Saturday 24th April 2010, 6.45am, Ratu Kini Resort - Mana Island
I have been having the same dream, continuously, for the past 5 months. I would have told you about it sooner but as often happens with our dreams they pale and vanish in consciousness, they flee from that cerebral cortex which governs daytime thinking. Unless we make concerted effort to hold on to them by chasing their tails through our memory, they are lost in a No Man's Land of unexplained sleeper's thought. This one always sticks with me, but it is only today, on rising and reaching for my notebook as early as I have, that I finally remember to tell you about it.
The premise, the feeling and the ending of the dream are always exactly the same, a few variables change here and there, but every time I have it I wake up not knowing where I am. It starts with me at home, and by home I mean various locations around London; sometimes I am at work, sometimes at my parents' house, sometimes at my local pub. The conversation begins, the scene is set, the exposition run through: I have just returned from travelling, I am being welcomed back for the first time by family and friends and colleagues. I have come back, but only temporarily, just to see everyone for one weekend, a fleeting visit before I go back to whatever country I was in at the time - when I was in Cambodia I knew this in the dream, and knew I had to get back to Vietnam, when I was in Bali this is what I told people in my dream, and knew I had to fly back to New Zealand, and so on and so forth.
I spend time catching up with everyone and begin to get back in to my old routines, and then the dream switches. I have been at home too long, what am I doing here? I'm going to miss my next flight, it's going to cost me a fortune in plane tickets to get back to where I was and carry on. The dream always ends with me walking over to the noticeboard in our kitchen and pointing at the calendar, then I say, "I'm not going to be able to get back in time." I wake up in a state of panic, at first not realising that I was dreaming, believing I'm at home. Then it takes me a few seconds to process the room around me and work out what country, what island, what dormitory I'm in. The relief is always immense when I realise I'm still away and that I haven't missed any flights, every time I have the dream it makes me thankful all over again to be travelling.
I must have had that same dream about 20 times now, and I doubt I've seen the last of it yet. I'm no practised dream interpreter, but I don't think it takes any great philosopher to decipher what it means. It means I'm where I'm meant to be, doing what makes me happy, in places that I can't bare to leave, on a trip that I don't want to end. But it also means that if I could fly home for the weekend and see you all without jeopardising the future of my travels, I'd be there in a shot. If it's any consolation my dears, I'm visiting you all in my dreams.
Saturday, 8 May 2010
I Know This Much Is True
Thursday 22nd March 2010, 3.20pm, Beachcomber Island
I'm aware that I do go on about books that I've read on my travels quite frequently. But to be honest, you've got off remarkably lightly, I'm usually much more prolific in my book chat than this. Just ask any of my close friends and I'm sure they'll happily attest to the fact that I become reasonably boring in my constant desire to discuss and dissect and debate novels I've read. I could talk about books I love forever, and probably will. Maybe I should see if anyone wants to pay me to write about them; Grace Gillman, Literary Critic, that would be jolly nice. Then I could spend a stupid amount of time reading and no one would be able to tell me I was wasting my time, because it would be my JOB to be boring about books! I should have thought of this sooner!
I become distracted. I'm writing today to tell you about the book I have just finished, Wally Lamb's, 'I Know This Much Is True'. I came across it in entirely serendipitous circumstances, having read myself out of mine and Ella's reading material (although I point blank refused to touch her copy of 'Rubbish Boyfriends' by Jessie Jones, it offends me that money is spent printing that garbage, I'm just surprised it didn't have illustrations) I was on the way to the book shop and exchange at the Beach House, dreading what manner of Jilly Cooper, Sophie Kinsella, Marian Keyes and Jodi Picoult dross I was going to find there.
Walking through the bar I caught sight of a lone abandoned book on a shelf by the snooker table. There was no library label or name in the front cover, and it had been sellotaped down the spine to hold the two separated halves together, I like a well-loved book. I was initially perturbed by the presence of an Oprah's Book Club sticker on the front, guessing that this might mean it was some kind of self-help preaching manifesto, but then I remember that Oprah likes Toni Morrison, so she can't be all bad. Turning it in my hands to read the blurb I was instead met by an onslaught of critics' opinions that said things like;
'Every now and then a book comes along that sets new standards for writers and readers alike. Wally Lamb's latest novel is stunning - and even that might be an understatement... this is a masterpiece.'
'A rich literary tapestry that is an affirmation of life.'
'Twice as thoughtful and twice as heart-wrenching as most published this year... impossible to forget.'
'A late twentieth century Les Miserables.'
'The only thing bad about Wally Lamb's new novel is that it's too good.'
'There are no superlatives impressive enough to describe this... the saga of the century.'
Well then. All this praise just left me mightily confused as to how the hell I'd never heard of this author or this book? Why don't I pay more attention to the New York Times Bestseller List? Why am I not a literary critic too? Why haven't I written my book yet instead of this silly blog? Why don't I watch Oprah? I become distracted again. You can probably guess what I'm going to say about Lamb's novel can't you, it's not going to be 'yeah, weren't bad' is it. Without wanting to hammer home the message too rigidly after all those critics' plaudits, I will tell you simply first, that yes, it is an astounding feat of literary genius, it is 900 pages of storytelling perfection that make you wish it had been double, triple it's already magnitudinous length. I've just finished it and I am fighting the urge to go back to page 1 and start all over again.
It is a fully developed exploration of contemporary suffering and redemption, it is inspiring, disturbingly comic, devastating, symmetrically crafted, a soulful consideration of all that hurts and heals us. Right at the centre of this book is an epic modern day survivor, a man who is flawed and selfish and angry and guilty of betrayal, and yet you love him all the more for his very human failings, you so desperately want him to have the happy ending he deserves. He should go down, in my opinion, as one of the greatest literary examples of troubled human life and heroism ever written.
I couldn't possibly tell you what it's about, because it is about everything. But if you intend to read it I would warn you to prepare yourself for a heavy study in tragedy. I was shedding a quiet tear to myself at one particularly emotive part and Ella asked me why it was sad? "Schizophrenia, cot death, self mutilation, child abuse, domestic violence, oppression of women, racism, divorce, depression, rape, social injustice, death, betrayal, humiliation, unrequited love", I answered.
"I don't think I want to read that book", she said.
