Goodbye to the Land of Oz

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The new campsite in Margaret River suits me fine and I finally spoke to Dennis again this afternoon. After a week of being deprived from a working phone signal and internet connection, we finally managed to get a date on Skype. Now, Skype is a great program, don´t get me wrong, but it´s nowhere near the actual sensation of being close to a loved one. There´s no familiar smell, no sense of touch, and often not even a clear sound or video image. So, after Dennis and I say our goodbyes again, I turn my gaze outward and stare down the streets of Margaret River. I fly home in seven days andsSuddenly, a week seems infinitely long. The seven days ahead appear an endless term. I sag around town, dragging my feet behind me. When I get into my tent, I fall asleep, wishing I won´t wake up until it´s time to board my flight home. ´Saaaan?’ It’s 7.30 pm and darkness has set in. ‘Saaan? Ar yuu in there?’ Jade peers through the entrance of my tent. ‘Yeeaaaahhhh’, I pout. I’m right heeeereee....’ Jade laughs. ‘Well, cume on then, it’s taime fur oar ouse woarming.’ Today, Jade and Stewart were upgraded. They have been at the campsite for several weeks, so now, they’ve been allowed to move into a permanent caravan. I give a deep sigh. I really don’t want to do anything but shrivel away in my tent. But then again, that wouldn’t be very good for me. I follow Jade through the darkness until we reach an once white trailer. A dirty fly of the outer tent is pushed aside and I see Stewart’s smiling face. ‘Welcome!’ he exclaims and leads me inside. The caravan has a iffy, wooden interior. Some layers have been peeled off by the hand of time. One bed is located at the end, another bed is outside, sheltered by a tent attached to the motorcade. It’s tiny, but it’s got everything you would need. Jade has prepared lamb chops, a pumpkin salad and rice with raisins and vegetables. I picked up a bottle of wine for them earlier that day, a sort of house warming gift. Jade serves dinner, while I fill the glasses and Stew takes some photos. When everyone is seated, Stewart raises his glass and says: ‘To the caravan! We’re now officially trailer trash! Here, here!´

Throughout the night, we talk about pretty much everything one could talk about until Stew finally breaks into the conversation. ‘I heard you lost your dad’, he candidly says rather than asks. ‘That’s right’, I tell him. ‘Last summer, well, last European summer.’ Stewart’s face has become serious now. ‘I lost my father seven years ago. A heart attack. I never got to say goodbye’, he tells me. I feel terrible for him. One that dreadful day, Stew went to school like he would any other day. But when he came home, his mom told him his father was dead. In fact, he never woke up from his sleep that morning. Stewart started laughing when he heard the news. He just didn’t know how else to respond, so he cracked up. He couldn’t cope with the fact that his father had passed, so weeks later, he took to drugs. Eventually, in the spirit of desperation, he went travelling through Asia. When he came home several months later, he was a different man. He had now become even more bitter, angry and high- tempered. He picked fights where he could and in the end, resulted in doing drugs again. But then he met Jade who, when hammered like a proper alcoholic, said that he should come to Australia and travel with her. Before she knew it, he was there. Both of them hadn’t a clue about whether they were doing the right thing, but it was the way it was and they proved to be good enough friends to share a tent and face the challenges of working abroad for a meagre pay. ‘I feel like you now’, Stewart says. ‘I feel like it’s time to close the chapter.’ Both Stew and I will never forget our fathers, how could we? But we both feel it’s time to move on. In comparison to Stew, I feel I got off easy. While Stew is a more introvert person, I yap at pretty much everyone with ears and find it no problem to open up. Also, Stew’s father was taken without warning, without goodbye. At least I had the chance to reconcile with my father and be there for him until his very end. It’s strange how one can be fortunate in such unlucky ways. After dinner we wash up and put some stuff away. Somehow, the topic has landed on horse riding as we clean up the last bits and pieces. ´Let´s go ´orse ridn toge' er through chele´, Jade spontaneously suggests. And I spontaneously agree. What a plan, to set out on a horse and cross the plains of Chile. I don´t know if it´ll ever happen. I´ll see which cards fate will hand to me. But it´s fun just to fantasize about. Jade and I solemnly swear to stay in touch. ‘Oi’ll be oan Feceboak, so keip in touch and we’ll plan that orse raide toge’er.’ When it´s time to leave, I give and get some great big hugs. I won´t be seeing Jade and Stewart again as I´ll be heading for Perth soon.

