October 8 - Day Three

I drifted into consciousness this morning at about 6:00am, as usual, to a cacophony of bird chirps. There are some really crazy-sounding creatures here, let me tell you. The Australian kookaburra, which comes in a variety of sizes and colors, is by far the weirdest; one species barks and hoots like a monkey, and another literally seems to laugh from high in the treetops. (Over the past couple of days, whenever we hear one, Caroline and I have been bursting into song: “kookaburra sits in the old gum tree, merry merry king of the bush is he…” Yay, kindergarten!)

The first thing that the four of us did after breakfast was hop into the car and drive over to a vacationing neighbor’s house to feed their horses. To Caroline’s and my surprise, whoever this neighbor is has an enclosed house. Isn’t it funny that, after only three days of WWOOFing, the sight of something as seemingly banal as an enclosed living structure could catch our attention? Granted, it’s a small converted barn with exterior walls lined with ridged metal panels, but it has big windows, and it’s shockingly stylish and clean on the inside; the interior reminded Caroline and I of a chic urban studio apartment. (Note: although I've been itching to try living on a commune or intentional community at some point in the future, my pesky newly-recognized appreciation of domestication makes me slightly wary about doing so...)

I’m not sure why Ned and Dee brought us along because they didn’t have us help them out with anything, even when we asked if we could. I anxiously thought to myself that maybe they think we would steal something if left alone at their house, but I quickly dismissed this as being ridiculous. Maybe they just wanted to give us a new experience and new things to see, I reasoned. Caroline distracted herself by taking pictures of everything, including old tires, rusting farm equipment, and discarded cans. When Dee saw this, she seemed vaguely annoyed. “Look at that—taking pictures of TINS!” I wasn’t sure where this comment came from because, right before we had left the house, she’d asked, “Got your cameras, girls?” as if she was expecting us to take a ton of photos.

I laughed nervously and said, “Oh, you know…Caroline has her ‘artistic visions’…” It was at that moment that I realized just how worried I am about Dee's impression of Caroline and me. I feel like I have to walk on eggshells around her a bit, and it’s a very disconcerting feeling.

What Dee doesn’t seem to realize is that things that are ordinary for her—a shelf lined with various tractor fuel containers, a pile of saddles, perfectly stacked bales of hay—are out of the ordinary and interesting for us. Either she is bad at seeing other people’s perspectives, or she’s disapproving of our “city people” naiveté. Regardless, she is starting to get on my nerves.

For instance, back at home a few hours later—when Caroline and I speedily finished digging the trench we’d been slaving over the day before—Dee asked us, “Done already? It certainly took you a lot longer yesterday, didn’t it?” Caroline forced a chuckle and replied, “Well, we did most of the work yesterday.” Dee could have said something like, “Wow…that was fast. Great job!” But she didn’t. Now, it’s not like Caroline and I are 5-year-olds who need to be babied and showered with constant praise, but is it so hard to be positive even 0.3% of the time? Apparently, the answer is yes. (But I guess I should take this experience as a lesson for ME in seeing other people’s perspectives, because she is probably the type who quietly shows approval in little ways that I am not good at noticing because I am vociferously emotive and passionately affectionate by nature.)

Anyway, after we had finished digging our trench of wonders and burying the sprinkler hose once and for all, Dee asked us to rake leaves and then toss them in the back of their beat-up “ute” (a.k.a. pick-up truck). “We’re going to use the leaves for mulch around the base of the avocado trees,” she said.

Caroline and I spent a couple of hours raking up quite a bit of the leaves from around Ned and Dee's tool shed; we were piling leaves into a wheelbarrow, pushing it over to the ute, and working together to lift it upside down so its contents would spill messily into the bed of the truck. We repeated this action a countless number of times, and I thought we were doing a pretty good job. Caroline and I were enjoying our task because it was relatively simple and allowed us to engage in conversation; because Caroline had devoured Coelho’s “The Alchemist” in its entirety the day before and I was in the process of finishing it, we talked about destiny, our dreams, and our “Personal Legends” (a term Coelho uses in the book).

“I am not really sure what I would call my Personal Legend,” I said, pushing a slew of dead eucalyptus leaves into a pile with my rake. “Right now, I would say that it’s to travel and have a life of adventure—an ‘examined life’ in which I am constantly assessing how I’m living and trying to make a difference in the world. But all I know is that, for the past couple of years, I’ve been saying the same thing: I want to lead a life that my grandkids would be impressed by.”

