank you and Goodbye.

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Ecstasy, and then the laundry

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I don’t know how kiwis can live with one pair of eyeballs and still remain sane. Since I started roaming this blessed land, my heart itches from the lack of spare body parts I could use to take it all in. A schedule with two shifts; I could night and day smell, see, hear, touch, feel, marvel.

New Zealand’s beauty is beyond what my soul could fathom. Its endless curves, its generous people, its emerald fields, its lush fern wonderlands, its rolling turquoise waves, its hidden paradise-like hot springs, its rainbow-coloured geysers, its bird symphonies are just a few of the flying carpets which sweep me away every day.

We have been very busy enamouring ourselves with Aotearoa, hence the lack of blogging. We have been twirling like dervishes in a vortex of synchronicities and awe of the land.

We tramped in the wind of high summits, climbed rocks, petted lambs, learned about the different families of sheep, biked through steaming blue-green sulphur banks, had a try at the Maori poi dance and warrior tongue exercise, saw Taiwanese Zorbing, tasted kiwi fruit wine, carved our own cow bone Maori fish hooks, spent hours in museums, ascended the slopes of a kiwi version of Mount Fuji, wondered at boiling mud pools and finally washed lots, lots of dishes…

We are currently WWOOFing at a spiritual retreat near the Great Lake Taupo (also due to erupt any day soon). It is our second spiritual retreat in a very short time. The first, a Buddhist retreat in Thich Nhat Hanh’s tradition (…).

My friends, I have here to take a pause for there are no words powerful enough to describe our experience there. I look at the screen and a dam of emotions opens up and I would like to share this precious intensity with each one of you individually. I would like to take you by the hand and bring you in Dharma Gaya’s garden, in silence, so we could hear our hearts beat in unison with the birds. Over 10 days we further discovered our inner beauty, the world’s and the light in the people that surrounds us. We looked openly, without judgment, at darker clouds in our skies and it felt really, really good.

The participants of the retreat were inspired by Marc and I respect for one another and contagious love. One of them, a lovely man looking very much like Felix Leclerc, fulfilled one of my wildest dreams: he spontaneously manifested a ceremony for us in the lush rainforest, where we exchanged loving words and greenstone “mala beads” bracelets as a symbol of deep respect of the other. Wow. I had a bouquet of purple flowers made by lovely Kate and hiding my blushing into it, I listened to Marc’s lovely words in front of a small assembly of beautiful people, seated in semi-circle under the canopy. Then I told him, with starry eyes, that I was happy to be on this road in his company. Our friends read poems, gave us cards, chocolate, tips and we even received a honey moon voucher to stay at one of the participants’ place in Hamilton! Just amazing.

Today, in between washing dishes and eating cake, I marvelled at the beauty of a tiny bird. Legs smaller than a toothpick and a body round, round like babies’ eyes. Another moment of ecstasy in this grand place. I really wonder how New Zealanders go about their daily routine. I have to try it for myself; tomorrow morning is laundry time.

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Aotearoa, “The Land of the Long White Cloud”

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Haere Mai! Welcome to Aotearoa, New Zealand. The name New Zealand originated with Dutch cartographers, who called the islands Nova Zeelandia, after the Dutch province of Zeeland, also meaning “Seeland”. So you understand why I prefer the poetry of “The Land of the Long White Cloud”, Aotearoa. Maoris must have arrived during the summer time, because now, in winter time, I would rather call it “The Land of many grey Clouds”! It rained a lot these last days, but last week was marvellously sunny, packed with rainbows adorning the hills of Northland.

What better way to celebrate Sunshine than going fishing with an elder Kiwi on the tail of the fish caught by Maui. But maybe I’m talking in an incomprehensible dialect...

Here, New Zealanders proudly give themselves the title of “Kiwis”. It refers to the magnificently delicious fruit, of course, but mainly to the national symbol of New Zealand: the bird. The Kiwi is endemic to Aotearoa and is one of the rare species in this country having survived deforestation. They only remain in a minimal number, but efforts are made to repopulate the colony. The Kiwi doesn’t fly and is the bird laying the biggest egg in proportion to its size... It is part of a unique family existing since Gondwana, the supercontinent that reunited South America, Africa and Oceania, 600 million years ago. Having lived besides dinosaurs is a reason spectacular enough to make it the national symbol, even if its cry is far from being pleasing to the ear...

So we went on the calm waters of the Bay of Island with an elder Kiwi with eyes of wisdom, filled with blue and green horizons. Picking up the trail of Maui, we casted our fishing rods and waited for our beautiful submarine creatures to unfortunately get entangled in our metal fishhooks (oh yes, the famous whale bone fishhooks are no longer used, they’re prettier around the neck of Maoris or tourists).

Maui, like the isle of Hawai'i, is a demi-god known by everyone in Polynesia. He seems to have reached the status of a star in every island mythology, leaving no doubt on the shared family ties, even when the islands are apart from 7,000 km. Here, Maui is the originator of Aotearoa; he is the one who made it appear...

One day, Maui (like Marc, Barry and I) went fishing, along with his five brothers. He was far away at sea when he dropped his magic fishhook, which was no other than the jaw-bone of his sorceress grand-mother. Even if he was a demi-god and he could choose any lure he wanted to catch his dinner, he decided to coat the jaw-bone with the blood from his own nose. He tied the bloody hook to a huge cord and dropped it into the sea. In two shakes of a lamb’s tail, Maui felt a fish tugging on his line and he started to pull it up. Just like me, screaming bloody murder, trying to bring a huge 7 lb Grand Daddy Hapuka to the surface, Maui used all his strength to get a gigantic fish out of water. As in every fishing story... the fish was “so big”, “as big as this”, “so immensely big” it became the Northern Island of New Zealand. I wonder what Maui ate for dinner, but thanks to his fishing talent, we now can drive on sinuous roads surrounded by hills; we can also boat on waters surrounded by grottos, cliffs and grazing cows watching magnificent birds, and put the charming coloured fishes back into water (yeah, my favourite part of a fishing trip)...

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Long Distance Romance

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My throat is burning deliciously after each Bundaberg Ginger Beer sip I swallow. The lovely non-alcoholic sparkling liquid warms my heart as I reflect upon my last three weeks in Manly. Gosh it's good! No artificial crap, just cane sugar and lots, lots of ginger... I visited where they make it, so I feel very privileged when I drink it, very "Aussie" so to speak...

I think I have been feeling very "Aussie" lately... Coming back where it all started makes you realize how much you love a country and its people, whether real "blokes and sheilas" or "expats" who have chosen Australia as their home. Last Saturday, we were out picnicking by the ocean with our friend Marjan (we lived with her in Agnes Water) and we managed to randomly meet 5 other friends. We totally felt like one of the first days of spring on Wellington Street when you bump into all your best friends without planning it... I will always be amazed at humans' power to make good friends quickly and to make a new place feel like home.