But she'll be missing out if she doesn't. I have read a lot of books in my 23 years, and I really do mean A LOT of books, possibly hundreds. This, this book of Wally Lamb's, is one of the best I have ever found, and if you're any kind of smart cookie you'll take my advice and find it for yourself, I know that much is true.
I'm aware that I do go on about books that I've read on my travels quite frequently. But to be honest, you've got off remarkably lightly, I'm usually much more prolific in my book chat than this. Just ask any of my close friends and I'm sure they'll happily attest to the fact that I become reasonably boring in my constant desire to discuss and dissect and debate novels I've read. I could talk about books I love forever, and probably will. Maybe I should see if anyone wants to pay me to write about them; Grace Gillman, Literary Critic, that would be jolly nice. Then I could spend a stupid amount of time reading and no one would be able to tell me I was wasting my time, because it would be my JOB to be boring about books! I should have thought of this sooner!
I become distracted. I'm writing today to tell you about the book I have just finished, Wally Lamb's, 'I Know This Much Is True'. I came across it in entirely serendipitous circumstances, having read myself out of mine and Ella's reading material (although I point blank refused to touch her copy of 'Rubbish Boyfriends' by Jessie Jones, it offends me that money is spent printing that garbage, I'm just surprised it didn't have illustrations) I was on the way to the book shop and exchange at the Beach House, dreading what manner of Jilly Cooper, Sophie Kinsella, Marian Keyes and Jodi Picoult dross I was going to find there.
Walking through the bar I caught sight of a lone abandoned book on a shelf by the snooker table. There was no library label or name in the front cover, and it had been sellotaped down the spine to hold the two separated halves together, I like a well-loved book. I was initially perturbed by the presence of an Oprah's Book Club sticker on the front, guessing that this might mean it was some kind of self-help preaching manifesto, but then I remember that Oprah likes Toni Morrison, so she can't be all bad. Turning it in my hands to read the blurb I was instead met by an onslaught of critics' opinions that said things like;
'Every now and then a book comes along that sets new standards for writers and readers alike. Wally Lamb's latest novel is stunning - and even that might be an understatement... this is a masterpiece.'
'A rich literary tapestry that is an affirmation of life.'
'Twice as thoughtful and twice as heart-wrenching as most published this year... impossible to forget.'
'A late twentieth century Les Miserables.'
'The only thing bad about Wally Lamb's new novel is that it's too good.'
'There are no superlatives impressive enough to describe this... the saga of the century.'
Well then. All this praise just left me mightily confused as to how the hell I'd never heard of this author or this book? Why don't I pay more attention to the New York Times Bestseller List? Why am I not a literary critic too? Why haven't I written my book yet instead of this silly blog? Why don't I watch Oprah? I become distracted again. You can probably guess what I'm going to say about Lamb's novel can't you, it's not going to be 'yeah, weren't bad' is it. Without wanting to hammer home the message too rigidly after all those critics' plaudits, I will tell you simply first, that yes, it is an astounding feat of literary genius, it is 900 pages of storytelling perfection that make you wish it had been double, triple it's already magnitudinous length. I've just finished it and I am fighting the urge to go back to page 1 and start all over again.
It is a fully developed exploration of contemporary suffering and redemption, it is inspiring, disturbingly comic, devastating, symmetrically crafted, a soulful consideration of all that hurts and heals us. Right at the centre of this book is an epic modern day survivor, a man who is flawed and selfish and angry and guilty of betrayal, and yet you love him all the more for his very human failings, you so desperately want him to have the happy ending he deserves. He should go down, in my opinion, as one of the greatest literary examples of troubled human life and heroism ever written.
I couldn't possibly tell you what it's about, because it is about everything. But if you intend to read it I would warn you to prepare yourself for a heavy study in tragedy. I was shedding a quiet tear to myself at one particularly emotive part and Ella asked me why it was sad? "Schizophrenia, cot death, self mutilation, child abuse, domestic violence, oppression of women, racism, divorce, depression, rape, social injustice, death, betrayal, humiliation, unrequited love", I answered.
"I don't think I want to read that book", she said.
But she'll be missing out if she doesn't. I have read a lot of books in my 23 years, and I really do mean A LOT of books, possibly hundreds. This, this book of Wally Lamb's, is one of the best I have ever found, and if you're any kind of smart cookie you'll take my advice and find it for yourself, I know that much is true.
Thursday, 6 May 2010
A Mouse in the House
Wednesday 21st April 2010, 9.30om, Dormitory Room - Bounty Island
I'm not sleeping in the bed I'm supposed to be sleeping in. That is because my designated bed is a bottom bunk, and that is far too near the mouse for my liking. About an hour ago I came in to our dorm room on Bounty Island to find Ella perched on her top bunk, peering over the edge into the corner of the room.
"Ells, what are you..."
"Ssshh, listen!"
I listened, and I heard it too. The unmistakable sound of scuffling and chewing that only a small rodent can make. I promptly leapt up on to her bed with her and we both sat there in anticipation and quiet anxiety, staring at the bag from which the noise was emanating. I have some previous experience of rodent room occupation having spent a night on Gili Air sleeping in the hammock on the veranda after hearing a family of rats steadily munch their way through the wicker ceiling above my pillow. It was a choice between bad back and 10,000 mosquito bites versus being woken up by rat falling on face, and I took the back ache and the itching like a trooper. The bungalow's resident cat had also joined me for sleep in the hammock, her disinterest in staying inside to hunt was an indication of the size of these killer rats.
I quite like mice though, they're cute little things, but I do not fancy the prospect of one crawling over me in the middle of the night when I'm not expecting it. We sat for some time together on her bed, watching out for any noticeable movement from the hijacked bag and wondering what we were going to do about it. Thankfully, just as our planning stage had reached 'stay here all night and sleep in the same bed without risking the run to the bathroom to brush our teeth', the gallant owner of the occupied backpack, Ruben, came back to the dorm. "Oh thank god!" we cried in unison, and without so much as a hesitated shudder Ruben pulled his bag into the centre of the room, unzipped it, and began to pull things out whilst Ella and I clung to each other and retreated further down the bed.