“It’s great to know that we are both in touch with our desires,” Caroline responded happily. (She has been wanting to come to Australia and SCUBA dive since she was 15 years old, and after six painful months of sitting behind a desk wearing cardigans and slaving away as an “office coordinator”—a.k.a. administrative assistant—she’s finally doing it.)

“Yeah, but it would be nice to know what my ultimate career calling is, although I should probably just let life reveal it to me over time and enjoy the journey,” I said, “Or maybe I will have a variety of different ‘career callings’ as my priorities change.” I thought about how I have been carefully and rather obsessively documenting this WWOOFing adventure. “I could be cool to be a writer, but the only problem is that, right now, I’m constantly thinking about how I’m going to describe something as it’s happening instead of living the experience. That’s not what I want for my life. I want to be to fully present in each moment. I feel like that’s the best way to have peace…”

Almost too coincidentally, as soon as I had begun to utter the phrase “peace of mind,” Caroline let out a bloodcurdling scream and jumped back in terror. There, on the ground beneath her feet, was a thin black snake, uncovered from its resting place beneath the leaves by Caroline’s rake. I had no clue if it was poisonous or not, but luckily, it calmly slithered away from her, disappearing under a log. Still, I felt so sorry for her, and I wished it had been me who’d crossed paths with the reptile; coming into contact with a snake in the Australian bush was Caroline’s worst nightmare.

As soon as the snake was out of sight, Caroline and I noticed Dee standing next to us. “There was a snake! Did you see it?” Caroline asked breathlessly, pointing with a shaking hand towards the log. Dee seemed unmoved. “Yeah?” she replied coolly, looking Caroline dead in the eye as if to say, “Yeah? So what?” I could tell Caroline felt belittled. This woman seems to have absolutely no compassion for the way other people feel, I thought angrily. Just because SHE’S not scared of snakes doesn’t mean that it’s silly to be afraid of them. We’ve told her multiple times that Caroline is terrified of getting bitten by a snake here!

Then, Dee asked us, “How many ute-loads have you done?” It was obvious that she was expecting us to say that we had already filled the truck with leaves at least once and had mulched a tree or two. “Just this one,” Caroline answered matter-of-factly, bravely not using the apologetic tone I might have used. But neither of us were prepared for what would happen next. “WHAT? JUST ONE?” Dee said hotly, her hands landing immediately on her hips. “I thought you’d at least be on your second load by now! Well, I better help you,” she sputtered. She picked up a rake and began clawing furiously at the ground, as if needing to make up for lost time due to the incompetent WWOOFers.

Now, OK. Caroline and I had been chatting while we worked, yes. But it’s not like we were sitting around doing nothing. Granted, we probably weren’t raking at the rate that slaves under whip and chain would have moved…but we aren’t slaves. We aren’t even paid workers. We are volunteers helping out two aging farm owners with bad backs. And, frankly, I thought we had been working pretty diligently. “Well, there are a lot of leaves in that truck,” I protested, “Ned helped us smash them down to make room for more, is all!”

But Dee didn’t say anything. Instead, she finished raking a pile and quickly and efficiently scooped half of it up with her bare hands. She marched over to the wheelbarrow, emptied the leaves into it, pushed it over to the ute, and effortlessly lifted the relatively heavy wheelbarrow onto the bed of the truck to dump its contents. As she went back to grab the second half of her pile, I decided to follow suit and began to scoop up huge mounds of leaves in my arms. It was certainly faster that the chopstick-style method I had been using before, which involved squishing two rakes together to capture a modest bundle of leaves—but that was how Dee had originally instructed me to collect the future mulch. Regardless, I wanted to prove to her that I wasn’t just a pathetic little American city slicker, so I picked up the pace in a big, big way. When I brought my first solo wheelbarrow load over to the ute, I struggled to get the wheelbarrow on top of the truck bed. But I did it, and I hurriedly pushed out all the leaves in one fell swoop.

When the back of the truck was filled to the brim, Caroline opened the right-hand door and hopped into the driver’s seat; I slid into the passenger’s seat next to her. “Do you even know how to start the ute?” Dee asked doubtfully. “Yes, Ned showed me earlier,” Caroline answered.

