Rivers of wine

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´Hi there. Come on in.´ Elizabeth the taxi driver gestures for me to sit down and close the door. ´So, Big Valley Campsite?’ she asks. Without waiting for an answer, she puts the car in gear and drives off. We leave the cosy city of Margaret River recoiling in the hind mirror and head 12 kilometres out of town. Yesterday, I took a bus from Esperance to Perth, a drive that lasted for 10 hours. I tried to get some sleep in an old hostel. However, a Scottish fellow on the top end of the bunk bed kept twisting and turning, so I fled out of bed and wound up talking to an Irish guy on the hostel balcony, suffering from insomnia as well, at 3.30 in the morning. He just wanted to go home. He had had it with the heat, the Australians, the hunt for thankless jobs and hostel beds. And he still had six months to go. The next morning I rode the bus for another 5,5 hours until I finally reached Margaret River. If I wasn’t smitten with any of Australia´s towns before, I am now. Forget Hobart, Esperance was nice, but Margaret River... It’s the country of wine, cheese and horses. What else could a girl ask for? However, Margaret River is fully booked as the Australians celebrate labour day during a long weekend. So I avoid the overcrowded campsites in town and head toward an old sheep station / campsite recommended to me by a woman in Ceduna, of all places. Elizabeth drives the taxi off the main road and onto a dirt road. The forest clears and in front of us a vast, barren, mud-coloured valley reveals itself. As soon as we’ve passed the top of the hills, we see a small campsite hidden in between the trees of a forested patch of land. ‘I never knew this is out here’, Elizabeth admits, even though she grew up here. She drops me off at the campsite office where Kevin is waiting to great me. ‘So, you’re the one with all the shit, eej?’ When I rang the campsite earlier and asked them to arrange a taxi for me, they wanted to know how the cabdriver could recognize me. I answered ‘just look for a huge backpack.’ Hence Kevin´s comment. Kevin, in his late sixties with a smile permantly stuck to his face, takes me in to meet his wife Shelley who handles the administration of the campsite. I turn back to Kevin while Shelley goes through some paperwork. ‘So, if you don’t have a car of your own, what’s there to do in this area?’ Kevin shrugs and says ‘Nothing!’ His wife Shelly with her kind, round face and grey-blonde short, curls, now closes the big campsite book, lowers her glasses and says ‘I think we’ll put her up next to the two Dutch boys.’ Kevin puts my backpack in the back krait of a blue dirt bike. His wife grabs one as well, shouting that she’ll come with. ‘Hop on Dutchy!’ Kevin yells. I get on the back of the motorcycle. ´Lift your feet and hold on to your backpack!’ He hits the gas and the dirt bike shoots across the sand path right through the campsite. Oh heaven, where did I wind up now? After five minutes, we reach the patch of grass appointed to me to set up my tent. Shelley introduce me to two fellow countrymen, Casper and Bart, and leaves us be. Bart laughs at me. ‘Quite the couple, eej?’ I can do nothing but agree. I pitch my tent and walk around the campsite. It’s pretty crowded for such a remote area, but the people are just brilliant. I chat with a group of women my own age who work as hostesses and grape pickers, spending their free hours hanging by the beach, reading a book or going out to town and party. One of them is Australian, blond and well-mouthed, another one is Canadian, tattooed and reminds me vaguely of Kat Von D and the third one is from some South-American country. She rather sticks to the background. All three are now working as grape pickers with four-hours of labour each day. The rest of the day they spend hanging around the campsite, eating chips, doing nothing in particular, at least, until the next job comes round and they’re off to a new destination. I also meet a German couple, Stephan and Rebecca, 29 and 26 years old respectively. They both had great job offers back home, but feared that if they didn’t go out and travel now, they never would. They’ll be in Australia for two years in total but after two months of being here, I pick up a hint of dissatisfaction. Rebecca is not ‘feeling the love for Australia’, as she puts it. The doctors here are unprofessional (she has a problem with her feet) and all isn’t what she expected. Finding proper work is a lot more difficult then she hoped it would be. ‘It’s because of the floods. Now everyone from Queensland is coming down and looking for work as well’, she explains. Casper and Bart left Holland for the same reason. Bart is a teacher of a low-grade class and not too sure whether this is his dream job. Casper just graduated as an engineer. He doesn’t really know what he wants, so he´s thinking about another master´s degree in marine engineering this time. Casper and Bart