Aussie Dave

We were taxiing down the runway when the tears started. My partner at the time, lovingly nicknamed “Dog”, was sitting next to me, saying something, and I clearly wasn’t listening, so he gave me a nudge. “Are you crying?” I couldn’t answer him for a few moments. It was only just dawning on me why I was. And then I said it. “I think we’ve made a terrible mistake.”

It was 1989. We were leaving Australia.

Going back

I’d arrived in Sydney in September 1982 on a one-year working holiday visa and I never thought beyond it. I assumed I’d go back to the UK with my boyfriend when the year was up. That was the plan, such as it was. But he had other plans so the year came and went and we stayed. We kept telling everyone back home that we were going to come back, we were definitely coming back, and we said it for so many years that in the end it was almost as if we’d talked ourselves into it. We’d better pack up and actually do it. Give going home a proper go.

Even while we were packing, it didn’t feel right. I’d built real friendships by then. I’d had good jobs, good opportunities. But the economy had turned, the early-to-mid 80s shine had worn off everything. So, we thought, what the heck. And then there I was on the runway, crying, telling Dog we’d got it wrong. But the plane was already moving. So away we went.

The long way round

We didn’t go straight back. The whole point was to travel, so we went through Thailand and Malaysia and then India. India blew my mind. I’d thought I knew a few things about the world and India showed me I knew nothing. Absolutely nothing. The beauty and the ugliness sitting right next to each other, the wealth and the poverty, the noise and the smells, all of it coming at you at once like a gigantic sensory kaleidoscope. We landed in Delhi very late at night and were taken to a rat-infested room, supposedly belonging to the taxi driver’s uncle! The next morning we stepped out into the dusty haze and right there, lumbering forward with its master – an elephant! The first few days, I barely closed my mouth. Saying that, nothing could have possibly prepared me for day three. One of the most gobsmackingly magnificent sights I had ever seen: the Taj Mahal. A symbol of love on a scale I could barely comprehend.

After that, we made our way north through the hill station of Shimla and on the Kashmir where we stayed on a houseboat. From there into the foothills of the Himalayas, through field after field of stunning purple crocus with their precious golden cargo of saffron held delicately within. I was mesmerised by the visual feast as we chugged higher and higher into the mountains towards Pahalgam, arriving to icy cold temperatures donning socks and sandals, surrounded by serious hikers and mountaineers. We may have looked like a pair of hapless Westerners who clearly knew nothing about hiking, but we knew one thing for sure. The gun fire ringing out through the night just before we left our houseboat in Kashmir was not, as the young shikara driver had indicated, fireworks from a birthday or wedding celebration. It was the very beginning of the troubles that were soon to make international news. I didn’t grasp the full gravity of that yet. I just knew I was leaving somewhere that had taken me apart and put me back together differently.

By the time we got to England, and still wearing socks and sandals (which were not a fashion statement in 1989), I was already feeling a little bit odd. Not because of the socks and sandals but because I felt like the piece of a jigsaw puzzle that didn’t quite fit, even though it should.  The obvious tonic for this uneasy and unsettling feeling: a sentimental dinner of fish and chips. Big mistake. The rose-coloured glasses evaporating as we coughed up a touristy £4.95, about 10 Australian dollars, for a very forgettable homecoming meal. We sat there looking at each other with a sense of foreboding. It was London, and we were northerners – or were we Aussies?

We bought a camper van from an Aussie couple in what had become known as campervan square. Chatting to them about their European travels perked us both up so we drove north discussing the interesting places we’d likely visit in “Daisy”, our newly acquired VW campervan.  We spent time with our friends, caught up, got jobs. We took that van around Europe a few times and to Ireland. And the whole time, underneath all of it, I knew. We were going back to Australia. There was never any real question.