Now, Caroline learned how to drive stick—and got used to driving on the left side of the road—when she lived in South Africa for six months; however, starting this particular vehicle is tricky because you have to do some special ritual with the “glow plug” before the motor will come to life. Anyway, Caroline couldn’t manage to start the thing on her first couple of tries, and I cringed. I was really hoping that we could have proved Dee wrong.

Because we were taking so long, Dee came over to the window on the driver’s side and demonstrated again how the glow plug worked. When we finally heard the engine putter into action, Dee walked away, assuming we would follow her towards the trees we were to mulch. As soon as she was out of earshot, I cried out, “What is her problem?!” “I know,” replied Caroline miserably. We drove in sullen silence over to Dee, who was motioning for us to stop in front of the line of six avocado trees.

The three of us began to unload piles of leaves and drop them under the first tree—which also happens to be the largest in the row—and Dee instructed us to cover the ground all the way out to the “drip line.” “The roots go just as far out as the branches do,” she said. To my amazement, the entire ute-load ended up only being enough to mulch one tree. When the back of the truck was completely empty, Dee told us, “Come in for lunch. I’ve already made it.”

Ah, so maybe that’s why she’s upset, I thought. Lunch was waiting, and it's our fault that it’s getting cold. But, not saying anything, we followed her into the house. Caroline and I sat down at the table while Dee went to fetch Ned, and Caroline whispered, “I think I’m going to ask her why she acted like that.” I nodded my head, impressed at Caroline’s courage.

Sure enough, when Dee came back and began spooning food onto four dishes, Caroline gently asked, “Dee, did Janel and I do something wrong?” Dee stopped preparing the plates and stared at Caroline. I quickly piped up, “It’s just that you seemed really frustrated or angry with us out there.” “Were you disappointed with us?” Caroline continued.

“Yeah, I was,” Dee said matter-of-factly, not seeming uncomfortable or taken aback. “I thought you would have been further along than you were. But I guess some people are not as fast at raking as me.” Caroline kind of laughed, trying to lighten the mood, and then replied, “Oh…OK. You do have more raking experience than us…” But I felt I had to throw in, “Dee, sorry if we’re not going as fast as you would like, but we just want you to know that we’re really trying.”

Dee just shrugged. “I thought you would have gotten more done than you did is all.” As she turned her attention back to getting lunch on the table, Caroline and I exchanged frustrated glances. FINE, I thought to myself, But you know what, Dee? I am sick of being nice and sweet and appreciative when you always seem to respond to us with negativity and eye rolls. Therefore, I am simply not going to say anything at all.

For the rest of lunch, I sat virtually in silence. I watched the sunlight playing in the trees or stared at the ground, unable to participate in conversation. But Caroline, ever the trooper, tried to continue to make pleasant conversation as if nothing had happened. I wished I could have had the patience or energy to do the same, but unfortunately, I didn't.

As soon as everyone was done eating, I stood up and smashed my hat onto my head. I could see out of the corner of my eye that Dee was watching me as I began to put on my gardening gloves, and I thought, hopefully, Maybe she is searching my face to see how I’m feeling because she feels bad for overreacting... Instead, she said, “Hold on there! What are you doing?” I looked up. “Well, I just thought Caroline and I should get a little more raking done.” “But we’re going to take you girls swimming!” She responded incredulously, as if she couldn’t believe I thought we should do more work.

I was totally confused. I couldn’t understand why she thought we didn’t rake fast enough, but then didn’t want us to keep raking. This is the dichotomy that is Dee, I’m beginning to realize. Sometimes she is subtly gracious, and then other times she is passive-aggressive and rather judgmental.

An hour later, the four of us were sitting next to a river just outside of their property. It was not as impressive as the one we went to the other day; this was just your ordinary creek, although it was still beautiful. We first jumped into the water to get some of the day’s dirt off of us, and then we all lounged by the riverbank to read and soak up a little afternoon sun. I was trying hard to relax, but after reading and rereading the same page of “The Alchemist” a few times, I realized that I was having trouble focusing because I still felt ill at ease. A neighboring couple and their young son showed up to spend time at the creek, and as Ned and Dee talked to them, Caroline and I took advantage of their distractedness by quietly and officially agreeing to stay only one week (instead of the two we had originally planned).