will be travelling through Oz for six months. They seem pretty satisfied with the beat-up car they bought, the picking of grapes and the remote, simple campsite. Then again, they’ll be going home again in four months. Last, I meet James, an Indian looking Brit. He worked as a technician back home and always wanted to travel the Asian and Oceanic continents for one or two years. He kept putting it off until he finally tied the knot, quit his job and left. James seems a little out of place to me, desperate for some human contact. It reminds me of saying goodbye to Rennie two days ago. Rennie sort of paced back and forth near Jenny’s front door, as we both took ages to say goodbye. We had become such good friends, we didn’t really want to say farewell. Finally, Rennie walked up and gave me a hug. A real one. I realized I hadn’t been hugged like that in over two months and I didn’t realized until then, how much I had craved for it. James gives of the same vibe, the same crave for real contact, but still, he seems quite content to be here instead of being home. I’m left amazed by this ‘woodstock’- campsite hidden in a secretive, bleak valley just a ten minute drive out of Margaret River. These are all people that have given security, traditional life and a future pension the proverbial finger. They’re trying to live their dreams and truly LIVE. But whether they’ve really found what they were looking for... I wonder. It reminds me of something my friend Gary said to me: ‘While travelling, I discovered the source and solution of my angst was not going to be found in the outside world, but it was inside me somewhere.’ I’m not saying these people all have issues that need be resolved. But, hearing their stories and looking into their eyes, I wonder what it really is that drove them away from home and away from everything familiar for so long. Is it just a longing for experience? Is it a longing for adventure? Or might there be, somewhere deep inside, a dissatisfaction of whatever kind hidden in their souls?

Fate is changing the tables. Now that I’m growing stronger, the people that cross my path seem to be needing my support, instead of me needing theirs. James and I spend some time talking in the campsite kitchen. Suddenly, he starts speaking with an openness that stuns me still. Right after he was born, his mother had a breakdown which reduced her to a living vegetable, as James described. However, he was always told that she was dead. He grew up with his gambling-addicted father and ‘wicked step-mom’ (again, his description). His father, a shop-owner, always demanded that James would help out. So, after school and during weekends, James was working in his father’s store. When he was nine years old and quarrelling with his stepmom, she shocked him by revealing his mother wasn’t dead but kept in a hospital for nutjobs. As you can imagine, it rocked James’ world. But he never got the courage to visit her as he was warned that the hospital was filled with insane people, just like his mom. Later on, he was told again that she had died. It filled him with remorse and regret. He blamed himself for not seeing her when he could. Eventually, his father’s gambling addiction spiralled out of control as he lost the house in a high-staked game. James, in his late teens, separated himself from his family and went his own way. Around the age of nineteen, his sister called to let him know that she had found their mom who was still alive after all. Together with his sister, he went to visit her and was shocked, not only by the sight of an unresponsive mother but also by his absence of feelings for her. She was a stranger, and his mother. He didn’t know how to cope. Now, he hasn’t spoken to his father in six years. And it’s clear to me that his past still haunts him. He wants to know every detail of my father’s death. ‘I watched my father draw his last breath’, I tell him. ‘And I washed his body afterwards. I just couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that he was dead. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that I was washing his dead body. It all was so incredibly mind-boggling, it took a few months for the news to really sink in. And I have only recently really started accepting the fact that he’s not around anymore.’ James nods, his eyes focussed on the words that are slipping my lips. ‘I always wonder what I would feel if my father were to pass’, he shares. ‘I wonder if I would feel regret, or anything.’ He stares at the wooden table, drumming his fingers on the surface. ‘You should do everything you can to mend your relationship with your dad so, at least, in the end, you can say you’ve tried.’ James looks up. ‘Oh but I did, I have tried. There’s just no reasoning with him. He won’t even listen to what I have to say. He won’t even talk to me! I wonder what I need to do with all this, I wonder if I can forgive him for all he’s done’, James says. ‘Well, I really believe that parents, everyone, live life to the best of their abilities. Your father probably has a history of his own.’ James nods. He knows. He knows his own father’s live wasn’t easy either. ‘But why didn’t he at one point think to himself that this needs to stop. That he needs to get his life on order, even it was just for his children?’ James wonders. ‘Well’, I reply. ‘That’s the grand gift of our generation. Our parents grew up not being able to talk about things like this. They grew up in an era when everything was shoved under the table, not to be spoken about. We, on the other hand, have so many resources these days. We have so many opportunities to deal with issues like this. Not that it makes things less painful, but at least we can talk about it.’ James nods. ‘And to tell you something else, James. I believe it’s your responsibility, because you have the opportunities to do so, to put a halt to it, to make sure these problems aren’t passed down to the next generation. It needs to end, with you.’ He agrees. But the look on his face is heartbreaking. He seems so lost, flung between his own emotions, completely overwhelmed by all that had happened. He keeps staring ahead. ‘But how do I live with it?’ he asks. ‘How do I live when I’m so angry about what he’s done?’ I pull some hairs out of my face and think for a while. ‘Well’, I reply after a minute or so. ‘You need to flip things around in such a way that you can look back on your childhood thinking that you wouldn’t want to change a thing, because what happened back then made you the person you are today, someone you can be proud of.’ James smiles. He’s not there yet and we both know. But he’s heading in the right direction. Perhaps he’s also travelling through Oz to find some internal peace or emotional balance. We spend some more time at the kitchen table, drinking cheap wine and small-talking, before it’s time for bed.

When I get ready for the night, I feel so bubbly, so excited. I feel thrilled for being able to be there for James, I’m feeling all good about myself for saying such wise things, I’m feeling grand and I have no real idea why. I think about it all for a moment and observe myself being all caught up in my own vanity. Why do I feel so happy, really? What is it about my conversation with James, that makes me feel so good right now, like I’ve done a great deed? Then, humility slaps me in the face and says ‘Hey! No need to feel like you’ve just saved the world. That was you just a month ago! Will you stop feeling like you’ve done humanity a great favour!’ Auch! Such painful thoughts. A part of me doesn’t want to hear my own critique but somewhere, deep down, I know it’s true. My ego is partying aloud when there’s really no reason to. But why am I responding like this? I wonder for a moment until it hits me. The answer, as always, is fear. I know there will be days when I will feel lost again, needing advice and attention like James. But my ego doesn’t want to know about it. It’s playing ostrich to the fact that I’m merely human. It wants to bathe itself in the fact that I’m on top right now. It wants to immerse in feeling grand, independent and, to be utterly truthful, feeling a little better than the rest. But, as I have learned these last few months, there is no ´better than the rest´. There are only people, journeying through life. Sometimes one will pull the other up, sometimes the tables get turned. We do our best while travelling through life, even though we often step into the deceiving pitfalls of vanity, of anger, of sadness, of guilt, of all things that hinder us in our growth as a human being. I feel like I do need to share what I have learned so far. Perhaps it will be of good use to others. But there’s no reason to start feeling like I’m Ghandi or the next mother Theresa. I’m just one person, trying to get by, sometimes needing advice from others, sometimes be able to give it myself. Nothing more, nothing less.

I sleep like a baby and wake up to the sound of kookaburras and a slight rain. When the sky clears, I head out and explore the campsite. Sometime around noon, I catch up with Shelley who´s enjoying an administration-free moment. Shelley takes me to see her sheep. She tells me how she and her husband have lived on this station ever since 1977. Wool was all they needed back then, enough to get by on. But around 1990, the market for wool collapsed, leaving Kevin and Shelley to find a new means of income. So, in 1992, they opened the Big Valley Campsite. ‘I love it’, Shelley admits. ‘But on busy weekends like this one, it drives me absolutely crazy!’ It’s not long before the next campervan pulls up and Shelley needs to get back to work. In the afternoon, I hitch a ride with Casper and Bart to town. I explore some tour options, do some groceries and spend some time on the internet. All is blissfully quiet these days. But as my flight date of March 17 is crawling closer, I find myself getting more restless and more ready to head home.