I reckon this is the addictive substance of travelling; this feeling of being lost and found at once.

Leaving loved ones is always a very difficult task, but the excitement of the trip to come combined with knowing how delicious it will be to return to them always ease the wounds. We have fallen in love with amazing friends all over the 2.8% of the huge continent we visited, and every parting moment was way weirder than what I have always known. I have always said: "we'll catch up on the road" or "I'll come and visit". This time, none came up because I did not want to say something I did not believe. So we have left heaps of great people knowing we might never ever see them again, or that at least we are not planning to for the moment. Let me tell you it is a bit heartbreaking. Monday night, we visited Julie (friend from Magog I met for real Down Under) and her lovely love Martin. We had a great dinner, as usual, great laughs, as usual and we just felt our hearts surfing on the smoothest of friendship's waves. Then we said goodbye, after all that time spent together in the last three weeks, and it was a real goodbye, although we did not cry. Weird isn't it? It makes you ponder on how people driven away from their families can do it...

Do not get me wrong here; I am actually in the gayest of moods! We are leaving tomorrow morning for new adventures in a wild land of huge mountains...I can't wait! It is also a land of progressive social politics, which I intend to investigate a bit. New-Zealand gave the right to vote to women in 1893...wow! Quebec waited until 1940, it's scandalous! The Maoris have always had a say in governmental stuff, which makes New-Zealand a lead in dealing with Indigenous Rights...Before I get too "politicized" here, I should wait to double check a couple of facts! Till then, Bonne St-Jean and get warm while we get cold!

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It’s bloody freezing!

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This morning, sitting on the white couch, I was savouring each and every ray of sunshine heating my skin through the old windows of the veranda. The jungle of plants and surf boards hanging from the ceiling seemed to enjoy absorbing this new heat as much as I did: everything was glittering with a myriad lights under the heat. I wanted to stay put forever, stay there roasting and stop time …

It’s only 3:00 p.m. and I find myself inside, wearing my coat, tuque and scarf. Despite my huge slippers and hot tea cup, my nose, hands and arms are frozen. The big palm trees only three feet away from me in the back yard seem to poke fun at my hypothermia. I hear them say, just like their Australian human counterparts: “Come on Canadian girl, you should be used to the cold!”.

BUT IT’S ONLY BECAUSE WE HAVE CENTRAL HEAT, BUGGER!

It started to be “bloody freezing” around March 10, which means autumn when we live down under from Québec. It was then justifiable because we were sleeping in the car, i.e. almost outside. When we arrived in Melbourne, we realised it was almost preferable to live in a car rather than a house. Here, the ground doesn’t freeze, so people don’t have adequate heating systems. Even worse than that: if someone earns less than $100,000 yearly he or she is condemned to freeze behind the old walls of his or her house. OK, I draw a long bow here, but for the last three months, we froze during more days than all the days we froze in the past (even taking into account the failing fireplace at the White Mountains…) When we arrived in Sydney last October, Julie, my resident friend, told us she had just spent the coldest winter of her life. I totally did not believe her! Come on… palm trees, year round surfers. But she was absolutely right!

So the weather is fair outside, but we live inside, all bundled up, and we prepare hot-water bottles to heat the bed… Oh well, I like the unexpected!

We are now back in Manly, Sydney, and it’s so good to join our precious friends. It’s really unique to go back somewhere seven months later and feel as if we never left. Especially in a place where we stayed only a few days! Back to square one, I fully realise my Australian adaptation: I recognise words, traffic regulations elements, birds, food, people’s habits that seemed so out of the ordinary to me at first (out of the ordinary I wished for, of course) and I realise they all became part of my daily life. It’s only the cold I’m having more trouble getting used to!

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Magnificent Melbourne

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My heart was floating in a bit of nostalgia at the end of our desert adventure. We had lived our last nights in the Australian immensity. After a few months here, you take for granted the never-ending mountain ranges and the silence of the milky-way…You take for granted being alone in this beauty, breathing fresh air. Even if I have been here for a little while, I am still so amazed by how unpopulated it can be. You would expect towns and people in between two big cities like Melbourne and Adelaide but we had to drive 100 km to find restrooms!

Our very short stay in Melbourne revived our desire to stay here longer. It is so inspiring! We told you about permaculture, bicycle repair co-ops and we just seem to discover a new amazing thing every day! Even in this busy time we found time to get involved a bit: we found out about “Lentil as Anything”, a non-for-profit organization, which operates restaurants where you pay what you have or what you think the food and service are worth. It doesn’t sound real, does it? The majority of their food is organic and you have access to a range of delicious iced-coffees, chai, fair-trade teas and so on. Lentil as Anything addresses social isolation experienced by new migrants and socially isolated people. They provide support and training for refugees, youth and other members of the community who are struggling to find an opportunity in their new social environment. They even have a school canteen run that way! How AMAZING is that? The food is spectacular. Everyone there is beautiful, the service is impeccable and there is always live music or multi-cultural display of some sort! You can eat with people or you can have an intimate table on the terrace. It was the first time I was going somewhere like that where you could choose to be communal or to have privacy in a normal restaurant setting. Bravo!!!!

Federation Square is the centre of Melbourne. Tourists and locals alike hang out there, visit the free mediatheque unit, free galleries and exhibitions and profit from the free public wireless internet. After beating the Guinness World Record for the most people dressed up as super heroes in one place, we were quite hungry. Normally street food stands are not allowed, so we were curious to see what was going on with the beautifully trendy kiosk showcasing wooden boxes full of fine herbs. The staff wore shirts saying StrEAT and the menu, mainly organic, was more than appealing. It turned out that StrEAT is a fantastic initiative to reduce homelessness. Being not-for-profits, all the money goes directly to shelters and other great services, and it is an opportunity for homeless youth to get a training, which could give them a proper job and a brighter future. After we bought our delicious conscious food, the girl there gave us one of these cards “buy ten and get one free” that we get from many food places. But this time there was a clever twist to it: “buy ten meals and the eleventh goes to a homeless youth”. Really, wow!

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Boobook and Lawrence

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Our last adventures date from a month ago. Let me draw you a picture of some of the landscapes we crossed.

Exhausted from looking in vain for a job, but filled with our new-found friendships, we left Melbourne to tour the famous Great Ocean Road so photographed. The next morning, our crew was adorned with a French hitch-hiker, who happily filled our ears with expressions we had never heard. The magnificent 12 Apostles are seen under a stormy sky; these pillars defying the ocean seem greater than life, under grey light turning silver with unprompted passages of the Sun. That night, we achieved a big dream: to sleep in an old Winnebago, decorated with a kitschy design of the sixties! The next morning, even more gigantic waves shatter on the yellow and ochre stratum of the sea cliffs. Monoliths resemble sentinels posted to protect treasures buried for millenniums.

