Journey 29

I was on a tour of Turkey.  We were living in London, but when I arrived there, I discovered it was, by and large, a bus full of Aussies, and very enjoyable it was.  Travelling to Gallipoli was very moving, particularly Lone Pine, and the words of Kemal Ataturk written in stone below the site:

"Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives... you are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore, rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side here in this country of ours... You the mothers who sent their sons from far away countries wipe away your tears. Your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well."

But three things, in particular, struck me. One was the landscape. Having visited Albany and its surrounds on quite a few occasions, which was the last sight of Australia many of those soldiers saw, would they have been as surprised as me to find that the Dardanelles looked so very like Kind William Sound?  It was surprising. Even some of the weeds were the same.  

The second thing that struck me was in the small museum, which had photos of soldiers playing a game of cricket on the beach, an Australian soldier passing a cup of water to a wounded Turkish soldier, and Simpson standing astride his donkey (who knew he was such a tall man?) 

The last was when we finally crossed over the Dardanelle straight (into Asia) and visited the site of Troy. It overlooks the ocean, and from there, you can look back across the straight and see the Commonwealth war graves at Gallipoli. Who knew you could contemplate both these conflicts, separated by over two millennia, from the same vantage point?  

The whole experience spoke to me of our common humanity and how different our human story might be if differences between nations were resolved by those who recognised the humanity of their opponents rather than seeking to dehumanise them.

Journey 30

In 2005 I travelled outside of Australia for the first time; I imagined my first overseas trip would be to the “old country”, the UK or The Netherland; however, it was to an unknown and unexpected destination I would be travelling to The Sultanate of Oman. I was travelling to spend some time with my now-husband while working there. A year or two before Simon and I had started our relationship, we were friends who shared an interest in history and were a part of an online community. At the time, I was intrigued with the exotic place he worked and asked what it looked like, so he sent me a photo of a quintessential Arabian village called Balad Saet; something in this picture stirred a great longing as I wondered what it would be like to look down into that valley, yet at the time it seemed an idle dream and nothing more. 

Arriving in Oman, I was captivated by the country’s stark beauty; the capital city Muscat is surrounded by harsh mountains that, in an optical illusion, appeared to me like clouds at first glance. Leaving the city, it was striking to see the differences compared to Australia. Deep gorges cut by wadis that whispered of “valleys of deepest darkness”, or the pale light grey dust would lift from the hard-baked earth as I walked; it would stick to my sandaled feet, and it evoked the story of foot washing from the Gospels. 

One day we took a trip to visit the old Forts that dotted the landscape, sheltered in cool palm groves. The roads twisted through the mountains, with straggly acacia trees, sometimes with goats resting in the welcome shade or perching in the branches. After the fort at Rastaq, we happened to drive past the road that led to Wadi Bani Awf (snake gorge), and Simon mentioned that this was the road to that village in the picture he sent me all those years ago. Of course, there was almost no discussion we would have to visit! The road snaked its way up and around the wadi, and we entered the precarious section of the road that led to Balad Saet; the road was single lane and unpaved, with a sheer drop of up to 1km on one side. After a long and bumpy drive, down nestled in the valley, I saw Balad Saet, and so in the blistering Arabian heat, I wondered as I was able to gaze down into that valley, and a dream fulfilled. 

Journey 31

It was late 2001, and I had just been told that my aunt had taken a turn for the worse and did not have much longer to live. I was living abroad for work purposes and needed to book an international trip immediately. The goal was to get home in time to say goodbye.

Two years earlier, when I had left the U.S. to move overseas, everything was normal; well-wishers could go to your actual gate to see you off, security checks were a thing, but were incredibly tame, the atmosphere was relaxed. It was so relaxed that my brother was allowed to ENTER the PLANE to say his final goodbye to me as he was late getting to the airport to see me off.

Late 2001 was a new world in travelling into the United States. For those that may not recall, September 11, 2001, was the date of an extreme attack on the U.S. carried out by commercial aircraft. My trip to see my loved one happened AFTER this horrific event and the airports were a changed place.  