When we first got into the car to head home, we were all quiet. I was watching the eucalyptus trees fly by the window when Caroline broke the silence. “Well, your neighbors’ son is quite cute!” Dee shook her head. “Yeah, but he’s a spoiled one, he is!” She proceeded to tell us that, in her opinion, the couple pays too much attention to him, especially when he is interrupting their conversations with other adults. Ned seemed to agree with this, as he added, “My uncle taught me that children should be seen and not heard.” Caroline and I, who are all about fostering expression and valuing marginalized voices, exchanged horrified glances. I mean, I could see their point…but their perspective reminded me a little too much of the evil headmistress from “Mathilda” at that moment. I suddenly felt laughter at the ridiculousness of the situation bubbling inside of me, so I squeezed Caroline’s hand to try and suppress it. We both sat looking straight ahead, avoiding one another's gaze for fear of cracking up.

Back at Ned and Dee's, I started emailing a couple of farms near Port Douglas—an area that Caroline and I have been wanting to explore—to see if they might need WWOOFers any time soon. One couple, Judith and Davvyd, told me a while back that they could probably take us around the middle of October (Caroline and I had really been hoping to work with them because Davvyd likes to give his WWOOFers painting lessons and enjoys “engaging in deep conversations,” according to his entry in the WWOOF book). Unfortunately, however, Davvyd emailed me almost immediately saying that they could not longer take WWOOFers at this time. I was disappointed, but I thought, It doesn’t matter—Caroline and I can look for other farms to stay at, and even if we can’t find anything, we can go on our own national park adventures until our SCUBA class on the 22nd of October.

When I walked out of their “office,” Ned and Dee were nowhere to be found. Caroline had just pulled a couple of our beers out of the fridge for us, so we sat drinking them and talking for about an hour before Dee finally came storming into the house. She was holding her back and wincing, and Caroline, trying to be nice, said, “Is your back hurting very much?” “Yeah, it does!” Dee barked. “We were just down at the river shoveling sand for the water pump while YOU were on the computers!” We were both taken aback, and said nothing. Again, I had no idea why she was acting like that. She hadn’t asked us to help, nor did she even mention that they were going to go shovel; if she had, we of course would have volunteered to assist them. But before I could think of something to say in reply, she sat down on the couch and started to watch TV (yes, they receive TV channels, albeit not too clearly, out in the bush). Ned came in not too long later, and he also looked like he was in pain. Caroline saw that I was staring at the back of Dee’s head while shaking my own head in frustration, and she murmured, “Pain can make anyone grouchy, Janel. I, too, get grouchy when I hurt. Don’t take it personally!”

Bless her heart.

I didn’t say anything in response to Caroline’s words of wisdom, although I appreciated them; instead, I thought about how I am never going to have to see Dee again in my life after Monday. What she thinks of us is not my problem as long as Caroline and I are being as decent and helpful as we possibly can, which I believed we had been. No matter what she thinks, I contemplated, And no matter what happens with this whole experience, I am in the process of living out my Personal Legend—and I’m damn happy about it.

October 9 - Day Four

6:00am. Sigh. I have to admit that it’s getting harder and harder to feel good in the mornings now that we are getting fully accustomed to the time change. It had been so easy to wake up at the crack of dawn when our circadian rhythms were still seventeen hours behind; for a few mornings there, we were able to trick our bodies into thinking that it was noon the previous day. I threw on a sleeveless t-shirt, deciding that I would risk having sunburned arms today if it meant staying a little cooler—the long-sleeved cotton shirt I had been wearing for the previous few days was light, but it nevertheless managed to make me feel like a small child trapped in an overheating car. (Sorry for the sadistic image there, but it just works.)

When I trudged into the kitchen area, Caroline at my heels, Dee said, “Morning, girls! Ready for your cupper?” I immediately noticed that she was acting more calm and gentle towards us today than she had been for the past couple of days, and I guessed it was because of the confrontation slash conversation with her the day before. She had probably gleaned that Caroline and I are both pretty sensitive humans...or maybe she respected that we had been able to communicate our way through an uncomfortable situation. Whatever the reason, I was extremely happy for the change in tone.

After breakfast, Dee told us that we would be going over to their friends’ house later that afternoon to help them put up a patio roof. “So, why don’t you just work for a couple of hours, then take the rest of the morning off?” She suggested. “Ned and I will help rake so you’s can compost the rest of the avocado trees.”