We say goodbye to Xavier and wish him good luck with his hitch-hiker desert crossing. We arrive at Anna’s in Adelaide. She is a friend of a friend from Melbourne and has generously offered to harbour us. Wham Bam! Sudden friendship. The two days spent with Max, Anna, Nico, Mia, the chickens and the garden are unforgettable.

After many days of arid budgetary labour in the cold of the new winter, we finally leave for the Australian apotheosis: the Red Centre, the desert of the middle, the flat, flat, flat away from civilization. But, the First Nation has a story for every hill, every dry river, every tree tuft and every rock. The Australian continent, for them, is a huge “géophonic” map, if I may propose a new term to French legislators. Aborigines can find their way through orally transmitted “roads of songs”. Every element of the ground is sung as we approach it, songs based on the speed of walking to know how many verses to compose between every important relief feature. I wish I could have learned some of them, but this millenary culture is more than rugged and the asphalt is too much of a speedway.

Each time I’m back on secondary roads, throughout the world, I’M filled with joy. The nature of human beings to celebrate their sense of belonging is really fantastic. Motor bikers salute one another, backpackers say Hi and often times, people with hair “stuck slump” like mine smile at each other. It’s the same on less busy roads: we smile and wave at each other in a brotherly manner.

On the rocky mountain roads to climb, we crossed many super heroes: cyclists riding thousands of desertic kilometres and hikers ready to climb cliffs to admire the beauty of their country … and all of them already in their sixties. Such a lesson for us, who consider ourselves adventurers!
Rare wallabies, surprised kangaroos, curious emus, protective owls, wild horses and camel HERDS where there… Really! 200 years ago, Australians used the help of Afghans to build the famous Darwin to Adelaide railway line. Well adapted to the desert, these huge softies multiplied and now, it’s like being in Lawrence of Arabia in the middle of Australia!

We took the train on that line and at 10:30 p.m., in the dark, without lighting or roads miles around, a lady detrained with her suitcase. In the middle of NOWHERE! A 4X4 came to pick her up and headed through the bushes. There, I really felt I was “Down Under”.

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Chin forward, look at the camera!

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I hear a gentle knock on the door…I whisper a soft “yes?” and I see blond curls poking out. With shy smiles and eyes slightly looking away, Charlie and Lizzie make their entrance in the toy room where we occupy the whole floor with our big grown-up bodies. I think I hear them mutter a lovely “happy birthday” and my suspicions are confirmed when they hand me two hand-made birthday cards. Lizzie filled hers with fairy stickers and Charlie drew me with my four weird prominent dreadlocks. He also proudly presents the drawing he made of his house, skilfully designed as a big boot with windows. I am so charmed. I never thought I would have such a touching birthday morning in a country so foreign. They hand me a bag in which I find the softest pair of slippers and as my face is twisted with the greatest expressions of surprise, Mom and Dad come in to encourage me to dig deeper in the bag. I can’t believe all these proofs of affection from a family I just met! My digging is well rewarded when I stumble upon a piece of paper. So far nothing special. Then I read what the colorful ink proudly states: a dinner for two at Blue Train Café, value of 100$. What? Are you kidding? That`s a bit too much…Then they assure me they only paid 40$ for it. Still…woooooow! How can you pay 40$ for a 100$ dinner?

After many “thank you”, they leave for work and I am left with Marc and my astonishment. I always say I could not justify paying 100$ for food at a restaurant…but this situation is slightly different, and I realize I am very excited for my birthday dinner! It is really shocking to see how little you actually get for 100$...and this café was far from being an expensive one! What jumped the bill were the two drinks, which cost as much as a main dish does…So we really enjoyed them: a good old “Mojito” and a very chocolaty “Toblerone”. I can assure you we looked like two bozos when we took photos of the bill!!!

The deal was found on a web site called “Scoopon”. Every day, it presents a deal like that, which can’t be missed. Out of curiosity, we went to have a look. Next thing I knew, I was quite excited because in a few hours I was about to visit a world I couldn’t have explored without the help of Scoopon…

I got to Exclusive Photography with my old colourful, patched travelling clothes. I was offered champagne in the shadows of huge painting-like portraits ornamenting the walls. Someone was there to do my hair and make-up, and then the real thing began. Damien, professional photographer, skilfully staged a sort of dance for me to perform while he was moving his equipment around. It was very funny to do the classical star look under the lights…soon enough Damien realized that I was not the glamorous type and started to take funky crazy photos. After 2.5 hours of fun, an elegant lady invited us in a lounge where we had a look at the photos on a giant screen. Fabulous work! Paying 29$ for a makeover photo shoot of 354$ value is quite a deal. So you know that the company expects you to buy many photos, if not all of them. They are all so beautiful, how can you resist?? I was already prepared not to buy any, but I just inquired about the price to please her… 1100$, just for the 18 pictures CD, and 200$ for each 8x10 print. Well, you can guess that she was disappointed with me! Thanks to Scoopon I paid 29$ for 3 hours of magic and a 5x7 professional photo! Hihihi! Anyway, I travel with the best photographer…

P.S. Thanks so much again for my birthday presents!

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A True Hippy Barbie for once?*

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It’s dreary. As it’s been for many of the last days. But this morning, I will get through this dreariness by listening to your hearts, for they will be metronomes to my writing.

I began to see the sunshine while practising my Yoga salute and reading a book on fairies, for which I couldn’t resist during the first week of our trip. I rush to read it because I believe I found a good home for it. A comforting nest where princesses and kind monsters, genies and white sorceresses live, and where the vaporous pictures and magic recipes of the book will be appreciated.

We didn’t travel much since April 20, but we visited the passions and history of the Deakin family and we have been so blessed by their good nature. Our universe was filled with conversations on LEGO’s novelties, organic markets, permaculture, board games, fairies, laser swords and Barbie movies.

Since I’m old enough to compare myself to others and find my own imperfections, I blamed much of my lack of self-esteem on Barbie and her unhealthy social models. The apotheosis of my frustration came when I learned her mensurations would never allow her to stay upright if she were to become human. So you’ll understand why I didn’t really want to watch a movie starring miss everything-in-pink, last Friday. I was afraid my organic boulghour would get stuck in my throat. But life played a trick on me by teaching me that beauty is everywhere and often in the last place you’d think it would be. However, don’t think Barbie had love handles and hair "stuck slump"… I would have been too pleased…

Barbie, still a child, was stranded on a deserted island where she was raised by animals. She can talk to them, take care of them and sing (every 5 minutes) the beauty of the world and the importance of taking care of Mother Earth. An adventurer prince finds her and brings her back to his castle where she suffers, of course, having no manners and preferring from far climbing trees with monkeys. Well well, for sure he falls in love but still, in order to marry Barbie, must refuse to marry a true blood princess who happens to like playing the harp and doesn’t ride horses. What a scandal at the court! Notwithstanding the extreme kitsch, my boulghour easily slid down my throat and Barbie surprised me. And instead of going shopping, she recycled nature elements to sew a dress. My friends, there’s hope!