It takes me five and a half hours to travel from Margaret River to Perth. I booked a cheap, single room in a hostel at the far end of town. I have five more days before I fly home and I want some time to relax and contemplate on my journey. Not to mention that sleeping on a camping mat for two weeks has been killing my lower back. I feel exhausted upon arrival at the hostel, although I’m not too sure why. I had a decent enough sleep, I should be okay. But my body says otherwise. Perhaps it´s the fact that my journey is ending and every bit of tension or apprehension I was still carrying with me is pouring out. I just need to sleep and I do so for 14 hours!

When I wake up and have some breakfast, I hop on a train to Fremantle, Perth´s sister city famous for her beaches, her parties, her hippy population and her shopping. Indeed, you can shop until you drop here. The Eshad market is filled with souvenirs, fairy shops and retro clothing. The inner city, next to the usual shops, has several vintage stores and second hand stores crammed with old wedding dresses, cocktail dresses, gowns and jackets our grandmothers´ mothers used to wear. There are bead stores, gem stores, spiritual shops that reek of incense and the happy-herb shop for any other kind of smoke you might desire. After I do a fair bit of shopping and try on some old gowns just for fun, I head to see Fremantle’s old prison. This confinement centre has a fascinating story to tell. Western Australia is the only state that requested to have inmates sent over. Where Hobart and New South Wales were burdened with criminals no matter their consent, Western Australia opened its gates and invited them in, considering the convicts as cheap labour forces. The prisoners hand-built the whole jail, including its five metre high walls, four story buildings and barbwired fences, which opened up in 1855. In 1909 electrics were installed. However, up until the day the prison was shut down in 1991, no sewage systems was ever set up. Right until the very end, convicts cleared their bowels in steel buckets which they carried out themselves twice a day. The prison’s youngest inmate was a five-year old boy who stole a handkerchief from one of the town’s wealthiest. He served his sentence for 90 days. Around thirty men and one woman were hanged during the prison’s heydays. Martha Rendell, a mother of three sick children, couldn’t afford a doctor at the time. Instead, she tried a home remedy to help cure her kids. But sadly, something went very wrong and her children died instead of bettering. Martha was sentenced and hanged. Erik Edgar Cook, an infamous serial killer, was the last person to be hanged inside the prison walls. On June 4th 1988, the old jail suffered from one of the biggest riots in history. It was a steaming hot day with temperatures exceeding 42 C. The inmates were bored and driven to aggression by the heat. Not only did the prisoners suffer from the baking sun, an officer crossed the line and beat up on an inmate who, unfortunately for the officer, was much liked by the other convicts. It caused a mayhem as convicts started fighting, somehow got possession of the prison’s keys – a set of two which would lock and unlock the whole facility – and set everything flammable on fire. Since the detention centre hadn’t had a safety drill in over twenty-five years, no one realized that the city’s new fire trucks no longer fitted through the front gates. Somehow though, the firemen managed to get the inferno under control. The officer who crossed the line and beat up the much-liked inmate, was later sentenced to do time in his very own jail. You can imagine, he didn’t get out much. A last interesting fact was that bored convicts often relied on art to express their emotions. The prison- and cell walls are often decorated in artwork of varying kinds. Most inmates practised their art so that they could later become tattoo artists. Needles to say that not all artwork is suitable for the public, so, very soon, the old prison will start running special adult tours that will unveil the work of some of darkest minds that were kept imprisoned.

I get back to my hostel around 7.30 pm, satisfied but starving. I quickly make a salad and boil some tea. I want to take it up to my room so I can eat in peace and watch a movie on my laptop, but somewhere on the third step of the stairs, I slip and fall. With my head in the clouds and not in the moment, I fail to pay attention and trip. The salad ends up two steps higher, still contained in the salad bowl, but the steaming hot tea goes flying towards me and lands on my upper arm right next to my arm pit. Now That Hurts! But, all seems fine to me at first. My arm just looks a little red, nothing more. So, reassuring myself that I’ll alright, I boil myself a new cup of tea, put some ice on my arm and go upstairs again – mindfully this time. However, after twenty minutes or so, I notice that my skin starts to peel and that the pain is becoming agonizing. I’m not sure what to do, I have no experience with burns so I quickly google first aid for burn wounds and discover I need to get this treated. I visit the local hospital further up the street. It's a a five minute walk from the hostel. The hospital is located right behind an old church. It’s new, modern building contrasts the baroque architecture of the cathedral. Inside, it’s a maze of hallways. Bright white floors and walls, well-lit signs and that distinct hospital smell. I have no clue where to go. It’s after hours, so shops and such are closed. Finally, a balding man on crutches gives me directions and I wind up at the emergency department. A nurse takes me under her wings. It turns out that I have a second degree burn on my arm and my skin is starting to look like bubble plastic with fluid-filled blisters covering my upper arm. She peels it off as far as possible using a small blade and tweezers. After that, she wraps the wound in a special dressing designed for burn injuries. She lets me be for a while, as she goes out to arrange my paper work. I lay down in the paper covered bed in my very own hospital cubicles bordered by green curtains. I can hear bleeps, people walking and nurses talking. Then, I hear someone next to me who’s off way worse than I am. A fire accident caused deep burns that cover some poor fellows chest, neck and left arm. Hospital staff is concerned his wound may get infected or that he’ll lose too much fluids due to his injuries. It’s decided that he’s held overnight. I can hear him sigh and swear at an almost soundless level. Poor guy. How lucky I am again, in such an unfortunate way. The nurse informs me that I need to come back next Tuesday so they can refresh the bandage. Until then, I’m banned from taking showers, carrying backpacks or doing anything that might somehow cause friction to the dressing. Oh San, when will you learn to slow down, feel, breath! I walk home, feeling ever lonely but relieved.