With Ned and Dee helping us, huge piles of eucalyptus leaves materialized in minutes. I was grateful for their help—they really are more far more efficient at outdoor tasks than Caroline and I (which makes sense, of course, as the closest thing to a “physical task” I’d ever previously accomplished was cranking out 45 minutes on a gym elliptical). At one point during the raking frenzy, Ned called out to Caroline and I. We turned around to see him and Dee crouched down, staring intently at something underneath an overturned log. We hurried over, and Ned said, “Have you ever seen a barking spider before?”

There, curled up in the soil, was a brown, thumb-sized spider. “Wow, it looks a lot like a tarantula!” I said, referring to the creature’s fuzzy appearance. “This is just a baby,” Ned said. “The adults are much bigger, especially the females. We’ve seen them out in the garden with thousands of tiny babies on their backs.” “And Ned's been bitten by one before,” Dee added. “The hospital had to call a museum to find out how to treat the bite because they had no idea!”

I looked over at Caroline to gauge her reaction to this, and she was eyeing the spider and the surrounding area warily. Seeing as the spider was hanging out in almost the exact same spot as had the black snake from the day before, I could tell what she was thinking: Can I rake somewhere else?!

After amassing quite a few piles, the four of us began to scoop leaves up in our arms and toss them into the back of ute. By the time the truck bed was filled to the brim, Caroline, Ned and I were all scratching our arms furiously. I noticed that the undersides of my arms were sprouting little red dots. “Ned, what’s going on?” I asked, confused as to why we were suddenly rash-ridden. “Oh, it’s from hairy caterpillars,” he replied. “Their hairs sometimes fall into the leaves, and they can irritate your skin.” Super, I thought. Of course this would be the day I choose to wear a sleeveless t-shirt—the day we happen to lather our arms with discarded caterpillar hairs.

I suppose I will take this opportunity to tell you that my skin is in the worst condition of LIFE—and I find it positively hilarious. I’m bruised and bitten, splotchy and pimply (my spoiled pores are not used to being caked daily with dirt! But what’s the difference between this and a mud bath?! Really now, pores...). I could compare my body to an old, beat-up car—the paint’s peeling and the number of dents is steadily increasing, but it’s running just fine!


Out in the bush, one’s exterior is merely a protective shield for the interior. I guess appearance has come to matter so much to people in the suburbs and cities because we don’t tend to participate in activities that mar our skin on a day-to-day basis. But here, they do. It’s no wonder Ned and Dee don’t own a decently sized mirror. (Which, frankly, I love.)

Anyway, trying to ignore our itchy arms, Caroline and I drove over to the avocado orchard and proceeded to unload the entire ute-load of leaves onto two or three avocado trees, spreading the mulch all the way out to the drip lines as previously instructed. When the truck bed was nearly empty, the wind started to pick up, and as Caroline walked away from the ute with the last big pile in her arms, several crisp leaves flew of her grasp and spun momentarily behind her like a dizzy flock of birds. I really wish I had my camera ready at that moment; it might have been a great photograph—Caroline-the-leaf-bearer, illuminated by the hot morning sun, trailed by brown and red slivers suspended in midair behind her.


We hopped into the ute when it came time for a refill, and I noticed that Caroline was getting really good at dealing with the glow plug and starting up the old clunker quickly. We were also much faster at raking today, even once Ned and Dee had moved on to other tasks—by 9:30am, Caroline and I had filled and unloaded the ute two more times all by ourselves.

When the two of us finally meandered into the house, having successfully mulched all six avocado trees, I noticed just how much the muscles in my right arm were killing me. My arm had been bugging me while we were raking, but now that I was sitting at the kitchen table relaxing, I was unfortunately able to fixate on the pain. I mentally solved a relevant equation: two days of pick axing + two days of raking = bad short term effects on weak arms. Luckily, when I mentioned my cramping muscles to Dee, she pulled a jar of horse liniment out of the cupboard and a pack of frozen spinach from the freezer to use as an ice pack. Caroline clandestinely pointed out that the liniment was labeled, “NOT FOR HUMAN USE,” but I decided to ignore that.

I rested my arm, now lathered with the pungent jelly, over the next few hours of vegging. I sat taking notes on what had happened so far during the day (blogtastic!) while Caroline lounged in Ned and Dee's hammock reading Bill Bryson’s “In a Sunburned Country,” a travel book packed with tales of Bryson’s Australian adventures. Evidently, it’s bloody hilarious—Caroline seemed to squeal with laughter every five minutes over one of the guy’s anecdotes. Dee, who was trying to immerse herself in a steamy romance novel, finally looked up. “We’ve got ourselves a resident hyena, eh?”