Around noon the next day, I go for a horse ride with eight other visitors to the region. We canter across barren meadows, past kangaroos and cattle. It´s relaxing, it brings me closer to my four-footed friends and it’s the best breath of fresh air I’ve had in a while. When I get back to camp, Casper invites me to check out the nearby berry-farm. Actually, it’s a fruit farm which produces jams, chutneys and wines. We get to taste six flavours of wines and liquors for free. We first try a spicey and dark red wine. It’s heavy, suitable for a winter’s night or rosy meat dish. Second comes a sparkling white wine. It tastes like a sweet soda. Not noticing the alcohol at all, I gulp up the drink in a heartbeat. ‘Would you like to try something else?’ the woman behind the counter asks. ‘Yes we would!’I answer perhaps a bit too keen. Casper is laughing, slightly making fun of me. It’s 3.30 pm and we both haven’t eaten since breakfast. This looks promising. Next comes a port made of plum, chocolate, spices and a mixture of berries. It teases my taste buds in the most delightful way. Never minding the 19% alcohol percentage, I ask for a refill. ‘We need to try the chocolate liquor’, Casper says. The black, sugary substance sticks to the glass and smells like very dark, very bitter chocolate. It tastes like Bailey’s though, a little less vanilla-like perhaps. Next comes an hazelnut liquor for me and a coffee liquor for Casper. This one’s too sweet for my taste. I take two small sips and leave it at that. The aroma left on my lips though, hints of yummy roasted almonds. Last, we get a glass of peppermint-chocolate liquor. For such a sweet drink, it’s very refreshing. I can feel my sinuses clear up instantly, without having too much of a mint taste in my mouth. After our six tastings, it’s time to go. As soon as I let go of the counter and turn around, I notice that the floor underneath my feet has gone a bit wobbly on me. ‘Casper!’ I squeak in a delighted way. ‘My cheeks are glowing! And my ears too!’ He laughs and escorts me back to the car. Being a little tipsy himself, Casper slowly drives back to camp. There, the pool table awaits. The three girls I met earlier and Bart join in and what started off as friendly game, quickly turns into an infamous battle between the boys and the girls. The girls perhaps may not have won the cup, but we did win some respect.

After dinner, I take a walk through camp. It’s silly how far away home feels right now. It hasn’t been on my mind all day while I lingered and lazed around my newly discovered, old-fashioned campsite. But there is someone who has been on my mind increasingly lately: my father. The closer my departure from Australia creeps, the more I feel I really need to say goodbye now. No more long, imaginative talks with him, no more soul-hollowing pains and no more brooding on how things could have been. There´s no use anymore in me mourning his death. He´ll never come back, no matter how much I hurt. I could keep crying for him, I could keep missing him beyond belief, and sometimes I want to, but I just don´t see the point anymore. I feel that when I leave Australia, I need to let the past be and move on with my life. Not that I intend to forget about father completely, if even possible. But it’s time to shift my focus from mourning and processing his death, to me, my life and my loved-ones again. But fear hides in the thought of moving on. If I let the past be, if I move on with my own life, if I stop ruminating on my father’s death, will it kill him off completely? Will I, in doing so, serve him the final blow? It’s a ridiculous fear, born from guilt towards a person who isn’t here anymore. A guilt that comes from moving on, from letting my thoughts abandon him. But it’s time to start regarding his death in a different light, it really is time, to let go, no matter how terrifying. When I get back to camp, I turn on my laptop and run through a photo album I have of my dad. Seeing his wide grin, the playful twinkle in his eyes, the face he makes when he’s being the joker, it fills me with such love. The pain is less than before. Every fibre of pain that I had seems to have gradually transformed in simply love for the person he was. Seeing him in photos makes me realize he’ll never be far. He is, in fact, part of me. I skip the images in which he had grown thin and bleak, nearing death. I used to regard those pictures constantly, as if I needed confirmation that he was really sick and dying. Now, however, I prefer to remember him as the vibrant, playful and annoyingly loving and protective person that he was. The emotions that come up while watching my dad’s images, blend and mix like those colourful plasma-hippy-lamps once used to decorate the bedroom. Emotional colours and states shift and slide continuously. There’s love, there’s pain, there’s missing him, there’s wishing he’s happy now wherever he is and there’s happiness for having good memories of my father. I try not to control any of these feelings, but let them slide by, entering and leaving the stage of my attention. In the end, only love and happiness stick around. I love him, even beyond life. And I’m happy for having to got to know him like I did. I close the laptop. The sky is sprinkled with stars of varying intensity. The milky way reveals it’s misty flow. There’s such depth in the heavens now. Such a beautiful night.