It didn't take long to find the pesky critter. He'd eaten through half a pack of Super Noodles and a bag of crisps, and had made quite the cosy little nest for himself with Ruben's t-shirts and the lining of the bag, he'd also obviously been very busy marking the backpack as his territory by urinating over everything. He looked quite sweet sitting there gazing up at us with a guilty 'uh-oh, you caught me' face, and I felt silly for having been frightened by such an amiable little animal. Ruben, as you'd expect, was less enthused by the mouse's "cuteness". On his discovery and exposure of culpability, the mouse (who we shall call Brian), deserted ship and darted into a dark corner of the room. Ruben is sorting out which of his clothes haven't become mouse bed linen, Ella and I are currently sat on two top bunk beds trying to work out if Brian is still with us. We suspect he is.
All will go quiet for a little while and then you'll see him poke his tiny head out from behind a bag or a bed, checking if the coast is clear for him to return home to Ruben's bag/nest. We have moved all of our bags off of ground level and are trying to be brave; we've agreed to take the 'at least it's not a giant cockroach' approach to the matter. Despite the initial fright, Brian is alright in my books, and I don't mind him sticking around as long as he stays on the floor. Hey, I've shared bedrooms with much more contemptible creatures than him.
I'm not sleeping in the bed I'm supposed to be sleeping in. That is because my designated bed is a bottom bunk, and that is far too near the mouse for my liking. About an hour ago I came in to our dorm room on Bounty Island to find Ella perched on her top bunk, peering over the edge into the corner of the room.
"Ells, what are you..."
"Ssshh, listen!"
I listened, and I heard it too. The unmistakable sound of scuffling and chewing that only a small rodent can make. I promptly leapt up on to her bed with her and we both sat there in anticipation and quiet anxiety, staring at the bag from which the noise was emanating. I have some previous experience of rodent room occupation having spent a night on Gili Air sleeping in the hammock on the veranda after hearing a family of rats steadily munch their way through the wicker ceiling above my pillow. It was a choice between bad back and 10,000 mosquito bites versus being woken up by rat falling on face, and I took the back ache and the itching like a trooper. The bungalow's resident cat had also joined me for sleep in the hammock, her disinterest in staying inside to hunt was an indication of the size of these killer rats.
I quite like mice though, they're cute little things, but I do not fancy the prospect of one crawling over me in the middle of the night when I'm not expecting it. We sat for some time together on her bed, watching out for any noticeable movement from the hijacked bag and wondering what we were going to do about it. Thankfully, just as our planning stage had reached 'stay here all night and sleep in the same bed without risking the run to the bathroom to brush our teeth', the gallant owner of the occupied backpack, Ruben, came back to the dorm. "Oh thank god!" we cried in unison, and without so much as a hesitated shudder Ruben pulled his bag into the centre of the room, unzipped it, and began to pull things out whilst Ella and I clung to each other and retreated further down the bed.
It didn't take long to find the pesky critter. He'd eaten through half a pack of Super Noodles and a bag of crisps, and had made quite the cosy little nest for himself with Ruben's t-shirts and the lining of the bag, he'd also obviously been very busy marking the backpack as his territory by urinating over everything. He looked quite sweet sitting there gazing up at us with a guilty 'uh-oh, you caught me' face, and I felt silly for having been frightened by such an amiable little animal. Ruben, as you'd expect, was less enthused by the mouse's "cuteness". On his discovery and exposure of culpability, the mouse (who we shall call Brian), deserted ship and darted into a dark corner of the room. Ruben is sorting out which of his clothes haven't become mouse bed linen, Ella and I are currently sat on two top bunk beds trying to work out if Brian is still with us. We suspect he is.
All will go quiet for a little while and then you'll see him poke his tiny head out from behind a bag or a bed, checking if the coast is clear for him to return home to Ruben's bag/nest. We have moved all of our bags off of ground level and are trying to be brave; we've agreed to take the 'at least it's not a giant cockroach' approach to the matter. Despite the initial fright, Brian is alright in my books, and I don't mind him sticking around as long as he stays on the floor. Hey, I've shared bedrooms with much more contemptible creatures than him.
In Michael Buble's Wisdom
Tuesday 20th April 2010, 4.10pm, Nadi Bay Resort, Nadi - Vitu Levu
We dragged ourselves away from Robinson Crusoe Island and the family of staff there who adopted us on Saturday morning. We left in sombre silence, it was amazing how quickly the people there made us feel at home, and we were incredibly sad to leave those who had been so caring of us. But as much as we realise that the islands are all "much of a muchness", we do want to experience the atmosphere in other beach resorts around the Pacific. The staff all came to the shore and waved us off by playing a guitar and singing a traditional Fijian farewell ballad. At the end of the song they shouted in unison their favourite Robinson Crusoe Catchphrase, "I see you baby!" to which Ella and I dutifully responded from the boat with the answer they wanted "Love you long time!". Sure it doesn't make much sense, but they seem to love saying it, and these are people who deserved our thanks.
From there we went to the Beach House on the Coral Coast from where I last wrote to you, where I was struck down with temporary melancholy, where it rained for two days. Now we are in Nadi again, on the West Coast of the main island of Vitu Levu for one night before we head back to the Mamanuca group tomorrow morning. Yes, it would probably be easier for us to choose one place and stick with it for 2 weeks, but we are too practised at being wandering, restless nomads now, my companion and I, and curiosity always gets the better of these cats. This cat doesn't have much to tell you today, I could complain some more about how much my stiff neck hurts (I am self diagnosing inflamed muscles, trapped nerves and a need for anti-inflammatory tablets) but that would be dull, and you've probably had enough of my griping this week already.
I write to tell you a brief anecdote which my Mother probably will not thank me for sharing with you. I was cheering myself up this morning by using my favourite toy, Skype, to give her a call. As much as she misses just having me around, I know that another thing she's really missing is hearing about all my friends and what they've been up to. After filling her in on my news (lots of neck related complaining) she first asks after Ella, and then plies me with questions such as "Have you spoken to Emma recently?", "Has Rowena had her baby yet?", "How are the Hannahs doing?", "Heard from Asha and Laura?", "What are the Canterbury lot up to?". She loves to hear all their gossip and goings-on as much as she likes to hear mine I think.
