Home, Hiraeth, Old Friends and New

I uploaded two posts this time, this is the second, enjoy :)

Independent solo world travel one may assume is the pursuit of the extreme individualist. Rather, it is the path of one who seeks greater connection, not less. What seems like bravery, is trust in others.

We do not need to be complete, we will miss the mark if we try to , that is why there are other people on the earth.

The duality of ones existence, between periods of separation, isolation, coming together, becoming deeply attached. From unity of conception, division of cells, separation from mother, bonding to the breast, weaning, starting out, then getting scared, separation from family home, joining with others as friends and lovers, parted by death, returning to dust.

Some days are great, most are good, but many are dull, and some lonely or downright depressing. But still one presses on, because ultimately it is worth it. The skills one learns, confidence, the different views and ways of living and a beautiful active network of friends all around the world.

Returning, home can seem hopelessly prosaic, conservative and provincial. The pettiness, and trivialities that people allow to bother them are stark. Later, I learned that those little details had a quality, little acts that were the bread and butter of social interaction. Life is in the details it seems, little, regular thoughtful actions do more for the good feelings of people around, than big gestures.

I remember visiting Clyne botanical gardens in a week or so after returning from my last big trip, parking in what was my usual spot when I rented a dear little cottage opposite. On returning, two angry pages of A4 were attached to my windscreen, explained how difficult it was for the owner to get out of his driveway, “I have to twist right around to see, causing stain to my neck...”, and how desperately inconsiderate I was, my former neighbour standing on his perfectly mown lawn, affronted, arms folded while I read the note.

If you have ridden an unlicenced motorcyle at speed through a police block to avoid paying a bribe, refused change to limbless beggars, and seen homes pulled apart by buldozers with people still in them, screaming, hysterically it is hard to have sympathy for the whinger in his near million pound house.

The miserable old bugger was moved to ink by my car spoiling his idyllic view, what would he have made of the cremation I saw from ten feet in Mumbai. The searing heat, the sweet roast pork smell..

I have shared rooms with people I met only minutes before, and went on to spend weeks in each others company, sharing many stories, meals and sleeping spaces. Yet, returning, visited familiar homes, and not been offered time for a cup of tea and a conversation, the television still blaring inanities un-muted.

At times travelled hundreds of miles, slept rough, and walked for many miles in the heat to meet for a single conversation, yet friends would not walk to my house from town.

Lovers have flown half way around the world to share precious times, yet family members will not drive for twenty minutes to join me for lunch!

Rant over!!!!

I now realize people are just getting on with their own lives, in their own worlds, that have different limits to my own. Something the more experienced travelers have painfully learned to accept...

Leaving behind Crystal Waters Permaculture Village, sitting on the railway platform, I was joined by another wanderer who accepted my offer of a banana, and shared tales of hitching.

My last hitched ride had been with a red-neck whose hobbies included hunting wild pigs with a crossbow. His recreation might seem more unusual to others, but I listened with keen interest, we swapped recipes for sausages, pates and rillet.

In Bundaberg after another night in the park, I visited family friends, Greg and Delyth, admitting a touch of hireath seeing Greg's own water-colour rendering of Worms head, Gower, and the Welsh dresser I knew from happy childhood visits. The last time we met was in dry dock aboard their steel yacht Kate in which they had crossed the Atlantic, sailed on many occasions with my folks, myself and had been their base while moving back and forth between UK and Australia.

Just like the previous occasion, we managed to make a mess of ourselves, last time in Milford haven, on Bundaberg rum, this time in Bundaberg on native red wine. The couple have done many things I have longed to do, they farmed in Wales and sailed around the world. Two seemingly incompatable dreams that I have also shared.

Spending time with them I was able to unwind in the sea, in their pool, get laundry done, and get the chance to explain the reasons for my journey with people who knew me before I had known myself. They had been close friends of my late father, and knew better than anyone the dance between freedom and security I have inherited.

It had been my intention to travel to Cairns to dive the Great Barrier Reef, before flying South. This would not be possible, all trains to the area had been cancelled due to the flooding caused by the unseasonal rains. My generous hosts had planned to travel down the coast, and offered me a lift. My new intention to head to Fraser Island with camping and spearfishing in mind. Again I was thwarted by Hurricane Hamish, so I found myself on a train bound for familiar Brisbane.

From Brisbane I flew to Melbourne that night. Brisbane had been a welcoming city, but I felt I had been circling it like water around a plughole, reversed in this hemisphere.

Melbourne is a strange city, or at least Fitzroy is, the gentrified hippy artsy quater where I spent most of my time amongst the immaculately disheveled cappuccino crowd. Finding accommodation for one night only proved difficult, so again I bedded down in the park. The bivvy bag was unnecessary that dry night, so I slept with an extra layer under my Buffalo top on the thermarest.

The next morning I decided to smarten myself up with a lingering breakfast of eggs Florentine , good coffee, and morning Ashtanga class. The militant, wiry Scottish instructor was dubious about being able to handle his class, but allowed me a place near the back.

This was without doubt the most challenging class I have ever completed, though of course the battle is with ones self, and should not be a battle....

If my trousers and shirt had been soaked in a bucket of sweat, they would have been no wetter. At the end he shook my hand, and asked me if I had been to Mysore – the home that demanding yoga practice, a great compliment indeed. I had been, but to study massage, rather than four hours practice, six days a week. The bodies of those following the regime were like anatomical drawings, the ideal people to practice on.

One of the Ashtangis recovering over juice kindly offered his sofa to crash on and to show me around. Such offers have been common on this trip, and really lift the spirits, it was no real surprise he was another student of environmental issues.

That night in an overpriced hostel in town, one of the residents suspiciously asked me what I was typing on my laptop. After assuring her I was not a spy, to make light conversation, I asked her where she was from. She told me she had to find a husband, then she would know!

That night while dozing, she tapped me on the arm and asked if I wanted to come into her bed, I declined the deranged ladies offer and woke to find another of the bunk-dwellers had received a similar indecent proposal the previous night, he had used his backpack as barricade.

So it was with some relief and thanks I accepted Patrick, the yoga guy and life model's offer of sofa space in his share house, and a delicious meal under Orion's watchful inverted eye. That night was his life drawing class – which I joined, having not drawn properly since school. The progression of two and ten minute drawings I produced really encouraged me to start again – I will post them here when I finally get a decent connection to illustrate these adventures with my many photographs.

I am now in Apollo Bay, 3 ½ hours by train and bus ride from Melbourne, studying partner yoga and massage with a lady who organizes permaculture courses and has a business combining shiatsu with environmental education. It has been an inspirational time exploring these areas so close to my heart on the other side of the world; tagging along to permaculture workshops, meeting world renowned authors of ecological books, eating native edible plants and scouring refuse tips to make a chook (chicken) shed!

Peace

Jim