Steve’s Stories - Issue VI; Roadside Curiosities, Racism and Outside Life
I've spent the last two weeks in Western Australia and encountered fewer of the characters who usually fill the lines of these stories. It's like the state has traded them in, in return for the most magical forests, turquoise beaches, and wineries. I'm not sure it’s a good trade. I've started to miss my encounters with these roadside curiosities and this blog misses them too.
In the absence of the mullet-shaving Dargo boys, the rig talkers of Merimbula, or the biscuit-dispensing drunkards of Warrnambool, I've been thinking about all the random people I've met on my trip and their effect on me.
There have been surf bums, truck drivers, fishing fanatics, solo travellers, nudists, hippies and nudist hippies. There have been racists (more on that later), druggies, farmers, immigrants who came to a small town twenty years ago and forgot to leave, yogis, grey nomads, and young families living out of their van and homeschooling their kids. It's a mixum-gatherum of souls who've all trodden different paths in life.
When I've talked to these people, I’ve seen their journey as if in a parallel universe to my own. People with different values, cultures, and ways of living. And it’s often very unsettling. You can’t help but question your own path. Maybe I should just be a surf bum? Maybe I should give up all my worldly possessions and live life on the road, chasing waves and sustaining myself on beans.
It is helpful, for sure, to ask yourself these questions. But not for too long.
I've realised that we are way more comfortable when surrounded by similar people. People who confirm that we are on the right path and don't scare us with crazy alternative paths.
Like most things, I imagine a mix of both is likely healthiest - enough chaos to keep us from the mundane, enough mundane to keep us from the chaos.
In Cottesloe, I met an older lady who smelled like cigarettes. I stayed in her house, actually. She’s known me for five minutes when, standing by my car, she asked’
"Are you going up north with that rig of yours?"
"Yup, sure am."
"Well, you can say goodbye to everything up there," she said, gesturing to my surfboard, swag, and fishing road on the top of my car.
Sadly, I knew where this was going. She wasn't the first person to tell me that all my stuff would be stolen in one place or another.
"Aw, it's bloody awful up there," she continued, looking down and shaking her head. "Just last week, one of them broke into someone's caravan, took their keys at knifepoint, and robbed their car." She then proceeded to spit a long slew of racist remarks about different groups of people, distinctly not under her breath.
Two months earlier, I was told the same story about the Nullarbor - the one thousand kilometre stretch of nothingness crossing between South Australia and Western Australia. I was told that I shouldn't even leave my car for more than two minutes when paying for petrol, unless I wanted everything to be robbed. “They’ll rob ya blind mate”, I was told.
These people were telling me that in these areas, I was going to get robbed by indigenous people. Or worse, attacked or killed.
But guess what, the Nullarbor was the most chill place ever. I felt completely safe the whole way with zero dramas.
I had the saddening realisation that this is what racism looks like up close. People making generic remarks about a group of people based on their ethnicity. And it feels so gross. I've been lucky not to encounter much of this in my life but it's just such a rotten thing and a part of some Aussie culture that I disdain. Look, I'm sure there are incidents, like there are anywhere, but the gross generalisation is wrong.
I don't have a nice ending to this story. It's just been an experience that has stuck with me from this trip and one that I wanted to share.
For the last three months I have lived outside. There's a six foot tent on the top of my car and a small awning that are my only sources of shelter. Apart from that I've been exposed to the forces of nature. I’ve come to refer to this as "the outside life" and have some reflections on it.
Firstly, Mr. Rain is annoying, making your feet muddy instead of just sandy. But the real villain of outside life is Mr. Wind. A night with Mr. Wind is a sleepless night. He grabs the sides of your tent and shakes them violently. The zippers on the doors jangle and clink and all this sound keeps you from ever falling asleep properly. Sometimes Mr. Wind will even shift your whole car, rocking you from side to side as if you were on a ship. He blows out your gas fires, makes camp fires a dangerous impossibility and shows a complete disregard for anything not tied down or of adequate mass - try eat spinach when Mr. Wind is around. Oh Mr. Wind is a devil indeed.
Then there are the animals. The possums, the kangaroos and the bandicoots. The bats, the mice and the dingoes. The bees, the mosquitoes and the sand flies. On a good night, you will only have to deal with one of these foes. On a bad night, you can be served a cocktail of feral pests to steal your food, wake you up and give you bites that will itch like hell.
Despite all this, for some weird reason, I love outside life.
Perhaps it is a stereotypical abusive relationship. But perhaps it is something else.
The more variable something is, the more we celebrate when it is good. I know now that variability is the magic of outside life. A windy day calms. A rainy day clears. When this happens, we celebrate the moment so much more than if it had been perfect conditions for days on end. This is outside life. It is variable and raw and beautiful and infuriating and peaceful.
Right now, I'm back in Sydney for a few weeks, taking a break from my relationship with outside life. Inside life is pretty good, I must admit. I have a newfound respect for the generations of our species who decided to build permanent structures for us to live in. They protect us from the weather and the animals and give us a good nights sleep. And right now, I'm grateful for that sleep. My body needs it.
That’s all for now. If you enjoyed it, drop your email below and I’ll email you each new issue.
See ya next week,
Steve
Notable mentions:
The Tuck Shop (Margaret River); bloody tasty food. Fancy seating inside, chill seating on picnic benches out the back
TNT Fitness WA: Hands down the nicest gym I’ve ever been to. Brand new equipment, freedom to use the big speakers and friendly staff who accommodated my weird requests. 11/10!
Tea House Books (Denmark): If a hug could be a cafe, it would be Tea House Books. Hot chocolate with lots of different flavours, fresh made scones with jam and cream, tall wooden shelves of books, the background noise of the local knitting group and an owner who spent fifteen minutes showing me all the best hiking trails. Wow.
Surfer’s Point (Margaret River): Go here at sunset. Get fish and chips from the van and watch the surf and the sun. Do it.
Liberte (Albany): Travelling alone, a bar where you can sit at the counter and share a drink with the staff is always welcome. Plus they do the weirdest garlic, chilli crab noodles that is like crack.
Trip Stats:
Days on the road: 70
Distance covered: 10,409km
Time spent driving: 192 hours
Camps: 44
Snakes encountered: 1