The subject turned to my friends' romantic relationships seeing as many of them have had a change in circumstances recently; the poor woman doesn't get any love based news from her own stalwart singleton first born so I sated her with developments in my friends' love lives instead of my own; missing in absence. When I had finished recalling for her all their up to date exploits as well as mentioning Ella's continuing quest for her Holy Grail (blonde, dread-locked, Swedish, surfer, rich parents with heart conditions), she quietly and tentatively posed the forbidden question, "And you Grace? Have you met anyone special?".
Special. Hmmmm. Tricky one. The short answer is "No". The very long answer is one that I do not wish to go in to, suffice to say that successful trysts generally require both parties involved to think that the other is "special". I gave her an answer somewhere in the middle of these two possible responses that fitted adequately with the New Age feminist anger that she rolls her eyes and tuts at. "No Mum. There is no one special. Men are not special creatures, and the sooner they realise how un-special they are the sooner I might be slightly more interested in spending time with one." Ahhh, Germaine Greer has raised me well.
Then my Mother said something marvellous. Or rather, sang something. Calling on the wise words of middle aged women's favourite and nice clean boy crooner Michael Buble, she warbled down the phone to me "I just haven't met you yet!". I could hear my sister laughing away in the background with me, apparently she was treated to exactly the same rendition on the day she broke up with her ex-boyfriend. What a wonderfully funny woman she is. Mum, unfazed by our laughter, then reiterated her point by adding "I think of you girls every time I hear that song". Thanks Mum. I won't run away to the nunnery just yet then.
We dragged ourselves away from Robinson Crusoe Island and the family of staff there who adopted us on Saturday morning. We left in sombre silence, it was amazing how quickly the people there made us feel at home, and we were incredibly sad to leave those who had been so caring of us. But as much as we realise that the islands are all "much of a muchness", we do want to experience the atmosphere in other beach resorts around the Pacific. The staff all came to the shore and waved us off by playing a guitar and singing a traditional Fijian farewell ballad. At the end of the song they shouted in unison their favourite Robinson Crusoe Catchphrase, "I see you baby!" to which Ella and I dutifully responded from the boat with the answer they wanted "Love you long time!". Sure it doesn't make much sense, but they seem to love saying it, and these are people who deserved our thanks.
From there we went to the Beach House on the Coral Coast from where I last wrote to you, where I was struck down with temporary melancholy, where it rained for two days. Now we are in Nadi again, on the West Coast of the main island of Vitu Levu for one night before we head back to the Mamanuca group tomorrow morning. Yes, it would probably be easier for us to choose one place and stick with it for 2 weeks, but we are too practised at being wandering, restless nomads now, my companion and I, and curiosity always gets the better of these cats. This cat doesn't have much to tell you today, I could complain some more about how much my stiff neck hurts (I am self diagnosing inflamed muscles, trapped nerves and a need for anti-inflammatory tablets) but that would be dull, and you've probably had enough of my griping this week already.
I write to tell you a brief anecdote which my Mother probably will not thank me for sharing with you. I was cheering myself up this morning by using my favourite toy, Skype, to give her a call. As much as she misses just having me around, I know that another thing she's really missing is hearing about all my friends and what they've been up to. After filling her in on my news (lots of neck related complaining) she first asks after Ella, and then plies me with questions such as "Have you spoken to Emma recently?", "Has Rowena had her baby yet?", "How are the Hannahs doing?", "Heard from Asha and Laura?", "What are the Canterbury lot up to?". She loves to hear all their gossip and goings-on as much as she likes to hear mine I think.
The subject turned to my friends' romantic relationships seeing as many of them have had a change in circumstances recently; the poor woman doesn't get any love based news from her own stalwart singleton first born so I sated her with developments in my friends' love lives instead of my own; missing in absence. When I had finished recalling for her all their up to date exploits as well as mentioning Ella's continuing quest for her Holy Grail (blonde, dread-locked, Swedish, surfer, rich parents with heart conditions), she quietly and tentatively posed the forbidden question, "And you Grace? Have you met anyone special?".
Special. Hmmmm. Tricky one. The short answer is "No". The very long answer is one that I do not wish to go in to, suffice to say that successful trysts generally require both parties involved to think that the other is "special". I gave her an answer somewhere in the middle of these two possible responses that fitted adequately with the New Age feminist anger that she rolls her eyes and tuts at. "No Mum. There is no one special. Men are not special creatures, and the sooner they realise how un-special they are the sooner I might be slightly more interested in spending time with one." Ahhh, Germaine Greer has raised me well.
Then my Mother said something marvellous. Or rather, sang something. Calling on the wise words of middle aged women's favourite and nice clean boy crooner Michael Buble, she warbled down the phone to me "I just haven't met you yet!". I could hear my sister laughing away in the background with me, apparently she was treated to exactly the same rendition on the day she broke up with her ex-boyfriend. What a wonderfully funny woman she is. Mum, unfazed by our laughter, then reiterated her point by adding "I think of you girls every time I hear that song". Thanks Mum. I won't run away to the nunnery just yet then.
Through The Looking Glass
Sunday 18th April 2010, 6.10am, Coral Coast Beach - Vitu Levu
I was caught off guard just now by an overwhelming sense of deja vu. I can't sleep, I've somehow managed to damage my neck or reawaken an old injury in it so that I've been walking around for the last 48 hours as stiff as Frankenstein's monster and in quite a lot of pain. So I instead gave up on finding a comfortable position to lie in and made the 1 minute walk from my bed to the beach.
There's something in the air this morning, a tangible feeling of forthcoming discontent. Writers in the 19th century might have called it a 'sense of foreboding', Ibsen and Strindberg would have played it through the erratic and increasingly hysterical behaviour of a female character, Steven King would be all walks down silent corridors with closed doors, Dickens would have had it in the depths of a snowy and smoggy London night, Steinbeck amongst the suffocating heat and eerie tumbleweeds of the Southern plains, Hardy would have gone to the Moors, in the rain, and a young girl in a white dress would be lost and weather beaten, Shakespeare placed three witches on a hill, prophesying imminent doom around a cauldron. It's a morning like that, a morning with terrible promise, one that imitates how its central character is feeling, and seeing as no one else is here, well then today that must be me.