But I just giggled every time I heard Caroline guffaw, despite the fact that I didn’t know what she found so funny. Something I love about Caroline is that she eats up life loudly and openly, and I wasn’t about to hold it against her.

After one particularly enthusiastic bout of laughter, she called out, “Dee, listen to this!” Dee rolled her eyes playfully but put down her book. Caroline, who could barely speak because she was laughing so hard, proceeded to read a paragraph about how Australians downplay the severity of the numerous dangerous creatures in their country while, in the same breath, recall stories about the elderly uncle who was bit in the scrotum by a poisonous snake and had to go on life support. “But he’s off it now, so it’s OK!” Finished Bryson’s Australian impression. Caroline could hardly breathe. “It’s…just…so…TRUE!”

Dee said, “Er—yeah, that’s normal!” She didn’t really seem to get the joke. Understandably so, as this is a woman who nonchalantly told us that, as a child, she regularly had to brush redbacks (comparable to North America’s black widow spiders) off of the outhouse toilet seat before she sat down.

A little while later, when she was no longer able to focus on her book, Dee's eyes lit up. “Would you like to try a couple of the fruit wines that Ned and I made three years ago?” She asked me, looking excited. “Sure!” I said, wondering what on earth had suddenly inspired her to host a spontaneous afternoon wine tasting. But I didn’t fight it. She led me to the shed, where she reached under a shelf and pulled out what looked like two very dusty bottles of rum. But before I could tell her that I didn’t particularly want a hard-A appetizer, she explained that her and Ned fermented their wines in old alcohol containers.

It being the first time I was ever about to consume years-old fruit wine from rum bottles with broken seals, I was more than a little intrigued. “But don’t you need to vacuum-seal wine or something?” I asked as we walked back to the kitchen. She looked confused. “No…” Seeing as I actually know nothing about wine production, I decided to shut up.

She took two cups out of the cupboard and poured me little tasters of both of the wines she held in her hand. “This one is cherry, and this one is plum,” she said, pointing first at the burgundy-colored liquid in one cup and then at the slightly darker wine in the other. I tasted one and then the other, smacked my lips, and announced that I liked the cherry one a bit better. Although I would probably never sit around sipping these weird wines for pleasure (they both tasted like bitter sherry), I mentally congratulated them for their efforts. Ten points!

During lunch a couple of hours later, I casually asked Dee what subjects her three adult daughters liked when they were in school. This innocent question unexpectedly became a full-blown discussion about education, to my dismay—I couldn’t easily forget the brief child-rearing conversation we’d had in the car the afternoon before, during which the phrase “children should be seen and not heard” was actually uttered. Caroline asked Ned and Dee if they knew what Montessori education was; shockingly enough, they didn’t. She proceeded to tell them about how great it is, and that the method encourages educators to focus on each individual child’s needs and skills. “Children are allowed to choose their learning schedule based on the subjects they enjoy,” she said approvingly.

I was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. I knew that such an alternative, child-centered method of educating kids would be lost on Dee and Ned, and sure enough, they were gazing at her a little blankly by the end of her spiel. There was a painful pause, and I was frantically thinking of something to say that would burst the bubble of awkwardness. That’s when Ned said, “Back when I was at school, we were hit with wooden sticks or leather whips. Once, I was called into the principal’s office for something I didn’t do, and I received such a shock when I was whipped that I pissed me’self.” Oh, boy.

A change of subject was dangerously in order. “Um…Ned and Dee…?” I asked tentatively, clearing my throat. “Are you gonna go back to Mareeba again on Monday?” Dee shook her head and consulted the calendar hanging next to the table. “We’ll be there for a doctor’s appointment on Wednesday, though.” “Well, could we head back into town on that day with you?” I asked, gaining confidence. “We’re going to explore Port Douglas for a few days, I think.” To my relief, Ned and Dee just nodded, appearing totally OK with the idea. I was ecstatic that my proposition wasn’t a problem, and I was immediately filled with excitement at the prospect of gaining a different learning experience somehow, somewhere, starting Wednesday.

[Looking back, I should have been more patient and stayed the originally-planned two weeks with them. I should have focused more on my current learning experience instead of looking ahead to another one… but I’ll elaborate on this in a future entry.]

