I’m currently staying at the Shepparton Backpackers Motel in Shepparton, Victoria, and that information is vital should I go unheard from for this is the spot for death by contagion, food poisoning, serial killer, or all of the above.
To think, only two days ago I was chilling in Coogee, relishing my delusion that I lived with John, Francis, Andrea, and Kirby and living up to my status as a bum as I crashed on a mattress in their living room. Ever fearful of becoming a burden, I knew that I couldn’t stay there much longer, and every minute delayed would cause more heartache at the parting. So I took a walk and consulted God, hearing loud and clear, “Go pick fruit, kid.” So I booked a Greyhound bus for Friday the 13th. Just as I clicked the “confirm” button for my non-refundable Greyhound ticket, John piped up, “Why didn’t you fly? It’s a one hour flight and probably the same price.” I’m going to need you to work on your timing, sir. Alas, too late to change my means of travel I searched for means of justifying it instead. The bus would drop me right to my connecting train in Melbourne and I’ve never been on a Greyhound before, so it will be a good experience. Plus, I could use the extra time to collect my thoughts and it’s a night ride, so I can just sleep if nothing else. Positive thinking, that’s the key! Well in a moment we’ll see that travelling via Greyhound was just positively dumb.
The week before my departure sped by, and before I knew it I was shopping for fruit picking-appropriate apparel. Can I say, that despite being a woman, I absolutely hate shopping, especially in Australia where everything costs an exorbitant amount. You wouldn’t think it so difficult to find a long sleeve, breathable shirt that doesn’t make you look like an elephant that ate a whale, but it really is, at least for me. In the dressing room, I kept having flashbacks to doctor’s appointments when the nurses inevitably declared, “I never would have guessed you weigh so much. You hide it so well!” Still trying to figure out whether to be offended or not. Well nurse, you should see me in this outfit. If eight hours of hard labor a day on a fruit based diet doesn’t cure me of my genetic disposition to tubbiness, I’m giving up hope people. After making my reluctant purchases, I went to the atm and had a mini-stroke. Maybe I was still high from the great wide-open spaces, or potentially second hand smoke, but I had somehow failed to realize how my Aussie bank account had dwindled. Yes, going to need to pick some fruit and bank some cash IMMEDIATELY. Never in my life have I been so oblivious to my financial status, but then I suppose there’s a first time for everything. A backpacking adventure wouldn’t be complete without a little monetary crisis, no? Le sigh. Where’s a sugar daddy when you need one? (Kidding. Up until a few years ago I thought “sugar daddy” only referred to a honey flavored confection in a yellow wrapper).
One by one that day, I said good-bye to my friends. First, Kirby, who I knew the least well, but bonded with over a passion for good nutrition in a world of people who look and feel like elephants that ate whales. She is also the type of girl who always looks beautiful and glamorous, even after a run. I can only dream of such an existence.
My farewell to John started off on an awkward note, largely because I was naked. Just kidding, I was in a towel, and naked underneath. Allow me to explain. Francis was in the kitchen preparing dinner, and I had just hopped into the bathroom for a shower before my 11-hour bus trip. I had forgotten something in my bag in the living room, so I thought I would just ninja my way out there, grab what I needed, and no one would by scarred by my semi-nudity. But of course, I couldn’t find what I was looking for and as I squatted over my bag, John returned from his outing. He and his friend Ro had been car shopping, and as I stood there in a towel, proceeded to have a conversation with them all about it, praying the whole time that none of my lady bits had been exposed in the process of de-squatting. Finally, Francis, bless him, said, “Diana, why are you naked?” which allowed for the perfect segue into excusing myself and showering.
Fresh, and fully dressed, I returned to the living room. I casually mentioned to John that The Epic Camping Trip-Day 4 was posted and got a bit giddy when he practically leaped for his phone to read it. The giddy-o-meter continued to rise as I watched him smile and laugh while reading. Watching an audience’s reaction is not an opportunity often won by a novice authoress, and it can make or break your spirits. Luckily for me, either John really enjoys reading about himself or I don’t suck entirely. Maybe a bit of both. But, before long the giddy-o-meter dropped right back down as John announced that it was “that time.” For some reason, I didn’t realize that he wasn’t coming to drop me off at the bus, and I wasn’t fully in gear for good bye. I guess I had become attached to the jerk at some point, and after hugging him good bye and watching him walk out the door I sat in a bit of shock. I could feel a silly girl moment coming on, tears welling up in my eyes. Then he burst back in the door, having forgotten something, and teasing, “I’m not gone yet, don’t cry!” and was gone once again. John and I are from such entirely different universes, but it felt providential having him in my life.
Finally, Francis and Andrea taxied me to airport from which my bus was departing. But, if you were expecting a calm, run-of-the-mill send-off there, you’d be mistaken. Despite leaving ahead of schedule, a few accidental detours landed us at the airport last minute. Unsure of exactly where the bus was and working against the 15 minute parking limit, Andrea grabbed my carry-on and I strapped on my backpack and we RAN for it. I hope someone saw us and had a good laugh, because we were calamity embodied. Andrea had a very sassy, short skirt on and the winds were feeling quite frisky that day. With every jaunt her skirt threatened cheek exposure, causing her to awkwardly lurch along holding her skirt down with one hand. Meanwhile, I felt like I was training to be a navy seal, and probably looked as graceful as an actual seal, loping along as fast as I could with my life on my back, wheezing for air. Classic.