And then I was hit by deja vu, when I sat down here on an empty stretch of endless sand, the sky grey and violet with the broken newborn sun failing to fill her potential behind thick clouds heaving with the hint of warm rain. The Machiavellian sandflies are silently twitching and darting over my sandy legs, there's a fresh blood spot on my ankle where one of them has bitten in to my goose-bumped flesh. Coconut trees behind me are rustling their palms in the gathering breeze and sound like water falling on timber. A hundred or so metres out to sea, aubergine waves find a surf break that strips their dusty hues like turpentine and sees them crashing towards their death on the shore, newly aquamarine. Broken coral, shell husks and seaweed strands lie scattered around me, discarded and unwanted by the retreating tide, cane toads hide in murky pools from last night's rain, thunder is raising his voice in the distance, he'll be here soon. I am alone in every direction.
I know why I have deja vu, why I feel like some other me in some other dimension has sat here with her pen and paper before me. It's because everything this morning, the landscape, the atmosphere, the weather, the clouds, the emotion, resembles exactly a morning I had back in Koh Phangan in December, the 4th I think it was. I couldn't sleep that morning either, so I took myself melancholic and despondently to the beach and wrote Carry It With You (http://gallivantingandgoodness.blogspot.com/2009/12/carry-it-with-you.html). Everything now feels identical to then. I was dismal on that morning because I'd had to say goodbye to some friends from home who were travelling a few months ahead of me. I had been so looking forward to seeing them for that first week in Thailand that I had neglected to spend any considerable amount of time contemplating the months of travelling that lay stretched out for me behind their farewell. Their departure made me nervous, I missed them too quickly, and the absence of their backpacks slung in the corner of the room saw me fleeing for the beach with my notebook to lament the loss of moments in time that are unimitable.
In some kind of perfect symmetry that life has designed for me, I now sit on sand once more with those same nervous fears crawling along my veins, 2 weeks before I will see those friends again that I waved off in Phangan. Seeing them again will mean that I'm in Australia, and Australia will mean that I have reached the last stage of the 7 month trip that I originally intended. The beginning and the end; I feel like I'm looking back at myself through a mirror.
Australia is the real world, a place where I have to make big decisions about the next year of my life. The happy, nomadic existence I have come to know and love will need to be put on temporary standstill whilst I deliberate whether or not I can afford to miss my flight back to Heathrow in June. And if I do not go to the airport on that day, where will I go instead? I don't know yet if I can make Australia a home, the size of it scares me, the impersonality of such vast and uninhabitable terrain seems isolating, the culture of working and drinking, drinking and working too resemblant of what I ran away from in London, the beaches are beautiful but bettered elsewhere, the cities are vibrant and amenable, but cities are everywhere, and I don't like snakes, or sharks, or spiders that can kill me.
The thing that frightens me the most about any kind of prolonged stay in Australia (because prolonged is what it will have to be if I hope to earn some money there) is that there is nobody in Australia who wants me or needs me, and I am a person who needs and wants to be wanted and needed. I guess we all feel like this to some extent, no one wants to be dispensable or too easily replaced. I can hear my friends and family yelling at their computer screens as they read this, 'Come home then Grace!', but I do not know if I'm ready for that either, I'm terrified that when I return it will feel like I've never been away, that this will all seem like some hazy dream. Maybe I need to keep moving until I find somewhere or someone to whom I feel useful.
Many people thrive on this kind of uncertainty, on the sense of being directionless, but it just makes me feel like I'm wasting time I won't get back, ever panicked and aware of my own infinite mortality! I don't want to know the future, I'm not asking for a crystal ball or a fortune teller or a magazine horoscope, but a little bit of guidance would be nice, a bit of clear sight. It feels like that's what deja vu is for; life repeating moments for us so that we may see the important things more clearly through their reiteration. What does this repetition tell me? That I still get scared by life, that I will run to the beach with my notebook rather than talk about it, that I have tendencies towards loneliness, that I still can't see the path in front of my feet. I've stepped through glass, and am trying not to despair that I look exactly the same, attempting not to align my feelings with the weather, arguing that I am probably not the protagonist of my own unwritten tragic novel!
I need to know that it's alright to be sat alone on the beach at 6 in the morning, missing everything that's gone, in trepidation of what's to come, wondering what on earth I'm doing here, and hoping that someone, anyone, will give me a place and a reason to unpack my bag and feel worthwhile. Hubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble.
I was caught off guard just now by an overwhelming sense of deja vu. I can't sleep, I've somehow managed to damage my neck or reawaken an old injury in it so that I've been walking around for the last 48 hours as stiff as Frankenstein's monster and in quite a lot of pain. So I instead gave up on finding a comfortable position to lie in and made the 1 minute walk from my bed to the beach.
There's something in the air this morning, a tangible feeling of forthcoming discontent. Writers in the 19th century might have called it a 'sense of foreboding', Ibsen and Strindberg would have played it through the erratic and increasingly hysterical behaviour of a female character, Steven King would be all walks down silent corridors with closed doors, Dickens would have had it in the depths of a snowy and smoggy London night, Steinbeck amongst the suffocating heat and eerie tumbleweeds of the Southern plains, Hardy would have gone to the Moors, in the rain, and a young girl in a white dress would be lost and weather beaten, Shakespeare placed three witches on a hill, prophesying imminent doom around a cauldron. It's a morning like that, a morning with terrible promise, one that imitates how its central character is feeling, and seeing as no one else is here, well then today that must be me.
And then I was hit by deja vu, when I sat down here on an empty stretch of endless sand, the sky grey and violet with the broken newborn sun failing to fill her potential behind thick clouds heaving with the hint of warm rain. The Machiavellian sandflies are silently twitching and darting over my sandy legs, there's a fresh blood spot on my ankle where one of them has bitten in to my goose-bumped flesh. Coconut trees behind me are rustling their palms in the gathering breeze and sound like water falling on timber. A hundred or so metres out to sea, aubergine waves find a surf break that strips their dusty hues like turpentine and sees them crashing towards their death on the shore, newly aquamarine. Broken coral, shell husks and seaweed strands lie scattered around me, discarded and unwanted by the retreating tide, cane toads hide in murky pools from last night's rain, thunder is raising his voice in the distance, he'll be here soon. I am alone in every direction.