I left a place that was friendly, travellers smiling and chatting with each other as they waited for their flights, and I came back, just two years later, to machine guns carried by military personnel in full combat dress. I came back to detailed security checks and leaving well-wishers at the check-in counter to make your own way to the gate. I came back to what felt like isolation under the diligent, watchful eye of armed guards. I left my home country for a couple of years, and when I returned, it was a foreign land acting out of fear and distrust of everyone. The dichotomy between the atmosphere when I left, and the atmosphere when I returned is something I will never forget.

The general feel of the world has ebbed and flowed between fearful isolationism and loving globalism throughout the years. Was 9/11 the beginning of that behavioural tide, or was it just the first time in my adult life that I felt it?

Journey 32

It was my first overseas trip. I travelled with a mate from university and his friend from Aquinas College. We were in our early twenties, and they were rugby mad. No surprises then that our first stop was the Hong Kong Sevens International Tournament, and then on to the tropical paradise of the Maldives.

The bonus as an aviation enthusiast was the joy of flying, with window seats being highly prized. The Pilbara and Kimberly repaid the cricked neck from peering through the window. 

Hong Kong was a delight and education, “No, my girlfriend would not understand”, despite the assurances of the lady at my side. I experienced cognitive dissonance on hearing distinctive English accents in the stadium and on the streets among those born on the Island. We cruised the harbour in a huge Junk and adapted to the toilet being a simple hole in the decking. The ferry took us to Macau and the façade of the Pauls Cathedral standing monument to the missionary activity of the Jesuits in the 17^th Century.

After two weeks in Hong Kong, we were off to the Maldives via Kuala Lumpur, overnighting in Ranweli Resort, to the north of Columbo. It was here I saw my first wild crocodile, from the safety of a footbridge

Once in Mali, the Maldives capital, boats replaced planes, and we transited to our island resorts in a low motorised Dhoni with the characteristic high prow. Our first sight of the island was the breakwater of the coral reef that encompassed the white sands of the atoll. Once safely through a gap in the coral, we entered the calm of the lagoon. Here the water lost its deep blue, with the sandy bottom giving it a turquoise hue.

The resort came complete with beach bungalows and picture-postcard views. Breaking waves revealed the extent of the coral and neatly framed the shallow lagoon, its smooth, clear surface and the baby reef sharks that schooled along the beach. Coconut palm fronds fringed the island surface.

Our time here proceeded at a much more leisurely pace. Idyllic pursuits beckoned. I learned Backgammon sans gambling and discovered how hard it is to get a romantic sunset framed by leaning palms - there always seemed to be clouds on the horizon.

A snorkel out to the reef revealed a world made popular by Finding Nemo, complete with corals in all shapes and sizes and a kaleidoscope of coral fish. Little clownfish in anemones, and larger parrotfish who ate the coral and produced the fine white coral sand of the atoll.

After a month away, we longed to get home; however, a mix-up with our travel time meant the doors were closed on our flight home. Menacing armed soldiers backed by the check-in attendance assurance that we were not going anywhere. Rescue came later via new tickets purchased by my friends’ parents. We were so glad to get on that flight and head for home.

Journey 33

Sometimes journeys are not holidays, moves to a new country, or family visits. Sometimes they are the routines of life. A commuter knows the daily journey intimately and can pick the changes. In 2020, as a teacher, I still went to work every day, and my daily journey took me on the busy commuter routes of Roe and Tonkin Highways. The experience of travelling along a busy route navigating when to change lanes and merge points almost overnight became vastly different. The roads were empty. It was very different from being stuck in a complete shutdown of a multi-laned freeway out of Beijing, where everyone just got out of their cars and chatted.

Not only were the streets unrecognisable, but so too the skies. Driving along Tonkin Highway is perfect for plane spotters, but the constant line of flights in and out vanished. This surreal landscape of intricate roads and bridges with hardly any traffic using it was both pleasant and shocking.

Many of us also had to think about how to have a holiday or remain connected with family we couldn’t visit. The accepted ease of travel became something out of our grasp and control. Our journeys have changed, so I now reflect on some of the sights of incredible natural or created beauty and whose images stay in my mind. Top of the list is Milford Sound in New Zealand, closely followed by Wineglass Bay in Tasmania. Locally, Esperance, followed by anywhere between Augusta and Albany. The Great Wall of China tops the list of built features, followed by walking down the street in Sydney and seeing the Harbour Bridge on one side and the Opera House on the other.