This morning, wedding bells are ringing. I’m getting married! From today on, I’ll be known as Mrs. James. ‘Morning Darling’, James says as he comes into the campsite kitchen. ‘What’s for breakfast?’ I look at him with a smile and reply ‘morning love.’ At 10 am, a little, white van pulls up on the dusty camp road. ‘Are you Mr. And Mrs. James?’ a balding man in his fifties asks. We nod. ‘Top of the morning to ya! I’m George.’ We shake George’s hand and step into his van. ‘Welcome to bush tucker tours. I’ll be quick to pick up the rest of the group and then we’re off.’ George starts the van and backs up the dirt road. He turns back to Margaret River. Bush tucker tours is one of many winery tours in the Margaret River area. And I’ve heard it’s one of the better ones. No stuck-up groups or fancy ribbons, just a cheerful tour leader, a group of steady drinkers and a passion for alcohol. And the best thing, couples get a 20 dollar discount! When James and I found out, we decided on the spot to get married – fictionally - and join the tour. Our marriage didn’t last through the day though, we got a divorce after twenty drinks or so, but who cares when there’s sooo much wine. With a party of eight, we pull up at the Watershed winery, our first of four to come. The winery itself is positioned in a field of wine ranks. It’s housed a modern building with shiny oak floors and decorated with neatly displayed mugs, t-shirts and wineglasses all carrying the estate’s icon. We taste ten different wines and George hovers around us like a worried parent, making sure we hold our glasses properly, give the wine a good twirl and decent sniff before letting cherished liquid flow onto our taste pallets. ‘If you’re not keen on drinking the rest of your wine, you can spit it in the waste buckets next to you’, he mentions, perhaps slightly worried the group of eight will get hammered like there’s no tomorrow. A plan that’s on everyone’s mind. We start off with the Sauvignons of 2010 which still taste a bit too bitter for me. Next comes a Chardonnay, followed by Viognier, Merlot, Cabernet and Shiraz. Some, but not all wine names ring a bell. I’m especially keen on the Shades Rosé, a local speciality made of grape skins instead of grape flesh. It has a fluorescent pink colour, a fruity taste and leaves a slightly bitter savour in my mouth. We all have slight buzz and get back into the van. ‘Now, everyone, I only have one rule on this tour’, George announces. ‘You are not allowed to sit next to the same person twice! So mingle, all of you.’ I take to two slightly older women. One of the them has bright red, short hair and a mouth pouring a blunt humour that would set even Rosy O’Donnell straight. I’m sure I got their names somewhere during the trip, but I’m also sure that somewhere during the same trip, they got lost in a blissful river of wine. Next comes Adinfern, a winery run by a small family with over 70 acres of wine ranks. It’s cosy, the scenery is beautiful and the wines are the best I’ve ever tasted. I first fall in love with the Shepherd Red Fanfare – a sparkly red wine with a sweet savour and a pleasantly bitter aftertaste. Even though some would call the Fanfares, both white and red, Champagne, the wineries are officially not allowed to do so. Champagne, you see, is a region in France and only bubbly whites from that particular area may be labelled as so. Next, we taste the Chardonnay and Cabernet. These don’t have the bitterness or the bite usual Chardonnay and Cabernet would have. The current variety is actually really sweet, full of aroma and with a slight trace of vanilla. The staff inform us that it are actually these two specialities that put Margaret River on the map. These two wines are what made them famous. We end with the Shepherd Harmony. Now, unlike the French who prefer traditional methods, the Australians have a neck for experimenting with wine making. This sometimes results in lesser wines, but also in wines as heavenly, and I’m not exaggerating, as the Shepherds Harmony. This red wine has a beautiful, full bouquet of aromas. It’s rich in flavour, soft, round and sweet, served slightly chilled. My taste pallets instantly fall in love and I order a bottle to take home.