I know why I have deja vu, why I feel like some other me in some other dimension has sat here with her pen and paper before me. It's because everything this morning, the landscape, the atmosphere, the weather, the clouds, the emotion, resembles exactly a morning I had back in Koh Phangan in December, the 4th I think it was. I couldn't sleep that morning either, so I took myself melancholic and despondently to the beach and wrote Carry It With You (http://gallivantingandgoodness.blogspot.com/2009/12/carry-it-with-you.html). Everything now feels identical to then. I was dismal on that morning because I'd had to say goodbye to some friends from home who were travelling a few months ahead of me. I had been so looking forward to seeing them for that first week in Thailand that I had neglected to spend any considerable amount of time contemplating the months of travelling that lay stretched out for me behind their farewell. Their departure made me nervous, I missed them too quickly, and the absence of their backpacks slung in the corner of the room saw me fleeing for the beach with my notebook to lament the loss of moments in time that are unimitable.
In some kind of perfect symmetry that life has designed for me, I now sit on sand once more with those same nervous fears crawling along my veins, 2 weeks before I will see those friends again that I waved off in Phangan. Seeing them again will mean that I'm in Australia, and Australia will mean that I have reached the last stage of the 7 month trip that I originally intended. The beginning and the end; I feel like I'm looking back at myself through a mirror.
Australia is the real world, a place where I have to make big decisions about the next year of my life. The happy, nomadic existence I have come to know and love will need to be put on temporary standstill whilst I deliberate whether or not I can afford to miss my flight back to Heathrow in June. And if I do not go to the airport on that day, where will I go instead? I don't know yet if I can make Australia a home, the size of it scares me, the impersonality of such vast and uninhabitable terrain seems isolating, the culture of working and drinking, drinking and working too resemblant of what I ran away from in London, the beaches are beautiful but bettered elsewhere, the cities are vibrant and amenable, but cities are everywhere, and I don't like snakes, or sharks, or spiders that can kill me.
The thing that frightens me the most about any kind of prolonged stay in Australia (because prolonged is what it will have to be if I hope to earn some money there) is that there is nobody in Australia who wants me or needs me, and I am a person who needs and wants to be wanted and needed. I guess we all feel like this to some extent, no one wants to be dispensable or too easily replaced. I can hear my friends and family yelling at their computer screens as they read this, 'Come home then Grace!', but I do not know if I'm ready for that either, I'm terrified that when I return it will feel like I've never been away, that this will all seem like some hazy dream. Maybe I need to keep moving until I find somewhere or someone to whom I feel useful.
Many people thrive on this kind of uncertainty, on the sense of being directionless, but it just makes me feel like I'm wasting time I won't get back, ever panicked and aware of my own infinite mortality! I don't want to know the future, I'm not asking for a crystal ball or a fortune teller or a magazine horoscope, but a little bit of guidance would be nice, a bit of clear sight. It feels like that's what deja vu is for; life repeating moments for us so that we may see the important things more clearly through their reiteration. What does this repetition tell me? That I still get scared by life, that I will run to the beach with my notebook rather than talk about it, that I have tendencies towards loneliness, that I still can't see the path in front of my feet. I've stepped through glass, and am trying not to despair that I look exactly the same, attempting not to align my feelings with the weather, arguing that I am probably not the protagonist of my own unwritten tragic novel!
I need to know that it's alright to be sat alone on the beach at 6 in the morning, missing everything that's gone, in trepidation of what's to come, wondering what on earth I'm doing here, and hoping that someone, anyone, will give me a place and a reason to unpack my bag and feel worthwhile. Hubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble.
The Misery Guts
Friday 16th April 2010, 11.30am, Robinson Crusoe Island
We're still living on Robinson Crusoe Island, still sunbathing and reading and sleeping like it's going out of fashion. We do go kayaking though, and snorkeling, ahh yes, snorkeling. We went out on the boat yesterday about 20 minutes from the island to some deeper coral reefs and I almost had a heart attack when, peacefully swimming along, a member of our group spotted a couple of rather large reef sharks skimming through the water below us. I believe I have previously mentioned my hatred of these creatures but I don't believe anyone understands quite how much they bother me. On the discovery that I was a mere 4ft above them and in their territory I began to uncontrollably shake and cry, and very nearly vomited. Ella was the most helpful, simply saying, "Keep your head out the water Grace, it's nearly over, I'll tell you when they're gone." Everyone else was quick to try and calm me down by offering platitudes such as "Reef sharks won't hurt you Grace, they're harmless!" and all wore confused expressions that suggested they were frustrated by my overreaction.
This is how I know that people do not understand. The knowing that these sharks weren't about to eat me does not make a blind bit of difference to the fear and physical symptoms of panic I feel upon seeing them. That's the point about phobias, they are not rational reactions, they are visceral manifestations of a feeling we can't control and telling someone who is mortally terrified of sharks to "chill out" whilst she's in the water with them is about as useful as telling someone having an asthma attack to "just breathe". Will the cartoon sharks in Finding Nemo jump out of the TV and bite me? No. But can I bring myself to come out from behind a pillow and watch that bit of the film? No I cannot. Do I know that there are no sharks in the swimming pool at my gym? Yes I do. But if I think about them when swimming does my heart beat out of my chest and my breathing become difficult? Yes it does. Do I realise that my bed is not floating on water and if my arm is hanging over the side there won't be any sharks underneath me to come and chew it off? Yes, I realise this. But will I still pull that arm straight back under the duvet to safety? Yes, yes I will. See, it's nonsense, verging on clinical insanity, not something that can be dissuaded with "chill out". I'm actually rather pleased with the progress I've made; I swim in the sea and jump off boats and go snorkeling without too much thought these days. It's all about small manageable steps, and actually swimming with them is far beyond my definition of manageable.
So I've not gone snorkeling out on the reef today, and some of the other islanders seem to think this makes me a killjoy, and so I quite feel like spending the day by myself. I'm not in the best mood anyway, nothing to do with the island, not the sharks' fault, I'm just feeling rather subdued and contemplative. It doesn't help that I have been jokingly accused today of being 'grumpy' and 'unsociable'. I am aware of the fact that many a true word is said in jest, two can play at that game, so I "jokingly" suggested that yes, I am unsociable today, so why don't you take the hint and leave me alone? Ha ha ha. So that's what I'm doing today, sitting perfectly content at the far end of the beach, only really talking to Ella, and letting everyone else think I'm the most miserable sod on the planet if that's what they want to believe. In the words of my favourite Friends character, I'm finding it very hard to give a tiny rat's ass.