When I fell last night, a sweet lady was there to help me and advise me about burns. She had dark hair in a pony tail and must have been in her late forties. When I come down this morning, she’s at the kitchen table having breakfast. ‘You’re up early’, I cheerfully say when I see her. However, the lady gives me a look that spells thunder. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask a bit concerned. ‘Yeah, just in a hurry’, she replies. ‘Where are you off to?’ I inquire again. ‘Work’, and she smears some peanut butter on two slices of bread with a force that could have separated the red sea. ‘I know’, she says. ‘I’m such a disaster, I’m a mess, I’m beyond hope!’ she wraps up the sandwiches in a plastic bag. I’m a little taken aback by her comment. I can’t really grasp her situation either. She’s off to work? Is this her permanent residence? Is this her life? Whatever the cause, I don’t feel like attributing to her sad state at the moment, so, I try to cheer her up. ‘Well, if it’s anything, you don’t look beyond hope to me.’ There’s a little pause. Then, she looks up at me and laughs. She’s clearly uncomfortable and surprised by my comment. But she doesn’t say a word. Instead, she pours some milk into a cup with such violence, it makes me wonder what cows ever did to her. ‘Everything I touch turns to shit’, she eventually says. ‘Really?’ I reply with some sarcasm. ‘Everything? Looks like you successfully managed to make yourself a peanut butter sandwich just now.’ And that’s it! Thunder! I probably shouldn’t have said that. The lady gets up, takes her stuff and starts walking out. On her way to the door she looks at me and asks ‘Who are you? Some sort of psychic!’ Ohw shit. I clearly did something wrong, but what? I feel bad for her as I watch her leave the room. I even yell after her that words are important and she should be careful of how she formulates things, but it’s no use. She’s out the door in a heartbeat, leaving me a bit puzzled.

In the afternoon, I visit an old acquaintance, Shirley, the opal lady. When I walk into her opal shop, another friend of hers is there to visit. Shirley looks older than I can remember but somehow, her voice sounds more youthful. ‘Sit down dear’, she says and gestures for me to take a seat. Shirley instantly starts talking about her past. Here come her stories again, stories of past quarrels, of infidelity, of heart break and of her life journey. Sitting at her small coffee table, I stop seeing Shirley from a journalist’s viewpoint and start seeing her with my own eyes. She seems so bitter right now. I have heard these stories all before, but like a broken record, Shirley keeps repeating them. Again, I feel compelled to add a more positive note to our conversation, to try and makes Shirley see the brighter side of life. But everything is say is flung aside. It doesn’t matter how I try, Shirley just ignores my efforts and keeps on talking about her cheerless past. When some clients come in, Shirley leaves the table to attend to business. Her friend nods me, leans in and says ‘don’t worry, she just a sad lady. That’s why I come here, so she can have a chat and such.’ She sits up straight again, looking at Shirley tottering through her shop. I’m puzzled. What am I supposed to say or do here? What part do I play in all this? Shirley joins us again after her customers leave without buying anything. She lights a cigarette and picks up her monologue where she left off. After some time, I feel weighed down by all the negativity that fills the room. I get a good sense of what it must be like to be Shirley. I really don’t want to be here anymore. I literally feel short of breath, heavy and sad. And since I also feel there’s nothing I can do to alleviate the situation, I get up and say goodbye. Shirley hugs me and tells me it was nice to catch up. Again, I’m puzzled. When did we catch up? She never asked me a thing about my two months here in Australia, she just repeated her life saga, over and over again. Nevertheless, I hug her back, wish her the best and take off. Two negative forces crossed my path today, two forces that didn’t care to hear about anything positive I had to say. I’m a bit bewildered and mystified. What does this mean?