I had a birthday party on the night of April 24th.You have to admit it’s incredible, to be able to organize a party with good friends only one month after arriving in Melbourne! Once again, our Nihon friends adorned the party with their cameras and their screams of excitement … This time, because they had never seen microwave popcorn!

On the 25 th, we attended a fund raising festival dedicated to save Australian and Filipino forests. It was delightful to be among friends, even if they were strangers! As in a dream, every beloved look-alike seemed to be assembled to dance in front of the Barons of Tang, which brings back Grim Skunk and Gogol Bordello, Combat Wombat and Loco Locass from the area. Free Narguileh salon, pirate vegetarian cuisine, grunge haircuts for a volunteer contribution and even real tattoos on the spot… Something to stay inspired for a long time and lots of money to regenerate the forest!!!

*Dedicated to the beautiful Sophie Laplante

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Lucky Star

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This is blog number 20!! Thank you so much for being loyal readers, it makes our every-day life filled with your smiles.

Life is such a powerful wave. When you think you will crash on the shore, the under tow brings you back in the rolling surf. Please do not infer that we were about to crash; I just liked the ocean imagery. At the precise moment where, exhausted, we were strolling in Melbourne with no place to go, we got invited to stay at Katie’s, Cecilia’s sister, and during our stay at Katie’s a lovely family invited us over for another couple of days. How amazing is that? And there is still people trying to discourage me to believe in the true goodness of human beings and of the power of synchronicities…

Cabeza
While we were trying to find jobs on Katie’s couch, overlooking Melbourne’s zoo from the 7th floor, Elijah and Raphael learned how to eat a whole banana by themselves and learned how to put both their hands on their heads when daddy sais “cabeza” (he’s from East Timor, which by the way has a very interesting story…look it up on Wiki). Seeing how 10-month- old twins learn how to be human beings is as fascinating as any museum!

Old dump
Twenty-five years ago, visionary hippies decided to transform a local rubbish tip where no trees grew into an urban permaculture complex. It may sound familiar to many of you, like a utopia we all dreamed of. But they succeeded and it is now immense and addresses social justice issues as well as environmental ones. So many amazing things happen there every day; it is beyond my wildest dreams. We discovered this inspiring sustainable village on the day of their Harvest Festival, where we listened to world music choirs signing in the giant gardens, lit by fairy lanterns. We joined 148 other believers in a happier future for the famous feast, prepared with home grown organic veggies by immigrant women part of an integration project. Wow! And to top all this wonder, we met Charlie first, who took us to his tree house made out of recycled bicycle wheels, then Lizzie, Colleen and Rob. We connected right away: brilliant, curious and intelligent people forming a lovely family. We felt so good with them that we now live at their place (until we find a job and a proper place to live of course)!

A little hope
Tibet might not have anything to do with Australia but I really want to share something. As I am always trying to learn more and do more about social justice, I ran downtown Melbourne when I heard about a conference being given about the effect of climate change on the nomads of Tibet. I was ready to be brought to tears as usual but the speeches ended on a positive note I felt the world should know about, so that we could stay motivated to support this brutalized people. There is a movement in Tibet, initialized by the uproar stirred around the Olympics, in which Tibetans are being Tibetans once a week. They don’t use Chinese words or eat at Chinese restaurants. This way they manifest their desire without being shot or imprisoned. This simple action got the Tibetan language back to life and now people can have their Facebook page in it, there is even video of Tibetan hip-hop on you tube. Just another example that we shouldn’t underestimate the effect of small actions!

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No need to pay for a Qi-Gong lesson of relaxation …

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It seems sad to take a week off from our blog. It’s as if we miss you. As if we felt a loss of your eyes on our words. I’m so glad to be back!

The great Qi-Gong Master Xhan-Fan Soa Ka Liay*softly told me I had the right to not always be cranked up MegaSuperAlways positive. So yesterday, I accepted the fact that being homeless and jobless in the heart of Babylon at the beginning of the Australian winter could be draining, even if it’s a chosen situation of being nomad. Once this conclusion well anchored in the calm of my being, everything immediately came back multicoloured and once again I saw all the magic of my life. The problem, once observed and accepted, covers itself with a positive learning fleece.

No need to pay to fulfill a big dream (moreover!)

Who read Memoirs of a Geisha? I believe every other people has read this excellent “ bestseller ”, because the night I took small steps in a beautiful violet kimono, everybody commented on my appearance based on what they had learned from that novel. So you never know when your reading will be useful to hold a sophisticated conversation! On the night of April 10, I was gloating. It was so emotional to see Mariko tie up the red obi on my kimono; I almost ruined my beautiful make-up! She was so absorbed in her task and was pushing me around from left to right to tug on the endless fabric. A swift pull on the collar to reveal the nape of the neck and she would shout ingenuously: “sexy!”! An elegant movement to teach me how to reveal the underside of my wrist and she would shout: “sexy!”! Her eyes filled with pride when I succeeded kneeling without having the slit of the kimono opening outrageously. Finally, after a flock of emotion filled “sexy!” she explained to me that the free lock of hair on the left side of my face meant my wild and exciting side and the slick right side meant my discipline and submission, attractive qualities in Japanese culture. I spent the first hour of the costume party in the most Nihon attitude, but I quickly realized I needed to move a little bit more, I needed more roundness. So I tried something never seen before, which resulted in an explosion of laughter from my Japanese friends and the multicultural group filling the living room; I danced in a sexy-afro-hip-hop style wearing an ultra restrictive kimono. It was an intense cultural conflict. Honestly, it was really something to merge such distant cultures, which weren’t even mine!

Speaking of cultural merging, I also want to say I didn’t have to pay to witness a thrilling “first” … While preparing lunch for the film crew of a documentary on urban permaculture (under the watchful eye of the camera), I handed a carrot and grater to my dear Mariko, in order to add bright orange colour to the salad. She had never ever grated a carrot and she was soooo thrilled! Just to show you what’s mundane to us isn’t necessarily to Nihons!!!

*Jean-François Carrier

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Shodo to ikebana, De Bono and of course Cecilia

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Life is truly magical. Imagine finding stardust instead of salt in your shaker one sunny afternoon: your soup would turn into a field clothed with millions of flowers and you, by flying, would be the wind making them dance. After various elegant swirls, you would probably float down slowly and land under a lacey umbrella in Cecilia’s garden, your feet delicately slid in flowery Japanese slippers.

Stardust started to tickle our eyes and hearts when Marc found the tiny little paragraph about Cecilia in the WWOOFing book. A simple grey page filled with small print then seemed to light up. Urban permaculture and Japanese culture lived together in the center of Melbourne, under a roof of old picturesque bricks ornamented with spirals of iron! Away we flew in Shocker, eager to feel part of an ecosystem that could bring city and greenery together.