I know I must sound like a cantankerous, curmudgeonly old spoilsport, forgive my moans and groans. It's just that in normal life I'm not a naturally happy-clappy, sunny side of the street kind of a gal. I'm a cynic, an occasional pessimist, I've a sense of humour drier than the Sahara desert, and I don't mind my own company. Near on 5 months of constant excitement and joy needs to occasionally take a break from itself and release me into a state of self willed grumpiness, a 24 hour chance to match the laughter lines with some frown lines. I'll probably read back on this in a few weeks time and scold myself for being such an ungrateful misery guts. Right now though, I'm wallowing in it.
We're still living on Robinson Crusoe Island, still sunbathing and reading and sleeping like it's going out of fashion. We do go kayaking though, and snorkeling, ahh yes, snorkeling. We went out on the boat yesterday about 20 minutes from the island to some deeper coral reefs and I almost had a heart attack when, peacefully swimming along, a member of our group spotted a couple of rather large reef sharks skimming through the water below us. I believe I have previously mentioned my hatred of these creatures but I don't believe anyone understands quite how much they bother me. On the discovery that I was a mere 4ft above them and in their territory I began to uncontrollably shake and cry, and very nearly vomited. Ella was the most helpful, simply saying, "Keep your head out the water Grace, it's nearly over, I'll tell you when they're gone." Everyone else was quick to try and calm me down by offering platitudes such as "Reef sharks won't hurt you Grace, they're harmless!" and all wore confused expressions that suggested they were frustrated by my overreaction.
This is how I know that people do not understand. The knowing that these sharks weren't about to eat me does not make a blind bit of difference to the fear and physical symptoms of panic I feel upon seeing them. That's the point about phobias, they are not rational reactions, they are visceral manifestations of a feeling we can't control and telling someone who is mortally terrified of sharks to "chill out" whilst she's in the water with them is about as useful as telling someone having an asthma attack to "just breathe". Will the cartoon sharks in Finding Nemo jump out of the TV and bite me? No. But can I bring myself to come out from behind a pillow and watch that bit of the film? No I cannot. Do I know that there are no sharks in the swimming pool at my gym? Yes I do. But if I think about them when swimming does my heart beat out of my chest and my breathing become difficult? Yes it does. Do I realise that my bed is not floating on water and if my arm is hanging over the side there won't be any sharks underneath me to come and chew it off? Yes, I realise this. But will I still pull that arm straight back under the duvet to safety? Yes, yes I will. See, it's nonsense, verging on clinical insanity, not something that can be dissuaded with "chill out". I'm actually rather pleased with the progress I've made; I swim in the sea and jump off boats and go snorkeling without too much thought these days. It's all about small manageable steps, and actually swimming with them is far beyond my definition of manageable.
So I've not gone snorkeling out on the reef today, and some of the other islanders seem to think this makes me a killjoy, and so I quite feel like spending the day by myself. I'm not in the best mood anyway, nothing to do with the island, not the sharks' fault, I'm just feeling rather subdued and contemplative. It doesn't help that I have been jokingly accused today of being 'grumpy' and 'unsociable'. I am aware of the fact that many a true word is said in jest, two can play at that game, so I "jokingly" suggested that yes, I am unsociable today, so why don't you take the hint and leave me alone? Ha ha ha. So that's what I'm doing today, sitting perfectly content at the far end of the beach, only really talking to Ella, and letting everyone else think I'm the most miserable sod on the planet if that's what they want to believe. In the words of my favourite Friends character, I'm finding it very hard to give a tiny rat's ass.
I know I must sound like a cantankerous, curmudgeonly old spoilsport, forgive my moans and groans. It's just that in normal life I'm not a naturally happy-clappy, sunny side of the street kind of a gal. I'm a cynic, an occasional pessimist, I've a sense of humour drier than the Sahara desert, and I don't mind my own company. Near on 5 months of constant excitement and joy needs to occasionally take a break from itself and release me into a state of self willed grumpiness, a 24 hour chance to match the laughter lines with some frown lines. I'll probably read back on this in a few weeks time and scold myself for being such an ungrateful misery guts. Right now though, I'm wallowing in it.
Blessed With Less
Wednesday 14th April 2010, 2.45pm, Robinson Crusoe Island - Fiji
There's only so many ways I can tell you about a beach, and having calculated earlier today that the one I now occupy is the 24th beach of my travels, I am at real risk of repeating myself. You all know what a beach looks like, well at least you think you know what a beach looks like, that is, until you come to Fiji. We got to Fiji on Monday afternoon, but only properly arrived yesterday when we caught a boat over to Robinson Crusoe Island. It's basic, extremely basic. We're sleeping on wooden bunk beds under moth eaten mosquito nets in a 40 bed dorm, it's a culture of outdoor living, only the bedrooms come with a roof. Sand miraculously works it's way into everything, and seems to inhabit every part of your body and possessions from the moment you step on the island. People don't wear clothes, only swimwear feels appropriate and definitely not with shoes - even battered old flip flops feel too formal here.
You have to carry a torch around with you at night so as not to flatten any of the hermit crabs or cane toads who sit on the dirt paths seemingly waiting to be squashed. Plus, sea snakes come up the beach at night, and you really don't want to be treading on one of those slippery buggars, they're one of the most venomous creatures on earth, one bite and you'd pretty soon be on your way to a great big Fiji in the sky. I saw 4 last night, and screamed every time. The local speciality beverage is Kava, made from pulped plant roots soaked in urns of water. It is drunk cross legged on the floor from wooden bowls, looks and tastes like dirty dishwater, and gives my mouth pins and needles. I have yet to discover the true "herbal properties" of Kava, but from the way my lips went numb I'm guessing it's not an altogether innocent substance. All the hot food is cooked in an underground pit, heated by burning coconut husks.
To take a shower here you must fill a tin bucket with water from the well, detach a watering can from the wall on the shower block, fill up watering can with well water, hoist watering can to appropriate height using a pulley and lever system, turn a tap to open up the flow, and hope that you've got enough time to shampoo and shave your legs before the can empties without you having to run to the water source and start the whole process again whilst covered in suds and wrapped in a towel. I don't think I'll be showering often, too much like hard work in my opinion. But I love all this, this return to simple living, this provision of basic needs in return for an island home in the Pacific Ocean.
