Where the Sheeps have no Name

This week I planted 21 300 trees. Which is quite a lot really. More than the average [wo]man plants in their life I assume. I may be wrong.

I applied for only one job last week (it was a good idea at the time) before being distracted by the beach and the park and the spectacular views from the roofs of Perth’s premier hotels. I got that job.  So on Saturday I hopped and a bus and set ‘sail’ for Tincurrin. Population 7 and a half (Which has now been more than doubled by just the members of my house).

As I sat on the bus pretending to listen to the life story of Theresa from Albany, I realised that I had no idea what I was actually doing and that I may actually be in the process of being human trafficked...  A sweat shop would have been far more exciting....  Instead I now spend 38 hours a week hanging out with trees and dirt and sheep and the rest of my time trying to get clean. Which is not so bad really because there is nothing else to do out here.

Most long-term travelers pack up their lives, sell what they have and venture off to find their inner hippie. They go all flower-power and save the whale and tree-hugging ... I’ve just found my inner farmer...  but at least I’ve done my part for future tree- huggers everywhere.

The Art of Licking Strangers

Many have called Australia the land of the free, the land of the brave; the land where all your hopes and dreams can come true... but I’m still not convinced!

In the real world it is easy to lick a stranger. You stick out your tongue and wait for an unsuspecting passerby. Done. In Australia it is not.

Firstly you have to do all lickage in shoes. You have to do everything in shoes. And, if that’s not bad enough already, “thongs” aren’t good enough – They have to be closed shoes or even high-heels. As a staunch anti-shoeist this is hell!

Secondly being discrete is not an easy task. Trying to avoid the gaze of the 20 odd security on constant alert for barefooters, is near impossible. And even when they are looking away, there’s still the cameras... if they fine you for being barefoot, or drunk, or smelling funny; what do they do to lickers??

It’s normally best to discretely lick on the clothing (or at least this is what my friend Robyn, a professional lickest, has taught me) – in Australia they barely wear any clothes... it’s all ‘wife beaters’ and skirts that once functioned as belts...

I’m not even all that keen on licking strangers. It’s just nice to have the option!

If this is Australia where are the Kangaroos?

“Welcome to the real world!” said the passport control man. I shot him a slightly worried “Surely you’re not talking about Australia?” glance and he quickly waved me on to customs...

It’s been almost 24 hours and I have yet to see a kangaroo.  I’m starting to wonder if I’m even in the right country.

It’s all getting a bit worrying really - South African immigration told me that my visa had been declined and proceeded to let me on the plane anyway... We were forced to keep our window shutters closed for the duration of the flight and were instead shown a picture of our plane veering towards Perth. Nine and a half hours “in the air" and I didn’t even have Kankles to show for it – explain that??

So before I go on to describe the ridiculous accents, the bizarrely excessive rules and the state of their “dunnies” (which are ever so slightly nicer than the plane’s) - let me first confirm my whereabouts. For all I know [apart from the extreme lack of people of colour] I may never have left South Africa!