On our way to our new life, we meandered in the oldest and grandest hedge maze in Australia, on Mornington Peninsula, some leagues south of Melbourne. Its fantasy-like surrounding gardens were just a perfect prelude to the velvety existence awaiting us, not to mention the relation between the maze and the Metropolis’ lanes and alleys.

To weave even a little more diamonds in our new travel garments, Cecilia the permaculture teacher, Japanese translator, amazing seamstress and great chef offered me a massage on our first night in her sumptuous thatched cottage. Wow!!!! At least an HOUR of pure delight in the dimmed old pink lights. Since then we have worked in great osmosis and achieved marvelous chef d’oeuvres, like a luxurious dinner party for the Great Lord of creative thinking, Edward de Bono (refer to Wiki Book of Great Spells for literature about this lovely millionaire).

Cecilia introduced me to the art of ikebana, in which she believes I have great talent. Being herself a very talented artist who creates green and sustainable worlds on canvas as well as on balconies, I feel tremendously grateful for her trust and encouragement. I have been responsible for creating many floral arrangements where meditatively I married fruits and leaves, flowers and branches to naturally bring together heaven, earth and man as suggested by the 500 years old tradition of the Land of the Rising Sun.

It seems that the faraway Nihon was waiting for me in this small alcove of a house. Smiling and courteous lovely young Japanese women have become my friends after sharing laughs over their digital Japanese-English dictionaries. Having always been attracted by the complex and passionate dance of the brush on the mulberry paper, I one night, decided to try shodo, or Japanese calligraphy. The “way of writing” stops and starts again, like the short or long breaths we take in our arrays of changing emotions. For some reason my first trial was a surprising success, if you forget the fact that I went left to right instead of right to left, which made my master Tamami giggle. I will make sure there is a sequel to my brush dance, as I will make sure to keep you informed of the new adventures of the fairy-like thatched cottage of North Melbourne.

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Back to civilisation

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After surviving huge clouds of grasshoppers blasting their way through the bush, we finally arrived where you can smell exhaust fumes (reed exâââs, as pronounced by Quebeckers). All of the sudden, streets were full of faces wearing large sun glasses and store windows with useless knick-knacks or more trendy clothes. Restaurants were inviting us with colourful foods (Hurray, more salads!) and tables happily set under the autumn sun. As you might imagine, the town seems to have sucked-up a little of the good nature of rural residents. Already, my smiles and “g’day” fell flat and forgotten, answered by only half the people I met.

I remembered my first steps on American soil, after my long adventure in Latin America. How afraid I was! Afraid to never find the brotherhood shared between strangers, so present in villages. Here, it’s mainly the rest area brotherhood I was missing, and of course, the feeling of security from the almost deserted streets, only filled with parrot’ songs and heavy truck’s noises. Australia is magnificent for so many reasons, one of them being its rest area system organised for campers. You can sleep there for free, sometimes with just the stars for friends and sometimes rocked by the non-stop rumbling noise of the road trains. The land of koalas being huge, road trains is greatly valued by its residents. In rest areas, tight-knit communities form every night. There, permanent or occasional caravanists share their stories, political views or adventures of their children abroad. All this, sitting around with an Aussie beer, which is a sort of yellowish and very bitter liquid (thanks Quebec for your good beers!). So I apprehended an arduous adaptation to the urban environment, but I also knew it would be rounded up with astonishment by the ton-fold.

As Marc told you, our first incursion into “Babylon” was awarded with an attack in a family park. Such a hard blow to the global heart; to my heart of universal mother, to my heart of human rights righter (and who aspire to be more actively). There are so many children without childhood. Thanks to all my friends who guide their own so marvellously on this Earth and to parents who guided them so well and continue to do so I’m sure. We needed not to fear for our security, being surrounded by many families on a sunny Sunday, but scores of thoughts to reflect on topics sometimes seeming to have no way out. We were disappointed to see that notwithstanding our genuine interest and faith in the richness of the Aborigines people, we often found its members in unsettled social situation. The fate of conquered people is so challenging and crucially sad. However, it’s important to mention that the kid who hit Marc was one of the two White kids of the gang. Maybe, it doesn’t mean anything, or maybe sociologists might find an interesting explanation to this phenomenon. Despite this incident, we continue to carry interest to every culture and chiefly take advantage of the windfall of ethnic and eclectic meetings the town provides us with. We arrive in Melbourne with a smile on our face and goodwill in our gear.

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Too much to say…

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Never take the same route twice, that’s kind of our motto. This is why on March first, leaving Magnetic Island, we decided to cross Australia from North to South trough the bush, the antechamber of the famous Outback. Ahead of us then lay a journey into the Great Unpopulated Land, if I allow myself to give it a name. It has been an absolute meditation, a “lucky pick” filled with surprising landscapes, a tremendously beneficial exercise of breathing fresh air and a wonderful encounter with cowboys and the like.

We started 133 km west of Townsville, in Charters Towers. The picturesque main street with its displays of lace-like iron on the buildings’ corners melted our hearts in the bright sun. Already, many teenagers were strolling around clothed with the most conventional cowboy outfit: hat, boots, and high waist jeans. I was ecstatic (because you know, I looove finding myself in places I’m not used to…).

Many people smiled mysteriously when told of our road plans. We understood when ,exhausted but revitalized, we stopped in a mini-village to camp for the night after having driven about 400 km on a road with NOTHING but infinite horizons. There was one stop: an empty store with two old fuel pumps, a smoking cowboy and a sleeping dog. We also waved our hands at some lonesome cows but they were too busy grazing to answer. So we ended up in Clermont, in gem country. There we met people who lived their lives in a small caravan park and survived by selling the gold they were fossicking for. They were selling metal detectors and trying to convince us we could make a living out of digging rocks, but we had to learn “how to” by buying a DVD that cost $ 79...

Then we hit the floods. It hasn’t rained like this for more than 150 years. 80 % of St.George’s population was evacuated. But you know what? Sadness of loosing houses and belongings was eclipsed by extreme joy of finally making it out of the 10 years drought alive, and with filled water tanks that will be quenching everyone for years. It’s always good to find happiness in misfortunes.

Along the way we saw lush greenness and dry flatness; everywhere the master pastoralists succeeded in creating a liveable country for their different herds. As we made our way south the cows neighboured huge amounts of sheep, some emus, a handful of deer and alpacas, all visited by loads of friendly birds, rabbits and of course, roos. In Central New South Wales, we zoomed across vast cotton, corn, lavender fields and saw many olive groves. I swear the little villages we visited don’t see many tourists from overseas. An Aussie friend we met on the road also said that we had seen vistas that about 0.2 % of Australians had seen. Taking a Bundaberg ginger beer in a desolated tavern populated by worn out cowboys, well that was something.