I believe that everything in life happens for a reason. So, I also believe that these two women who crossed my path today did so for a certain cause. I recently bought a book titled ‘The secrets of the rainmaker’, written by Chin-Ning Chu, an international lecturer and company president. I flip through some pages and start reading about spiritual awakening. Chin-Ning writes about how people who have recently experienced such awakening have acquired a new awareness of power and strong desire for goodness without having a tolerance for that which is considered by them as ‘not-good’. The soul, still saturated with pride and ignorance, is inspired to bestow itself and others with its own notion of ‘good’. Eventually, without exercising self-discipline and restriction, awakened souls can become a nuisance to others who are fed up with ‘good advice’. It’s like one of those cartoon light bulbs, hovering over my head, lights up. I take the lesson to heart. Indeed, neither the woman in the kitchen with the pony tail, nor Shirley, ever asked me for anything, let alone asking me for advice. So who am I to butt into their business?

On my final day in Perth, I want to visit Kings Park, a recreational area that I feel marks the beginning of my journey. It was here that I decided to ignore society´s voice telling me I needed a valid reason for travelling, a cause that would somehow justify my trip to Australia when I actually had no clue about what I was doing here. It was here that I decided to start writing about all my experiences, about my quest, even though I did not realize at the time that I was one on. But when my alarm goes off at 5.15 in the morning – wanted to go early to get the best bird pictures – I feel terrible. My throat is aching and I have a pounding head ache. Normally, this wouldn’t keep me from going, but I think it’s about time I learn my lessons and keep on taking good care of myself. So, I close my eyes, slide into a meditative state and fall back asleep. I wake up two hours later, feeling a lot better. I take a shower – holding my right arm up in the air so the dressing on my shoulder doesn’t get soaked – and hop on a free CAT bus toward the park. I’m hoping for some epic experience, a symbolic ending to my trip, fireworks, a revelation, whatever! But nothing. I feel nothing. In fact, kings park is crowded with machinery. A concert will be hosted tonight and big fences with even bigger signs shield of a major part of the park. To make matters worse, my head ache is on the rebound and am starting to feel pain again while swallowing. I go home, saturated with disappointment. It has been a while since I have heard that inner voice. It has been a while since I’ve received some spiritual sign. Have I imagined the spiritual events of the last two months? Does God only speak to us when we are in a state of desperation? I know of an idiom that says you can only really see the stars when it’s truly dark. Is that true? I get back to the hostel, let myself fall onto the single bed and fall asleep again. All this pain – including the pain in my shoulder, and the embarrassment now that the burn wound starts oozing a stinky puss – is wearing me out. When I wake up, I watch a movie and mess around in my room, packing my backpack and such. I still feel down. After all that I have been through, is this it? Is this how it ends? I just go home and that’s it? It can’t be. It just can’t be.

Around 5 pm, I start to feel a little more rested and head out to laze in a nearby park. After all, soon enough I’ll be back in the rains, back in Holland’s refreshing cold. I fold out a little blanket and bask myself in the shade of a big, palm tree. Traffic is picking up and closing in. People are heading home. White cockatoos fly around screaming as if they are constantly arguing with the other birds. Gradually, the last two months are passing by the eye of my imagination. I remember first getting here, scared and up tight. I wasn’t really sure what I was doing in Oz. I kept telling myself I was here to write stories and shoot photos, and I was. But even then, even though I couldn’t honestly tell you, I realized deep down that came to Australia for a more profound reason. Then, my flight to Sydney where I cried over breakfast out of complete misery and hopelessness. How I missed my father then. And how homesick I was. It didn’t get better when I went to Robertson, but I did experience for the first time during my voyage a divine intervention. Good friends and spiritual guides were sent on my path. And they told me exactly what I needed to hear. It was then that I started to realize what the true meaning is of acceptance. I learned what it means to take care of myself unconditionally and I learned to let whatever was happening happen, for I was exactly where I needed to be and all was perfect in its own way. An airplane took me to Tasmania where I first let go of my sorrow and really, finally took pleasure in what I was doing, seeing and experiencing. Another good friend crossed my path, one who clarified for me there are two sides to each story, and two extremes to each state. In Port Lincoln, I was lost and found again. For the very first time in my life did I really speak out loud to God. And blessed, I received such a clear answer. The Nullabor gave me back some of my original strength. It brought me back in touch with the old, adventurous me. I got some of my fearless spirit back. And then, I found hope – Esperance. A family of angels took me in and gave me a place to catch my breath and relax in comfort for a while. I made a new and true friend and the tables got turned. Never was I able to advise anyone during this trip, until I came to Esperance. From Hope, I traveled to a sheep station. For the first time, I’m tempted by my own ignorance and vanity. It’s not until I get to Perth that I realize that everyone has their own path in life and everyone has a right to walk that path according to their own standard. No need for me to interfere. There are no right or wrongs here. But now, at the end of it all, I’m lying on my thin blanket in one of Perth’s parks, about to head home feeling a little lost again.