At around 4:00pm, Ned and Dee told us to hurry up and get ready to go to their friends’ house. Dee wanted us to change out of our dirty work clothes and into something slightly more presentable, so Caroline and I quickly threw on some jeans. As I was getting into the car, Ned, who was still in the house, called me over to him. “Yes?” I asked as I approached. “Do you want to lock up your laptop in the filing cabinet?” He was motioning towards my computer, which sat snuggled in its soft black case on the table. “Um…why?” I responded. The last thing I was worried about at Ned and Dee's was theft. What, is a mischievous wombat going to waddle off with my laptop balanced on its back? Ned shrugged. “I dunno, just to be safe, I guess.” “Well, sure, why not? Thanks, Ned,” I said as I handed him the computer. He took it gently out of my hands and proceeded to lock in the bottom drawer of the cabinet, alongside their rather impressive opal collection.

When the four of us arrived at the property of David and Robin—Ned and Dee's close friends—Caroline and I were absolutely amazed by the number of creatures living there. David and Robin have three dogs, including an adorable tan-and-white puppy named Lou; countless cockatiels in an aviary (their chirps sounded exactly like men whistling at a pretty woman), a pig named Ellis that carefully peels mandarin oranges with its mouth before devouring the juicy insides; and numerous types of chickens (a.k.a. “chooks”), one of which looked like it was wearing a white fur coat and a matching white Russian fur hat. There was also a resident male peacock, its vibrantly colored feathers splayed in hopes of gaining the affections of one of the three females strolling around the yard. Unfortunately for him, he was not getting much attention. Robin later told us, “He’s getting so desperate that he’s started showing off to coconuts and the tool shed!"

After taking a ton of pictures of the animals, Caroline and I finally introduced ourselves to the resident humans, Robin and David. I asked them when we were going to start putting up the roof, but Dee responded before they could. “It’s too windy to do any work—it would be too dangerous. So, Robin and David won you girls only two hours of work today, eh?” I thought, Well, actually the WIND won us only two hours of work today…it’s not like it could have been controlled… (I never know what she means by such statements. I am starting to get used to her pointed jokes and sarcasm, though. I am trying to just let them roll off of me.)

Since there was no work to do, we all sat in a circle of lawn chairs in the backyard, idly chatting as the sun set. I was impressed by the view from their yard—golden brown fields gave way to rainforest-covered mountains in the distance. At first, I found the conversation rather dull, and a part of me was tempted to label these people as uncreative and uninteresting. But I immediately chastised myself for thinking that way. Once I had managed to clear my head of biases, I began to notice just how much Robin and David (and Ned and Dee, for that matter) are comfortable with silence. And I don’t simply mean that they are at ease with lulls in conversation. I mean that they live enshrouded in something that is sadly foreign to me: peace. They have peace of mind, a peaceful lifestyle, and peace of heart. They all seem content with the life choices they have made thus far, as well as with the way they are currently living. I thought to myself, Wow—it would be nice if I could live like that.

It’s not that I am unhappy with the direction my life is going; I’m proud of the things I have accomplished, seen and learned thus far, and I know there is much more knowledge out there for me to gain. It’s just that I feel anxious about all the things I COULD do in my life. I was blessed with the agency to choose how I want to live, and I’m grateful for the number of open doors in front of me…yet, it’s a terrifying thought to walk through one and shut all the others.

Maybe Ned, Dee, Robin and David did not have many options, and they had to “settle” for their current lifestyle. This is typically a horrifying and tragic concept to upper-middle and upper class-ians, at least from what I’ve gleaned in my 22.9 years of Californian suburban existence. But we don’t seem to have many people who balance their time well between work and play in the Silicon Valley. We might not have a whole lot of folks living with humility and tranquility of the spirit in the wealthy pockets of Los Angeles or Santa Barbara. For such individuals, a taste of rural living could be a helpful lesson on how to lead a calm, grounded and peaceful life. It’s proving to be one for me.

All in all, I am glad to be living what I believe is an “examined life”…but it would be nice to feel like I didn’t have to examine or analyze it once in a while. It would be nice to accept life as a mysterious river—its twists, turns and rapids uncharted—and float contentedly along on a polka dotted tube.