Each village is so desperate to kidnap some travellers for a while that they all welcome you, one after another each 100 km or so, with a big sign saying they are the tidiest town in Australia 2006, or the friendliest town in Queensland 2008, and one even got as far as boasting it was Australia’s sporting capital (!?!). Moreover, it seems that they all asked their citizens to collect the old machinery, silverware and knick-knacks to create museums of fortune, for each small community invited us to visit their heritage museum, located in a big shed in the middle of town. They certainly can brag about the qualities of their grandmas and grandpas though; everywhere we stopped, we always met some kind white haired fairies of the bush always ready to marvel at our adventures and offer us their nicest smiles…We definitely prefer “live” heritage museums!

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Bottle Trees Poetry

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Over the soft green valleys, my eyes focus to infinity. The Sun shines between two downpours and seems to brighten up scintillating dew on the outback grass. My sight owns back the horizon and hops from masterpiece to masterpiece; each and everyone different, each and everyone unique.

They attract me and awaken me, I marvel at them as they remind me the need to celebrate life. These natural works of art are like women to me. Women in the splendour of their various shapes, each one more magnificent then the other in their uniqueness. They are long and tall, short and round, some have a tiny waist and hips shaped like hills and others stun us with their round buttocks. Some of them even look pregnant. But, without exception, they all raise their arms to the sky, as to invite us to dance, to celebrate life in its diversity. During this month hosting the International Women’s day, seeing this nature demonstration, I reiterate my wish to one day see societies where women feel good about themselves, whatever curves they have.
I’m describing to you my quite romanticized vision of Bottle Trees, similar to baobabs, growing alongside deserted roads of Central Queensland. Just looking at them, I was kinking in the car because I wanted so much to join them in their round dance. After arriving in villages, often in the middle of who knows where, where only a few people lived, I would stretch my legs, helping Marc to set up a makeshift camp for the night.

On a beautiful golden and quiet afternoon, I was startled to see a small man coming straight from the woods, where we thought only wallabies, kangaroos and wombats lived. He was walking with a decisive but jagged step, his blue eyes riveted on Marc who was getting ready to become a bush mechanic for the day. Richard came to Australia in 1959 and never went back to Poland, his native country. However, he once built his own big sailboat in Sydney bay and went to live in Papua New Guinea and in Indonesia for about 10 years. In the sixties, islands were still paradises almost untouched by western imprinting. Through his old photos, we saw tribes dancing and young girls posing, a mischievous smile at the corner of their mouths, dedicated of course to our Polish-Australian nomad. In the course of a morning, Richard shared with us his 73 years of life, with a heart-warming simplicity, while the rain chilled the continent once again. Sitting surrounded by his knick-knacks (or Tchotchkes as the Polish say), hoarded during his 20 years lost in the Bush, in his mouldy-smelling house, we gave him company like he rarely gets. While proudly showing us the fruit trees and gardens he planted, Richard said: « I like seeing things grow ». Well, with what I learned about him in the course of that morning, I’m sure he would have been a good grandpa.

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Cinderella and koalas

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About a month ago, I got tired of feeling like I could always do more for the planet. I was feeling everything but useful, neither to the people nor to nature. So I started looking up information about volunteering projects in nature and wildlife conservation. I came across a work exchange offering to get up close and personal with Australian wildlife in an educational setting. Moreover, it stipulated that we would be working with injured animals. Marc and I were soooo excited, we redid our plans to head up north to that place, to Magnetic Island.

The deal was that we would alternate work: I do 3 weeks of housekeeping while Marc works with the animals, and then we switch for another 3 weeks. Everything sounded beautiful, so we offered “shocker” a trip on a ferry and we arrived in the beautiful island some kilometers east of Townsville, in tropical Queensland.

We have been here only one week, and we are leaving tomorrow morning.
But before we get to why we are leaving, I want to talk about the magnificence of Magnetic, lovingly called “Maggie” by the locals. It is completely different from the rest of the area. As soon as we see its shores and vegetation, we are taken aback in a swirl of varied memories which help bringing the present moment to its climax. The evergreens that populate the hills bring scents from home and the way they mingle with the lovely colored granite boulders take our hearts back to beautiful Big Sur and Northern California. This island is certainly a vortex of some sort for you have this feeling of being transported to some huge sacred site where ancestors of stone guard your path at every fork in the road. The towering pinkish soft rock formations call for respect and awe in this almost uninhabited island. Their round shapes evoke the sensuality of desert dunes and are just perfect to lie on after they absorbed the goodness of a full day’s sun. What is even more wonderful about Maggie is that it is a Koala sanctuary and you can actually spot lots of cute little grey bundles of fur chewing eucalyptus’ leaves, comfortably sitting where two branches meet. Koalas have lots of wild friends around here as well. Just strolling around the hostel where we lived, we saw plenty of wallabies (even in bright daylight!), lots of cute possums trying to get to our food and many families of curlews, the bird I fell in love with last November in a wildlife park. The curlew has seducing mysterious big eyes and is really elegant on its long stilts. I have to admit it makes really weird noises…along with lots of Australian wildlife, including our cute koala bear, who actually snorts a little like a pig but worse.

So why are we leaving you’ll ask? Because for the first time in Steph’s life, she had to put up with a mean boss, who just seemed to want to make everyone feel stupid. For the first time I felt my unconditional love challenged and I prayed to have some “zen” help to transmute all this negativity into positive energy as the days were going by. As I am not even paid, we just decided to say a heartfelt goodbye to our wild friends, and to start anew, again. Steph and Marc on the road again, ready for some refreshing life-changing adventures!

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Theresa

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My big earphone covering my ears, I was thrilled to listen to my beautiful friend Donelle filling me in with her news from far away United States of America. Like many of my beautiful friends, I share with her a huge interest for native cultures from all over the world. It’s a little like falling in love with the most popular guy in school: it’s an almost impossible love. It’s hard to get close to these wounded societies. How to act? Showing too much interest can be felt as an assault and trying to pace the fire of curiosity can have us miss lots of opportunities … How many times did we get lost in the labyrinth of sociological questions, which are related to every topic concerning the First Nations…

So we don’t get lost once again, I’ll go on my story (!). When came my turn to tell stories from Down Under, I got stuck on the prickly topic of Australian Aborigines. The more we go up North, the more we feel their presence and the more people alert us against theft, rape and all other sorts of crimes allegedly committed mostly by the “Blackfellows”. That never deterred us from visiting more and more aboriginal culture centres and from asking what we can do to learn more about this millennial culture. But the centennial wound is there, hurting and felt everywhere through hatred between blacks and whites, even though, sometimes this hatred is drowned in mutual attempts to understand each other’s culture. We always walk on egg shells. Furthermore, opportunities to come closer to aborigines’ communities are rare and not easy to access. I applied to be volunteer on a 2-months project in small communities, but it required to have been an Australian resident for at least 12 months. And the project Marc and I cherish in Arnhem Land is really too expensive: it costs $ 800 dollars per person for a week.