But, you know, a bus trip from Kalamunda to Perth is like taking a mystery journey with its twists and turns and exposure to sights never seen before. Soon, the new train to Forrestfield will open. This train will not be the Bullet Train in Japan, the high-speed train between Shanghai and Beijing, or the Indian-Pacific across Australia, but it will be a journey worth experiencing. We should celebrate all trips, big and small.

Journey 34

The call had come just before Christmas 2009; our mother had passed away. Together with my brother and his wife, the four of us caught a flight on Boxing Day, leaving behind us the hot weather of Perth.  Ahead of us was the UK winter and its many challenges for travellers with urgent plans to put in place.

I had been fortunate with the aid of the computer, many phone calls and the help of overseas friends, and I had started to put our arrangements in place before we got there.  Sadly, our younger brother could not join us, having returned from the UK to his home in the USA with his wife following the funeral of her father the week before. The journey was made easier as the four of us enjoyed a close bond; we chatted about mother, family life growing up, and the many times mother had shared holidays with us here in Australia. There was time to recall several anecdotes that had caused plenty of explaining to children who were not used to grandma and her quirky ways, some of which had been passed on at ‘show and tell’ times in the classroom.  It made the journey slip by as we made our way towards the Yorkshire countryside.

Arriving at some unearthly hour into Heathrow, we took a short flight to Yorkshire and were scooped up into the family of my brother’s wife.  These people, who were only names and faces seen in photographs from time to time, welcomed us to their homes, moving out other family members to be billeted elsewhere so the four of us could share a house and all its conveniences in our time of need.  They didn’t know our mother, possibly only seeing her at the wedding of my brother and his wife some 30 years before, but this was of no concern to them. Their only thoughts were that we should be well accommodated and cared for during our stay.

A car was organised so we could finalise our plans easier. It was a 30-minute drive from our lodgings to Skipton, where the ceremony was to take place, so we put together the final arrangements before visiting a few nostalgic places in the area where my brother and I had grown up.  Extended family and old friends were contacted with the news and the details of the funeral; all was going well.

To our great relief, the snow, which had been falling since mid-December, had eased, making life on the road a simple task as we motored between our temporary home and the many places we needed to get to and from during our stay. This, however, was all about to change.

A few days before the funeral, we awoke to the sight of our car covered in a blanket of fresh snow with the promise of more to come. On ‘the day’, the roads had become impassable in places, leaving some close friends in Harrogate unable to get out of their driveway to attend.  Elderly relatives with their typical Yorkshire stoicism carpooled and inched their way, a 20-minute drive taking them over an hour to complete. Our usual 30-minute journey would now take over an hour to negotiate as the snow continued to fall and the howling winds blew across the Pennines, causing many road closures and obstacles to avoid.  The hotel, where we hoped to gather following the ceremony, could no longer provide us with hot food as constant power cuts were making life impossible, so we sat together in our rugged up outdoor clothes, chatting over potato crisps and peanuts washed down with a glass or two of something to warm our innards.

The Big Freeze of 2010, as it was called, was the coldest winter Britain had seen since 1978/9. Severe warnings were put out daily, and there were closures to transport up and down the country. Flights were being cancelled as many airports were temporarily closed, including the Leeds/Bradford and Heathrow, our exit points. We watched constantly for changes, now becoming concerned we would remain stranded for longer than we had thought.

Our host family gathered to join us for a thank you farewell dinner. There was a mention that if we could not fly down to Heathrow, someone would take us by car to make sure we had every opportunity to secure a flight home. The kindness of this family knew no bounds; it was a humbling experience.

We were fortunate to secure our flights and were taken to the airport by family members who waited with us in case of cancellation, but all went well.  The 45 min flight down the country was a blanket of white all the way, and everything looked so beautiful and pristine.  Not all booked flights left Heathrow that day as it cancelled many around us, but we were some of the fortunate ones that made our journey home.

Our host family remain in our thoughts and prayers today. Their kindness to us at a time of sadness and need made our journey to sayfarewell to a much-loved mother a great deal easier. They fed us with their warmth and love, a memory each of us will never forget.