***

Later that evening, once everyone was filled to the brim with barbequed sausages and beer, conversation inevitably became a little more easy and a lot more interesting. At one point, Robin bluntly asked Caroline and I if we were religious. “Well, we’re not your stereotypical American Jesus fanatics, if that’s what you are trying to get at!” I replied. Robin looked relieved. “Thank GOD!” She said, and I couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony of her exclamation. “I just can’t stand those American evangelists on the tele.”

“You can watch American televangelists here?” Caroline asked incredulously. (Fun fact: Caroline’s vocal inflection is already starting to sound British/Australian when she asks questions. It’s hilarious. I can’t wait to find out how bad it’s gonna be when she returns to the States next fall.)

Robin went on to explain that a few Southern televangelists actually have followers in Australia. “But I don’t know why anyone would send those people their hard-earned money,” she said, shaking her head. “They wear flashy suits and gold rings—it makes you wonder where all those donations go, eh? They’d seem a lot more credible if they just looked normal!” “But maybe they have the right idea, charging for religion,” Dee piped up. “We should start up a cult out here!” Robin screeched with laughter. “Yeah, right. And what are we going to call it—mango-ology?!”

As the guffaws subsided, a teenaged girl trudged into the backyard from inside the house. “Ah…hello, mate!” exclaimed Robin, smiling at the girl. (Caroline and I later admitted to each other how surprised we had been to hear a woman refer to her daughter as “mate.” But it was kind of cute.) The girl bent down, whispered something in her mom’s ear, and then took off again, ignoring everyone else. She looked exhausted and was wearing a uniform polo shirt, so I guessed that she was just now returning from work.

“What does your daughter do?” I asked Robin. “Clare? She works at a hardware store in Mareeba,” Robin said. “Oh, OK,” I said. “Is that her after-school job?” “Naw,” replied Robin, “She’s been working there since she graduated from high school last year.” Robin said this as though she had absolutely no qualms about her daughter’s career choice. I thought of my own parents, and how disturbed they would have surely been if I had forgone attending the University of Southern California in favor of stocking shelves with screwdrivers and socket wrenches. Caroline, obviously thinking the same thing as me, asked, “So, is she thinking about going to college?” Robin shook her head. “She isn’t interested in uni, and neither is Davie.” (Davie, their son, is a first-year in high school).

I was shocked that Robin didn’t seem to care whether her kids went to college or not, although it was kind of refreshing to meet someone who’s all right with letting her kids choose their own destinies after high school. But I thought, Maybe there are financial reasons behind her apathy, or maybe SHE didn’t go to college and therefore doesn’t see the value in it. Still…how can someone not want their kids to get the most education possible?  Then, to my chagrin, Dee announced, “Davie should go to a trade school. You can make way more money coming out of a trade school than from going to college!”

Toto, we’re not in the Bay Area anymore.

After a few more minutes of banter, the group began to dissipate—Robin and Dee went into the house to check on Davie and his friends, who were allegedly having a PlayStation rage fest, and David began to gather wood for the fire pit. I realized that it was getting late (9:00pm…Heavens to Betsy!), and I felt myself losing steam. I was really enjoying being outside, though, as there were no mosquitoes to be found—the wind must have banished them for the night. It was also warm without being humid, which is a miracle for Queensland, and David was starting up a cozy little fire (which wasn’t really necessary, but still felt nice). I looked up, and I was immediately awe-struck by the stars; they seemed to dust the sky like confectioner’s sugar on a rich cake. Stargazing is a definite plus of being 60 kilometers outside of the closest town, I noted.

Caroline followed my gaze and began to admire the stars, as well. After a minute or two, she asked, “Ned? You like astronomy, right?” Ned, who had been lost in thought, snapped to attention. “Er…yes. How did you know?” “Well, back at the house, I noticed your collection of astronomy magazines,” Caroline said with a grin. “Could you show me where the Southern Cross is?”

I furrowed my brow. “What in the blazes is that? A constellation?!” “Yeah. It’s only found in the Southern Hemisphere,” Caroline responded distractedly, her eyes searching the sky. “We may have to stand over there to get an unobstructed view of it,” Ned said, pointing to the nearest field. The two of them walked away, engrossed in an impromptu astronomy discussion, and I heard the restless rustling of leaves—the wind was beginning to pick up again. I sunk low in my chair so that my neck was nestled comfortably in the cloth backrest, and I felt my eyelids grow heavy. As the fire warmed my toes, I slowly drifted off, lulled to sleep by silver clouds racing across the face of the moon.