‘Lunch time!’George claps his hands and invites us to sit down at a table set with plates, baskets of bread and bowls of all sorts of goods. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to your lunch. You’ll see three different kinds of meat on your plate. The first is kangaroo, the second turkey and the latter beef, all marinated and smoked properly. You’ll also find fresh lettuce, cheddar cheese, sundried tomatoes, sundried peppers, two kinds of pesto, a homemade mango chutney, marinated mushrooms, two kinds of bread – sundried and ciabatta – and some fruit. Now, before we start, I’d like to separate the adults from the babies.’ We all look at George as if he’s just announced that he’s actually a cross-dresser entering this year’s beauty pageant. ‘Now, now, let me explain’, he adds noticing the looks on our faces. He walks to a bag, pulls out a Tupperware bowl and reveals two cooked, finger long butterfly larvae. ‘Who dares?’ After a lot of squeaks and giggles, those who have lifted their hands are soon served a piece of larvae. ’Now’, George says. ‘To prevent you from swallowing without chewing, I want to know from each and every one of you a) what the taste was like and b) what the structure was like.’ On three, we all put our piece of larvae in our mouths. There’s some gagging, a lot of laughing, but we all manage to get the stuff down. It tastes like starchy snot with a hint of roasted nuts. The structure is that of flower pudding. We are all declared winners and allowed to start our lunch, that is, if we still feel like it. After lunch, George takes us to the chocolate and cheese factory, both more shops than factories. But we fill up on even more food before it’s time to drive the third winery ´The Grove´, which has expertise in the field of liquors and ports. Steve, a big, bald man in his sixties with a no-nonsense attitude is there to greet us. ‘Blokes, we don’t sniff, twirl or spit here as we consider our products too valuable. You will just shut up and drink!’ with those words, Steve fills up our glasses for the first time. When he comes by with the port, he regards me for a second and then declares to the whole group: ‘you know, we normally don’t serve to women. Port is a man’s drink and we consider it a waste to serve to the ladies.’ All the women in the group give Steve a big ‘Booh!’ and persuade him to fill up our glasses. The port is sweet and glides down with ease. ‘Did you like that?’ he asks. We all give a big cheer. ‘Good, cause we only feed the tourist groups the shit we’d like to get rid of.’ Big laughs follow. Steve hits us again. A mixture of strawberry and white chocolate liquor topped with cream. Heavenly. James asks Steve about the brewery process of the liquors but Steve merely replies ‘Shut up and drink lad!’ Another cheer from the crowd of which all members are getting increasingly drunk. Next, a mixture named Macadamia Madness. It blends macadamia, coconut and chocolate liquor topped with cream again. We’re no longer tasting, we’re just binge drinking now, urging Steve to fill up again. More shots follow, more cheers follow, until after the magic number of ten, George guides us back to the van, supporting one or two members during the walk over. Darn, wobbly roads! ‘I have sad news’, he declares as soon as everyone is seated. ‘I am taking you to your last winery.’ A big boo from the group and George hits the gas. Now, I’ll be honest here. I don’t know what the name of the last winery was, nor do I even recall the face of the staff or what I drank. I just remember they made the most delicious gluhwein and George served us bits and pieces of cheese during our tasting. I don’t recall the drive back home. I just recall James and me sitting in the campsite kitchen with broad grins on our faces emptying a bag of cream cheese chips. When Bart and Casper came back to camp, we all started joking around. We played tricks on each other, messed up each other’s tents and told jokes until the dogs came home.