After having shared my emotions with my friend, Marc and I headed for a small local market. Behind one of the tables was Theresa, her big obscure lips reigning over the ochre reflections of her paintings of ancestral tales. I rush over to her, renewing my positive thinking. For months, I dreamt of buying an aboriginal piece of art, but you know me, I won’t buy it until I’m sure it is fare to the artist. Here’s my luck. Theresa starts talking, much like these abundant cascades in the surrounding jungle. She speaks! Almost more than I do! She speaks of her people, from Darwin area. She speaks of her 7 children’s “dreamings”, such as the gecko, and a nice wading bird called curlew. In her tribe, when a child is still young, the entire family watches for signs from nature to find the animal to which the young one will be associated his entire life. Like a totem animal. A wild life spiritual guide. With her, I don’t feel bad to be white. And it’s precious. Her children smile at me and we buy a magnificent canvas, with a reel story, which I hope will contribute to preserve a little more of this dying culture.

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The Bog of Eternal Stench

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The gnome with the very big nose is leading the girl in this filthy, muddy bog. The thick murky brown waters fart to release a foul stench, which makes the journey to save the baby really difficult…

Do you follow me?

The Bog of Eternal Stench is not a product of my imagination; it exists in Labyrinth, the Jim Henson’s movie starring David Bowie in creepy pastel tights. Well, now you’ll wonder where I am going with this.

In the rainforest, the waters are crystal-clear and often travel in grand cascades down the cliffs of the mountains. The latter are like sparkling fields of emeralds, their faraway heads crowned by thin, milky clouds. There is definitely no farting bog and I haven’t caught a glimpse of the gnomes, even though I met a lot of their beautiful fellow magical creatures such as metallic blue butterflies and shiny purple and orange kingfishers. But after 4 days of living outside in Paradise, in the almighty rainy season, I felt a bit like someone must have felt trying to survive the Bog of Eternal Stench.

Every one of the few belongings I kept outside, the plants, the dog, my hair, my shoes, Marc’s hat and my entire being started to grow moldy. You see, it pours down every day, all day. Moreover, you surely smell the mold but it’s only when you leave the dense canopy that you actually see the nice velvety blue covering your cooler, shorts, socks and underwear. The rainforest is so thick that you spend much of your time in a light that mimics the shades of colors dusk paints on the sky. I could hardly believe it, but even my Patagonia state-of-the-art raincoat was moldy, and I had to soak it in vinegar.

Nevertheless, the RAINforest takes on a glowing, breathtaking magnificence under the thousands of shiny raindrops that nourish the soil a couple months of the year. Every leaf, from small like a birch’s up to the giant palm tree “fans”, sparkles like fireworks on a misty lake.

When you live and WWOOF at the Platypus Bush Camp, you come to envy your duck billed friends in the river for they have a very good protection against humidity… And it makes you appreciate the simplest of comfort: something called “indoors”. Since we began our Australian journey, Marc and I have lived in the car for about one month, and then in a small tent for 2 months. With this jungle adventure just ending, I realize once more how beautiful it is to CHOOSE willfully to reduce our level of comfort. It really does make you appreciate the smallest of details so much more. I become ecstatic at the smell of clean clothes, at the feeling of clean sheets on my skin, at the idea of a bed, and at the scent of a good tea. I cannot even describe how good I feel when I find a cozy couch to lay on…

I always believed happiness was weaved of the little things in life. Of course I would add on the grandeur of the loved ones, who would be the pearls embedded in the fabric, making it eternal, as pearls never vanish with time. Plus, they bring a range of changing colours to support our changing moods and hopes…
Thanks for being there!

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Armpit Tattoos

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We have invented almost everything to “embellish” ourselves. We modify our hair, tan our skin; unfortunately, we add or take away parts of our bodies and pierce or draw art galleries on the walls of our skin. We choose fabrics, coloured, veiled, embroidered and sometimes as bright as a star filled sky. And I find us beautiful in our endless variety. I have to admit, sometimes, I can only fill myself with the greatest humility facing Mother Nature’s creation.

Oh well, I know some of us were lucky enough to have their armpits “ectrolysized” or “laserized” (it almost sounds like torture…!). So it makes sense that we want to make the most forgotten alcoves of our bodies more attractive. But I believe some inhabitants of Gaia’ depths steal the show. Who has ever thought of tattooing their armpits? I’m sure someone has already done it, but I wouldn’t say it’s a norm. However, it’s surely a norm for parrot fishes, my favourite fishes. Many times I have meditated facing these unbelievable beauties, and still every time I’m with them, I feel so small, even though I’m much bigger than they are with my diving suit, my gigantic mask and my oxygen bottle, which looks like a bomb! They are “celestially” beautiful. I’m sure all the Gods of all the world’s religions must have entered a partnership in which they had to try and use the entire terrestrial colour palette on one living creature. And not only did they succeed, but they also managed to combine a great part of already existing patterns!

From the Celtic labyrinth on top of the tiny cranium, to the colourful triangles on the fins, to the lunar rainbow on the tail, and to the scales reminiscing of the Flower of life, the parrotfish is a millennial archive containing a global list of arts. I believe if they could read, they would be touched! And they even look different when the Sun is shining; they glitter like an opal and we can see a cascade of shooting stars on their head.

I couldn’t cry because I hate to have water in my mask, but I believe I could have added a little water to the Pacific Ocean as I was so pleased to join the old friends I hadn’t seen since Hawai’i. It was so good to be back in the land of bubbles, with ever changing landscapes! I floated from the land of gigantic scoops of ice cream to the district of violet and metallic turquoise mouths opening and shutting as if they wanted to share, in an instant, all the might of their country with me. And through all of it, I held your hand so you could travel with me and witness submarine flowers oscillating in the currents with grace.

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I am Eddy Murphy…not anymore

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Do you remember the Nutty Professor? That movie in which a fat teacher becomes skinny and “good looking” to get a girl, and then becomes fat again? Well…that was me…or more precisely my foot, and just the “becoming fat” part. He (Eddy Murphy) was looking as his feet that were swelling instantly, like if someone was blowing them up like balloons. Well, Wednesday, January 13, some invisible force decided that would be the fate of my right foot. Something called blood rushed to my ankle like it`d called 911 and established a state of emergency. While my eyes were shiny with tears, the agile staff of my body`s disaster crew had blown my foot up so big, it did not even look like a foot anymore.