It takes 20 minutes to walk round the whole island, it looks like a circular sandy birthday cake with palm trees clustered as the swaying candles in the centre, the icing on said cake being the turquoise sea crowded with coral and reef life. There are a multitude of incredibly friendly staff here who have our names learnt by heart, and besides them, only 4 tourists (including Ella and I) are staying on this island. It is utopic, solitudinal, stranded in paradise beach heaven. Hammocks hang from the trees, a sea breeze blows refreshingly through 35 degree unclouded sunshine, coconut oil massages are on offer 12 hours of the day. Fish is line caught from wooden boats and cooked for you the same night, orchids and frangipanis in salmon pink and scarlet are left on your pillow, cocktails on the tab are pineapple and rum and banana liqueur and taste like the tropics... drinking at lunchtime is perfectly acceptable. Fijian men sit under the trees with their guitars and sing Van Morrison and Al Green melodies with voices like milk and honey, my sarong and my book sit on the flat, white sand and beckon me, and I am powerless to resist them much longer.
We knew nothing about Fiji before we got here, it was typical Grace and Ella "we'll sort something out when we get there" behaviour. Still in truth we know very little other than that it looks like somewhere I might want to go for eternity when I die. We have been handed advice by a few locals who say that to see the Real Fiji you have to go to the islands in the Mamanuca and Yasawa groups out from the West Coast of the mainland. Apparently, once you've seen one island, you've pretty much seen them all, and so we heeded that advice, swiftly left the airport town of Nadi around Tuesday lunchtime, and crossed the water. We're going to spend the next few weeks making temporary homes for ourselves on a few different beaches, taking time to unpack and unwind and enjoy these last days in each others' company. I can't see the unwinding part being a problem for us, we adapt pretty comfortably to beach living these days. I already look like an Asian Stig of the Dump, and earlier on I caught Ella wandering around in a homemade grass skirt and coconut bra like it was the most normal thing in the world. I promise I will try and keep up my writing whilst here, but you know how it is, the less you do, the less you can do. And here my friends, less is most certainly more.
There's only so many ways I can tell you about a beach, and having calculated earlier today that the one I now occupy is the 24th beach of my travels, I am at real risk of repeating myself. You all know what a beach looks like, well at least you think you know what a beach looks like, that is, until you come to Fiji. We got to Fiji on Monday afternoon, but only properly arrived yesterday when we caught a boat over to Robinson Crusoe Island. It's basic, extremely basic. We're sleeping on wooden bunk beds under moth eaten mosquito nets in a 40 bed dorm, it's a culture of outdoor living, only the bedrooms come with a roof. Sand miraculously works it's way into everything, and seems to inhabit every part of your body and possessions from the moment you step on the island. People don't wear clothes, only swimwear feels appropriate and definitely not with shoes - even battered old flip flops feel too formal here.
You have to carry a torch around with you at night so as not to flatten any of the hermit crabs or cane toads who sit on the dirt paths seemingly waiting to be squashed. Plus, sea snakes come up the beach at night, and you really don't want to be treading on one of those slippery buggars, they're one of the most venomous creatures on earth, one bite and you'd pretty soon be on your way to a great big Fiji in the sky. I saw 4 last night, and screamed every time. The local speciality beverage is Kava, made from pulped plant roots soaked in urns of water. It is drunk cross legged on the floor from wooden bowls, looks and tastes like dirty dishwater, and gives my mouth pins and needles. I have yet to discover the true "herbal properties" of Kava, but from the way my lips went numb I'm guessing it's not an altogether innocent substance. All the hot food is cooked in an underground pit, heated by burning coconut husks.
To take a shower here you must fill a tin bucket with water from the well, detach a watering can from the wall on the shower block, fill up watering can with well water, hoist watering can to appropriate height using a pulley and lever system, turn a tap to open up the flow, and hope that you've got enough time to shampoo and shave your legs before the can empties without you having to run to the water source and start the whole process again whilst covered in suds and wrapped in a towel. I don't think I'll be showering often, too much like hard work in my opinion. But I love all this, this return to simple living, this provision of basic needs in return for an island home in the Pacific Ocean.
It takes 20 minutes to walk round the whole island, it looks like a circular sandy birthday cake with palm trees clustered as the swaying candles in the centre, the icing on said cake being the turquoise sea crowded with coral and reef life. There are a multitude of incredibly friendly staff here who have our names learnt by heart, and besides them, only 4 tourists (including Ella and I) are staying on this island. It is utopic, solitudinal, stranded in paradise beach heaven. Hammocks hang from the trees, a sea breeze blows refreshingly through 35 degree unclouded sunshine, coconut oil massages are on offer 12 hours of the day. Fish is line caught from wooden boats and cooked for you the same night, orchids and frangipanis in salmon pink and scarlet are left on your pillow, cocktails on the tab are pineapple and rum and banana liqueur and taste like the tropics... drinking at lunchtime is perfectly acceptable. Fijian men sit under the trees with their guitars and sing Van Morrison and Al Green melodies with voices like milk and honey, my sarong and my book sit on the flat, white sand and beckon me, and I am powerless to resist them much longer.
We knew nothing about Fiji before we got here, it was typical Grace and Ella "we'll sort something out when we get there" behaviour. Still in truth we know very little other than that it looks like somewhere I might want to go for eternity when I die. We have been handed advice by a few locals who say that to see the Real Fiji you have to go to the islands in the Mamanuca and Yasawa groups out from the West Coast of the mainland. Apparently, once you've seen one island, you've pretty much seen them all, and so we heeded that advice, swiftly left the airport town of Nadi around Tuesday lunchtime, and crossed the water. We're going to spend the next few weeks making temporary homes for ourselves on a few different beaches, taking time to unpack and unwind and enjoy these last days in each others' company. I can't see the unwinding part being a problem for us, we adapt pretty comfortably to beach living these days. I already look like an Asian Stig of the Dump, and earlier on I caught Ella wandering around in a homemade grass skirt and coconut bra like it was the most normal thing in the world. I promise I will try and keep up my writing whilst here, but you know how it is, the less you do, the less you can do. And here my friends, less is most certainly more.
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