Dressed, packed and topped with a head aching hang-over, a neighbouring camper is dropping me off at a campsite closer to the city of Margaret River. I’ll miss the Big Valley Campsite, I’ll miss playing pool in the evening and I’ll miss my new, hippy friends, but without a car, it’s just too impractical. I can’t get around. So, I move to the Tourist Caravan Park, 1 km south of Margaret River. I set up tent next to two British travellers, Jade and Stewart. Speaking of being friends in a heartbeat, Jade and I take to each other like ants to jelly. Jade decided to travel for a bit when she left home, you know, just to see the world. In the mean while, she hasn’t been back for three years. ‘But ‘m goin hoome in Juune’, she adds. ‘It’s jast noat woarking oawt to steey abroad, so ‘m hedding beck.’ She has a sweet, British accent, acquired in her hometown of Liverpool, and dark dreadlocks usually put up in one big pigtail. Jade wants to be a circus clown, or perhaps a falconer, or maybe a journalist, or maybe an international singer instead. In any case, she makes me laugh. Her comments one life are so heart-warmingly simplistic – ‘I thenk ‘ll boy a dug when oi ge ome, a great Dane miybee. Butt then oi see another dug, and I wont that on’ - it makes me wonder why I always make such a fuss about things. At the age of 28, Jade has no plan whatsoever and is absolutely clueless about what to do with her future. ‘Miybe ’ll just gow back to studyin’ then’, she tells me, even though she graduated from university four years ago in the field of communication. She’ll go to India in three weeks, to join a Yoga study group. And she’s absolutely bonkers about my bird pictures. In any case, I decided that Jade, named after a gem that is ascribed the powers of good fortune and protection, is my new and very own lucky charm.

That evening, Jade takes me to her Yoga class, just around the corner. For 1,5 hours, we stretch, twist and bow until our bodies can stretch, twist and bow no farther and end with Shavasana, a moment of relaxation with which we end our exercises. As I lay on my yoga mat and stare at the ceiling, I try to relax every muscles that I have. But my heart is pounding. It’s beating solid against my chest, pumping blood to all the cells in every corner of my body. Then, it starts to flutter, beating irregular, making me feel slightly light headed. My heart’s pumping feels ticklish, slightly painful but nothing bad. Arrhythmia runs in the family and I know from experience, it will pass as long as I stay calm. But just for a moment, I get anxious. What if my heart stops, like my dad’s did? The thought alone is enough to increase my heart rate to match that of an athlete after a marathon. If it wasn’t pounding enough before, it sure is now. My whole body seems to pulsate along with my irregular heartbeat. I know my thoughts aren’t helping me right now and I need to flip them around, like Jenny from Esperance suggested. Flip negative things around, so they become positive. A new mantra just comes to mind, and I repeat it over and over again, quietly. One day, my heart will stop beating, like my dad’s heart did – but I’m not afraid anymore because I really don’t know what’s on the other side of life. One day, my heart will stop beating, like my dad’s heart did – but I will be able to say that I have lived life to the best of my abilities. One day, my heart will stop beating, like my dad’s heart did – but my love for this world, for all and everyone, will never perish. My heart slows down, beating regular again and I can feel such happiness flowing through me. Besides, what’s not to be happy about? I’m lying on a wooden floor, on a yoga mat, somewhere in Margaret River, Western Australia, a world away from home, next to a girl named Jade. How amazing is that?

Jade goes to another yoga class the next morning while I run some errands in town. We meet up again around 11 am and start walking South. Five k’s out of town, we find the Eagle Heritage, a bird sanctuary where the art of falconry and bird conservation colour each day. Throughout a patch of forested land, big bird cages can be found left and right. They house a wedged tailed eagle, some goshawks, kestrels, grassy,- braned,- boobook,- and other species of owls and tawny frogmouths. Even though the cages look like they’re about to disintegrate, the staff is friendly and we receive loads of info. Australia, apparently, is the only country in the world – and it has been for forty years! - where you can still get permits to shoot native eagles and other birds of prey. In fact, wedged tailed eagles were nearly whipped out when over a million of them were killed not too long ago. The birds were accused for flying off with cattle and even children. Now, anyone that knows something about birds of prey, also knows that there’s no bird out there that can pick up a full grown cow and just take off with it. But, farmers during economic crisis, needed a reason, a target for their anger. They turned the wedged tailed eagle into a black sheep. Next to hunting, farmers often employed poisoning tactics to keep