The overland route

Everything I used to grumble about in Sydney, everything I hadn’t appreciated, I could suddenly see for what it was. So, we worked and saved, and with the help of many Lonely Planet travel guides on loan from Carlisle library, we planned our overland trip. We wouldn’t get on a plane until Hong Kong. All of these adventures manifesting in Dog’s highly imaginative brain while I frantically worked out how many toiletries and toilet rolls I could squeeze into my backpack. And, whilst I pained over the limited wardrobe an already half full backpack would hold, Dog got on with the serious business. He bought a Ford Escort van for a 100 quid, we slid an old foam mattress in the back, a gas camping stove and many packets of pasta, tins of tomatoes and dried herbs. We set off from his home in the small village of Caldbeck on the edge of the Lake District and the adventure began.

One of our first stops was Berlin. "The Wall" had come down while we were in the UK.  History was unfolding and that was a moment not to be missed. A vibrant colour postcard on one side of the wall, a sepia postcard from 1945 on the other. Mercedes and Audi's as we left Berlin and Wartburgs and 2-stroke Trabants as we ventured east. From there, south to Greece, zig-zagging our way through what was then still known as Yugoslavia, moving further into the completely un-touristed territory of Montenegro and Kosovo. Finally crossing the border via a place that will be forever etched in my memory as the dangerous “back door” into Greece – Macedonia. Dog’s height and weight being our only deterrent as we navigated several scenarios that could have ended badly! 

With a sigh of relief, we then worked our way down through Greece to a ferry port where we illegally dumped the 100 quid Escort van – leaving the doors open. We figured the locals could make good use of it after it had served us so well. A ferry across the Aegean to Turkey, up the coast to the magical minareted city of Istanbul then on to Moscow to board the Trans-Mongolian. An epic six day railway journey where we would cross seven time zones, the vast Mongolian steppe and the Gobi Desert on route to our terminus of Beijing. A city with very few Western tourists in 1990, filled with what felt like thousands of pairs of suspicious eyes. This was also where I was to encounter yet another of the seven wonders of the world: the Great Wall of China. Another gift while I was there – the Beijing flu. The closest I think I have ever felt to death. So desperate to live, I downed several vials of what I gather was snake bile. A first time for everything. On recovering, we made a final train trip to Shanghai, a boat trip to Guangzhou and one last border crossing to Hong Kong. And that’s where we finally boarded an aeroplane. A week in Bali – a home away from home for Aussies – then Sydney.

We arrived back with almost nothing. I remember the taxi from the airport, going over the Anzac Bridge towards our friends’ place in Rozelle, watching the meter climb and knowing we were going to run out of money before we got there. We had to tell the driver. With only a few hundred metres to go, we thought he’d drop us at our destination but no, we had to get out. By the time we reached our friend's front door that very same taxi had made its way around the one-way system and had to pass us!

Different eyes

I came back seeing Australia differently, which is what absence does to you. The friends I’d left behind, the Australian ones, I had a new appreciation for, and for what Aussies were. When I’d arrived in the 80s there was no class structure to speak of, everyone just givin’ it a crack and, once around a BBQ with a tinnie in your hand, all people were equal. England is a country divided by class whether anyone likes it or not, whether anyone notices it or not. It was a relief to be back among people who had no notion of class at all. Different priorities. Different conversations. The 21st birthday present for an Australian in the 80s was a round the world air ticket. That was not a thing where I came from. 

We’d left some money invested on a very high interest rate, which turned out to be a stroke of luck. Our friends were paying mortgages at 16 or 17 per cent, which was horrific, and we were earning on the other side of it. Dog bought a van and became a TNT courier. I enrolled at the Strand College of Beauty to study beauty therapy full time. I’d worked in a fashion store in the beautifully restored Strand Arcade in the city, so I knew the college was right there, and beauty was something I’d been interested in since I was young. I always spent my money on good skincare, aromatherapy, anything with a botanical in it. That was just my thing. So this was me reinventing myself. When I told Dog, he said, “Well, it’s probably not a bad idea. It’ll save us a fortune on beauty products.”