I keep wondering what to do. How do I get in contact with God again? How do uphold my spiritual resolutions when I feel sort of abandoned. Now that I feel stronger and no longer desperate, am I on my own? Is God too busy for me? I stare up at the sky, brooding the minutes away. Then, the light bulb gets switched on again. Dad! I’ll ask dad! I close my eyes and in a split second, here’s right there again, right next me, sitting on the grass with his legs folded in front of him. With a smile on his face, he gazes around him, looking contently at Perth’s skyline.
(S) Dad? What are you thinking? How is everything?
But he just smiles. He knows, as well as I do, I’m not asking the right questions here. I’m beating around the bush.
(S) Okay, has God forsaken me? Will I only receive spiritual guidance when I’m totally lost?
Now, he starts laughing. He’s shaking his head as if to say ‘oh honey, if you only knew!’
(D) Fate will never forsake you. How can it. You’re part of it all.
(S) If that’s true, how come I can’t get into to contact with God anymore, or with spiritual guides, or with whatever you want to call it. How come I don’t feel their direction anymore?
(D) Honey, you need to look closer.
I’m a little puzzled by this. What does he mean?
(D) Let me tell you what I mean. You have been getting stronger these last few weeks. You have made new friends, you’ve swam with dolphins, you went on a wine tour, you went shopping. All fun, but you haven’t really taken the time or made any efforts to reach the spiritual side, have you?
I feel a bit self-conscious now. My father is right. I have been doing all sorts of fun stuff, which is fine, but I’ve also been more or less expecting divine revelations to just happen. Perhaps that’s a bit arrogant. Any relationship, between whom or whatever, is a two way street. And I haven’t exactly made an effort. I have just been feeling sorry for myself and abandoned, when I’m the one that neglected to tune in. Seeing my dad again, even though it’s just imaginary, makes me realize again how much I miss him and how much I love him.
(S) Dad, can I sometimes still talk to you like this? Or is that a bad thing?
My father laughs. Such a loving smile. And he needn’t answer for I already know what he will say. I feel such a deep and powerful love for him. It almost takes my breath away. I never knew I was capable of feeling such love.
(S) Dad, why did I never feel this strong when you were still alive? Why did I never feel this way so I could share it with you when you were still here?
(D) Because we were living. And when we live, there’s always distraction. Past arguments, unsolved quarrels, the quick pace of the days. Now that I’m gone, there are no more distractions. We can just feel. And experience.

That makes sense. I grab my book in a wanting to write everything down but when I see the empty page – the tabula rasa – from my heart flows a strong and potent desire which pours straight out of my pen. With great vigour and passionate strokes I write ‘Dad, I love you. Forever. Santje.’ When it’s done, I look at the page. I feel so relived. It’s as if finally, I can let love flow freely without holding back. I look up at the bright blue sky. I no longer feel the need for a divine intervention or something magical to happen. Life is magical in itself. I know I will forever grow. I will become more practised in recognizing the omens and lessons that will guide me during my days And I know that if I do, if I keep paying attention and make an effort to cultivate my relationship with fate, life and my life’s purpose will unravel and everything will be as it was intended to be.

Like William James once wrote – We and God have business with each other; and in opening ourselves to His influence our deepest destiny is fulfilled.

Before I walk away from my place in the park. I feel there’s one more thing I need to do. As I sit up straight with my back towards the sun, I look at my own shadow casted in the grass in front of me. Again, I start talking, but this time, my word aren’t directed to someone else. They’re directed to me. San, I’m proud of you and I love you. I love your strength. I love how you’re not afraid to learn, or admit that you’re learning. I respect the fact that you faced your fears. I love you even when your fuzzy, suffering from a mild form of ADD and slipping on stairs. I love it how you always trip all over yourself when you try to be elegant. I love it how you try to look and act feminine even when you feel worn out. I love your sense of humour. I love it how you try and fall and try again. I love it that you’re so human yet always trying to improve yourself, to better yourself. I love you for who you are, and because I love you so, I will never forsake you. And because I will never forsake you, you will always be alright.

The next morning, a shuttle bus takes me to Perth international airport. I check in, hang around in the coffee bar until around 3.45 pm a voice speaks through the intercom; Flight L6QMD to Amsterdam is now boarding. It’s time to go home.

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