We arrived only a few minutes before the bus. Andrea being half-German and I half-Korean, we didn’t snot, blubber, or exhibit hysterics of any kind. A firm hug and kind word, and she was gone. I stood there thinking, “I love that girl. I’m going to need her to be in my life again. Soon.” We shared a passion for food, nurturing tendencies, and love of spontaneity. She he always made me feel I was exactly as I was meant to be, as generous with her words as she was with her home. A kindred spirit without a doubt. Just as I settled into my seat on the bus, I began to lament that I didn’t actually get to say goodbye to Francis. Then I felt my phone vibrating and it was Francis, calling to say goodbye. My eyes got ever so squinty as a smile spread across my face. He often hides it with crude comments and tantamount teasing, but Francis is at heart, an adorable dork. I love him like a brother, and being around him reminded me of the best parts of my childhood, spending time with my older brother and cousins, always eager to prove I could be one of the boys. I can’t wait to host him on home territory, someday, and introduce him to the world of delicious craft beers and amazing tattoo artists.
I was, perhaps to the dismay of the other passengers, alternating between crying and laughing to myself as I reflected on my times with the Coogee gang over the past few weeks. I admit, I put on some depressing music and let myself have a good ole melancholic nostalgia fest. I know we live in the world of texts, emails, and Skype; that I’ve not lost John, Andrea, and Francis forever by any means, but there was something utterly precious about living alongside of them, being a part of the elusive friend group. It’s been the highlight of my time in Australia, thus far. In contrast, Shepparton, and the trip getting here, may be the low point. Let me tell you, now I have had the “Greyhound experience” and never again. First off, it smelled…badd. I kept looking in the aisle for remnants of bodily functions and foolishly sniffed the seat. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss. Secondly, despite intending to collect my thoughts and prepare for the wilderness ahead, the only thing I could think of was how uncomfortable I was being seated next to another ample-hipped woman, the junk from her trunk splooging over into my junk’s territory for that awkward, warm smooshing of bodies that no amount of scooting could resolve. And, once again being a petite Asian would have come in handy as my legs jammed into the back of the seat in front of me and my extra-long, extra-wide feet floundered for footing. My neck flopped and my lower back screamed. Also, Greyhound, I don’t know if you’ve heard of this thing called suspension, but I’m pretty sure I experienced sea sickness on a land-cruising vessel. Thus, my claim to the ability of “sleeping anywhere, through anything, at any time,” proved false as I wiggled, squirmed, and failed to find a comfortable enough position to sleep any more than ten minutes at a time before waking up with excruciating cramps in one or more regions of my existence.
A sweet, short 11 hours later, I arrived in Melbourne only long enough to board a two hour train to Shepparton. More sitting in ergonomically cruel seats, crammed against other dirty backpackers, and neck contortions worthy of circus freakhood. Finally, arriving in Shepparton, I had a chance to stretch my legs…on the one hour walk to my hostel. Of course, I could have taken a taxi, but when I said that I’m low on cash, I mean seriously low. Plus, I felt the need to prove how tough I was, to no one but myself, and see if I could handle the weight of my pack long-distance. Luckily for me, it was only 27 degrees, so the sweat pouring down my face and back as I arrived at the hostel was slight given the alternate possibilities. And, good thing I had walked, as I had just enough cash in my wallet to pay for my 7-day booking and the deposit. Then I got the disheartening news that there probably wouldn’t be any fruit picking work until after a week. Staying in a nursing home turned hostel for a week’s holiday wasn’t exactly my plan. It’s creepy, and really really foul. The beds and linens are immaculate, for which I’m grateful, but the bathroom situation is rather dire. I’m staying in a 12-girl dorm room with an “ensuite” shower populated by some form of furry clump like creature, also known as the massive hairball. They are everywhere. On the floor. Stuck to the walls. Clogging the drain. That might explain why the white tub has a ring of black around it. I think I’ll feel cleaner not showering for a week than any amount of time spent in that hygienic atrocity. The kitchen fares no better, smelling of rotting food in the sinks and every surface covered in unidentifiable schmootz. I guess it’s really a good thing I won’t be eating much while I’m here.
Between missing my friends, financial woes, and feeling violated by my surroundings, I was pretty glum. But, I’m clever enough to have learned, at least nominally, that God’s got my back and to trust in him. He told me to come out here, he won’t let me whither into the dust. And as confirmation, this morning when I read my daily devotional, the related verses were from Exodus, during the Israelites’ years in the desert. They complained and bemoaned Moses and Aaron, asking why they had been taken from the luxury of their homes and plentiful food. And then God provided manna, quail, and dew for them, even while shaking a head at their doubting hearts. He was delivering them to a land of promise, only they couldn’t see it. So, I’m literally in a desert and trusting in God to provide. I have a bag of rice, dried beans and lentils, and oatmeal to pull me through the next 1-2 weeks as I wait for work and the awesomeness that will be God saying, “I told you so.”
Also, I’ve come to realize that without planning it or really having any comprehension of the geographical juxtaposition that I am back in Goulburn Valley, the location of our final campsite. I feel there’s something to that, knowing that I wasn’t really ready for that stage of my life to be over.
Tags: fruit picking, hostel, Shepparton
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