Thousands of miles of gum trees

In the mid 80s I used to go to Orange with my long-suffering friend Lyndall, who tolerated me moaning on about all the things I missed from “home”. Queen’s birthday and Easter – any long weekend really – I’d jump at the chance to accompany her. Her family were lovely, no-nonsense, down-to-earth country people, and her Dad was a shearer with a posture to prove it. 

We were driving out there once and Lyndall looked out the window and said, “Oh, isn’t this beautiful?” And I looked at her and said, “What, thousands of miles of bloody gum trees?” I could see straight away that I’d offended her. But honestly, it hadn’t occurred to me that anyone could find them beautiful. I’d grown up with elm and oak and ash and sycamore. Spring bursting lime green, the blossom, the smells, the whole canopy. Autumn turning russet and gold and deep wine red and then falling. Four seasons that had marked out my entire childhood. Set against all that, gum trees were just there. Grey-green and the same all year round.

That was in me on a cellular level, the deciduous thing. The bluebell woods. The change from summer to autumn. I missed it for years without quite admitting it.

And then, I couldn’t tell you exactly what year, somewhere in the mid 90s – a decade after my thoughtless comment – I caught the smell of eucalyptus. I’ve no idea where I was. I just remember stopping and breathing it in, really deeply, and thinking, these trees are amazing. That smell is amazing. I started noticing the marbled, mottled patterns on those tree trunks. The paperbarks peeling off in soft sheets, nothing like any tree I’d grown up with. I took close-up photographs of the patterns and of the shedding bark like it was something precious. It had taken over a decade, but the landscape had finally got into me.

Aussie Dave

When exactly did I realise Australia was home? It was on a return trip from London, a few years after I’d started travelling back for work. Probably around 2011 – almost 30 years after I’d arrived in Sydney. I was in Dubai on my way to the departure lounge and just up ahead I could see a pilot – but not any pilot. A pilot wearing RM Williams boots, striding out with certainty in those hand-crafted boots I hadn’t realised I’d grown to love so much. 

I momentarily thought to myself, “Is that my pilot?” I then forgot about it, boarded and started to make myself comfy for the final leg to Sydney. I was arranging my book, my water and my notebook as I heard him. “G’day, it’s Dave here. I’ll be your captain through to Sydney.” That thick, unmistakable Aussie accent. I actually got goosebumps. I’ll never forget it. I hadn’t heard an Aussie accent in almost six weeks and there I was with a big smile on my face. Aussie Dave was taking me home.

Then flying in over the harbour, catching the white sails of the opera house, the city skyline and Centrepoint Tower. Iconic landmarks that brought on those goosebumps again. It still happens, all these years later, coming in from anywhere – the harbour or Botany Bay or just the shape of the city out the window – and I get this feeling. I’m home. It was on that flight back, hearing some pilot say his name in that accent, that I knew. Home wasn’t England anymore. Home was Australia.

The big skies

Here was a vast sunburnt country surrounded by a vast ocean above a vast sky. There’s a power in this place. It’s in the size of the sky, the never-ending space of it. The Australian sky doesn’t press down on you the way a grey English sky does, all low cloud and drizzle. There’s just room, above you and around you, more than seems possible. Unless you grew up under English skies and then came to Australia, I’m not sure I can make you understand it. I live on the Northern Beaches now, and I love the whole casual beachy lot of it, people wandering round the shops in bare feet. Sun streaked and surf-knotted hair. Bikes with surfboards strapped to the side. Laid back surfie dudes just chillin', revelling in the negative ions emitted from that big, beautiful ocean. I’ve never met a pissed off surfer, I’ll tell you that. I can’t surf and I’m absolutely terrified of being in the ocean but there is no greater pleasure for me than to take a vantage point on my morning walk and watch all those surfers sitting atop their boards waiting to catch a wave. Just the surfers, the waves and all that sky.