foxes, rats and mice away from their crops. When eating toxins, no rodent dies instantly. Instead, they start feeling sick, head outside to look for someplace safe and die out in open. You can guess that birds of prey, being opportunistic feeders, fed on the dying rats, foxes and mice and became sick and dying themselves. To my own surprise, the sport of falconing – employing trained raptors to chase out rodents or pests of whatever species – is illegal in Australia. But wouldn’t introducing hunting with birds of prey a) boost bird conservation efforts, b) get rid of rodents in a more natural way and c) offer more job opportunities to Australia’s declining economy? Oh well, now that the country’s leaders are wrapped up in discussions over carbon tax, eagles, hawks and falcons are probably the last thing on their minds. We walk 5 k’s back in town and have a nana-nap when we return to our tents. Two hours later, Stewart joins us and we walk another 1,5 k’s to the north end of town. Jade and Stewart found a flyer that advertised a weekly, free meditation class. Being all hippy and spiritual now anyway, we decided to check it out. When we arrive at the Margaret River Resource Centre, where the meditation was supposed to be held, we stumble upon a big group of people from all sorts of kinds, sharing a meal out on the grass. Jade and I look at each other in wonder. ‘Dow you thank the meditation is still own?’ Jade asks me. I shrug. ‘Let’s ask around.’ We walk up to a table where a blonde woman is cutting up a watermelon. ‘Do you want some?’ she offers instantly. I’m a bit taken back, not sure what to make of this all. ‘There is supposed to be a free meditation class, somewhere in this centre. Do you know anything about it?’ I ask. The woman smiles. ‘Ohw, that’s probably an old flyer you picked up. Troy used to do it, but I haven’t seen him in months.’ Jade, Stewart and I look at each other, and then turn our gaze around us, to all the people sitting on the grass and on the porches. ‘You haven’t been here before, have you?’ The woman asks. ‘No’, I reply. ‘I have no idea what’s going on.’ Jade and Stew nod accordingly. ‘Well, this is the soup kitchen. Consider it a sort of charity to anyone local or visiting Margaret River. For five dollars, you can get a meal inside. If you have more to spend, you can give more, if you have less, you give less.’ As soon as Jade, Stewart and I enter the Soup Kitchen, we indeed see a sign that says so. It also adds that if you have nothing to spend and have run out of money, you can pay with a smile. We decide to stick around and grab a meal while we’re here. The kitchen serves rice with several vegan and organic dishes: pumpkin in a nutty sauce, a bean mixture, lentil curry and vegan chilli. We get a plate full. I pay five bucks, Jade and Stewart just smile. They left their money at the campsite, and will be back next time to pay double.

When we get outside, a man gestures for us to join him at a table. He’s sitting alone, looking for some company. His name is Martin. Martin is slightly bald, in his late forties I’m guessing, with a healthy, round posture. He has an open smile and dark, adoring puppy-eyes. ‘It’s all about giving’, Martin starts as soon as he hears we’re new. ‘The people that set this up have a very giving nature. And what you give, you’ll receive back.’ Martin is a firm believer in reciprocation. He tells us about how he invested in an American realty organisation, a few years ago. They were supposed to build houses near Perth and sell the lofts. It was supposed to profitable. But then, the US market collapsed and Martin lost all his money. For the following six years, he lived in a tent, trying to get by with short-term jobs. ‘But I never stopped giving’, he adds. ‘And besides, I still had my health. Some people in the states lost everything, their wealth, their house, their families, their health. I just lost my possessions.’ Martin clearly is an expert in positive thinking. I ask him whether, during those six years, he had ever given up hope. ‘No, you adjust to everything’, he says. ‘Even living in a tent.’ Now, Martin has a new job as a bus driver. He bought a car last week, a deep red old timer in perfect condition branded ‘liberty’. ‘I also have an apartment now. But I can’t get used to it. I have a fridge for crying out loud, and air condition!’ we all laugh. It’s easy to forget what luxury we have when we’re constantly surrounded by it. That’s why I always prefer travelling on a shoe string. It’s easier to meet people, you gain more profound experiences, and it anything, you really learn to value your own bed and your own couch back home. You’ll learn, that there’s really nothing else you need. After dinner, Martin drops us off at our campsite. I loan him two DVD’s I got in Esperance which he’ll put under my tent when he’s done watching them. He gives me a big hug and wishes me all the luck with my travels. Likewise, Martin. Likewise.

I sleep well, another mantra lingering in my mind: Just one more week, and I’ll be home again.

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