A very heavy metal frame had fallen on my ankle, at precisely 5 o`clock, when I was closing the doors of the bakery. And to my great disappointment, there was the end of my bakery career. I got the crutches, two sets of X-Rays (you have to drive 1.5 hours both ways to get them), physio and a very good service from Work Cover, the Bakery and the 4 doctors I saw. Nothing is broken. Just heavily hurt. In about 3 weeks I will be able to walk normally!

You can imagine what it was like walking with my crutches in the hostel every day. I could not go anywhere so I was always in the common area, where tons of new backpacker faces would ask me repeatedly “How did you hurt your foot?”. And that would be immediately followed by the corners of their mouths going down; “What a shame, hurting yourself when travelling!”. And then I would tell them there are way worst things in life and that my existence was still magical every day. They seemed surprised by my positive thinking. One day I got to give them a very good example of “worst things”. There was a new guest at the hostel, an Israeli speaking perfect English and having a great sense of sharing. Unfortunately, his face and body were not as great as his intellect though. He was heavily handicapped, with his limbs and facial features twisted like the eucalyptus avoiding the storm. He was moving around, almost dancing, with two crutches that looked like they had grown to be part of him. He played ping-pong with his good hand and took his t-shirt off to swim laps in the pool and chat with fellow travellers. And he asked me what happened to my foot, genuinely caring about me. Wow!

After two and a half weeks, my foot got a little better; enough to stand up to watch the toad race for Australia Day. Standing proud in green and gold (Oz`s colours), I also gave water to save the life of a food contest participant (Marc participated as well) and played with the dogs and their Australian flags.

Finally, we thought my nutty foot was good looking enough to leave Agnes after two months. We left after 2 days of flood, crossing rivers with our epic Shocker. It was time to go: only ten minutes after packing our camp in the heavy rain, a river created itself and started rushing down the field exactly where our heads used to dream every night. It is just wonderful how the landscape modifies itself to reinvent the world. Just like a pregnant woman. I wish I could view global warming just like that…

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The Southern Cross in the eyes

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Dunes moving in front of our eyes, covered by strange green tussocks hiding under melaleucas’ contorted branches. Year after year, these huge medicinal trees survive big storms by twisting their crown toward the ground, creating a canopy with ever changing forms. My eyes waltz from the green filtering in the window, to the road ahead, crossed by an emu or a wallaby, and then, they stick to the rear view mirror. In it, I look at the crow’s feet wonderfully adorning the driver’s sea-blue eyes. Witnesses of the Australian Sun, of the smiles given to his five children and of many perfect waves lifting up his surf board, the crow’s feet bring me reassurance for the second time. I relax, even if I have to hang on for dear life to avoid crashing on my neighbours during this off road rambling.

Mick is a real Australian, like you would imagine after having watched Crocodile Dundee. His flaxen hair enhancing the permanent sun tan hiding his huge constellation of freckles. In the sunlight, it looks like he’s beaming, with his casual smile and passionate eyes. I cross his path almost every day and it always seem to me I’m in front of a 10-years old elder kid. He pinches my belly or tells me a joke I understand every other time, since I’m still in the process of learning the Australian accent. I believe he owns the key to happiness and maybe, the secret for eternal youth.

Every day, Mick brings young backpacker groups to discover the beauties of Deepwater National Park. He must repeat the same old stories every week, but still, both times I accompanied him, his interest and physical alertness seemed renewed. Since I’m passionate about Mother Nature and its wonders, I drilled him with questions…

My new best friends are none other than… sea cucumbers! They emit a substance to blanket their small water plan protecting them from UV rays. Natural sunscreen! When assaulted, they squirt a whitish substance, which glues their predators’ mouths. This substance becomes a very hard thread resembling sinew. As a matter of fact, Mick has used it to repair his harpoon, probably like the First People of Australia did. If you stab a sea cucumber numerous times (?!?), it renews itself after only a few hours. Personally, I think it’s completely magic!

After our visits to the sea cucumbers, it’s time to regenerate. We swim in a river without anybody else, except, once again, the grandiose presence of the melaleucas. Here, they are in the water, making it antiseptic and really good for your skin. This water also tastes like eucalyptus tea. I look at Mick, he splashes me in the face with red water, we laugh and I’m just content to be in Australia.

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Akin!

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It is such a challenge to write about our lives in less than 500 words once a week. Many people we meet could have pages and pages dedicated to their marvelous beings and many incidents could be the source of inspiring stories. Anyway, here I am, a little sunburned after my first day out surfing, trying to share with you bits and pieces of my recent reality. By the way here, at the hostel, there is always a very loud movie playing, which makes my task even more difficult…Tonight is Tropic Thunder, and judging by Marc’s absorbed gaze and loud laughter, it looks like a good enough movie to celebrate the relaxing power of the screen after a day in the Aussie sun.

Let me introduce you more intimately to The Flat Screen. Our days and nights are lulled by its omnipresence, its sounds and images hypnotizing us for seconds when, drawn by its power, we walk by it on our way to our exciting everyday business. The Flat Screen sees lazy travelers’ faces everyday that, after many hours in uncomfortable buses, are seeking the well deserved mushy cushions of a couch. What makes this Flat Screen really special are the Masters of Ceremony that seem to inhabit its electronic space. Indeed, almost every time a movie is introduced in the DVD player, the audience has the joy of seeing two familiar faces: two men, both dressed in beige suits, wearing infomercial smiles. They occupy both ends of the screen, proudly announcing that the movie that will soon be showing is happily pirated somewhere in an overpopulated city of Thailand. All the movies also come with lovely looking Thai subtitles and all look like they were shot in the middle of an English foggy night. Or, even better, like if they would have been filmed by your aunt with her crappy camera last Christmas. We are so used to movie images having a certain cinema texture that we don’t even realized they look so different than real life. I never thought I would find it disturbing to look at Clint Eastwood in a “home video” type of filming. He just looked naked.

The best part is when these two Thai gentlemen, never leaving their legendary smiles behind, help you find “English subtitles” in the brightly colored Asian DVD menu. Have you guys seen the movie Stardust? It is quite a good movie, but for our Dutch friend, it just seemed completely absurd. Subtitles would come and go and, even more interesting, would tell a complete different story, seemingly taken right from a very bad imitation of a Samuel Becket play. I laughed so much. During the whole movie I dreamed of having a notepad to write down all the atrocities committed by the translator. But I could not leave the couch, too addicted at this stage to the next horrible line the bottom of the screen would dictate. There was this part where beautiful Claire Danes confesses her love and says it is so powerful that it is unbearable. For unbearable, we read “bury vessels”. And this other part where a prince was finally getting what he wanted and shouting: I’m King! The little white writings then said “Akin”. Can you imagine a whole movie like that? My story might not seem as profound as the others, but scientists say that for 5 minutes of great laughter, you get about 45 minutes of deep relaxation that will help you rejuvenate and live longer. I must have gained a whole year just watching that movie. Thanks pirated movie for this free quality entertainment!

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