Its been a while...

It's been many kilometres since my last last post back on the banks of the mighty Murray.

We've hit the west, I've been moonlighting as a sustainability trainer in Adelaide and Perth, we've blown a tyre in Broome, we've swam with whale sharks on the Ningaloo reef (more on that later) and we've finalised our plans for getting to South America (if not all the way to Colombia).

In the relative oasis that is Derby, WA, we've finally caught up with ourselves after a fairly frantic couple of months. On reflection, a few things have become obvious.

1. I'm not temperamentally suited to a chronological blog. 
2. Access to power is one of the greater challenges of low cost travel in the digital age.
3. Time passes fast - really fast - even when you are sitting still (like in a car, for example).

Before starting on this trip I was honestly concerned about my ability to manage all the 'free time' I anticipated on this trip. I packed crochet, just in case.

It doesn't work like that.

It works something like this.

To be fair, in the last few months work (and pseudo work, like managing our flat on Airbnb) has been a MUCH bigger slice of the pie. And I have a rant post pending on access to power in Broome.

All in all though it's been, and continues, to be one hell of a magical ride. About which I will blog in due time. Though not in due order.

Laying low by the river

While we were waiting for my sister's arrival we had a few days to kill. We had thought of going to Kangeroo Island but the cost of the ferry crossing for just a few days ruled that out many times over. So we mulled and thought it over and decided instead to lay low by the river at Walker Flat where there was a free camp right on the river bank.

Its the kind of place where families going fishing for the weekend camp side by side with nomads sipping their evening glass of red (they all do this by the way) with a view over the water. And then some super rich people in a multilevel houseboat pull in for the night and you can look right in to their floating living room with its computer and gym equipment and full kitchen from where you sit not 20m away eating baked beans.

The towns are like that too. Working agricultural centres with real estate agents selling million dollar boats and Lamborginis park in the street (presumably fresh off the houseboat with two car garage).

Our greatest Murray moments were in Murray Bridge. After 3 days sans shower we decided that a trip to the local pool was in order. Regional pools in the middle of the day on a weekday are a great travelling secret. We had the entire pool to ourselves. They even opened the diving boards and water slide for us. 

We practised diving. We competed to see who could swim longest under water (Luis) and competed again to see if dolphin kicking makes any difference to the result (it doesn't). We swam laps widthwise. We practised our synchronised swimming salsa moves. We noticed that all this was visible from the ticket office where the nice lady who took our money was hanging out. And finally we capped in all off with a long, long, hot shower. 

On the way back in the evening the light struck the cliffs on the other side of the river making them glow. As someone who had only really seen the Murray at Echuca and Albury where its low and sluggish, this whole experience was incredible. There is a REAL river in southern Australia! 

(NB the other car in this shot is not, as we first thought, another Rojito. It was a Toyota).

Barossa sisterhood

My sister and her partner came over to join us for a week lured by the promise of cheese and wine in the Barossa Valley. From the Barossa’s recent advertising campaign I was, I think, subconsciously expecting to be striding around in the warm rain wearing white and licking double cream off wooden spoons. It’s a hell of a campaign if you like food. Thing is though, the Barossa is nothing like that.

It’s surprisingly flat, industrial and repetitive. Sure there are chateaus and quaint stone vineyards tucked away up there and the bakery in Tanunda has pretzels but it’s a long way from the prettiest part of an admittedly very pretty state.

My sister works very hard. She does tremendous work that needs to be done and she does it incredibly well. I know this because for the past two years we worked at the same organisation. But it’s exhausting. So a week’s holiday interstate is an important thing. Due to my sister’s work commitments and it being my fault we are apart due to the whole going off travelling and then moving to Colombia thing, I was responsible for organising the holiday. 

We managed to pick them up at the airport just in time after a timing miscalculation that involved us boiling water for coffee and doing breakfast dishes in the foreshore park in Glenelg while the less financially restrictive watched from their holiday apartment balconies or glared as they power walked past with their tiny dogs. It was slightly humiliating. The dishwater had a lot of bubbles.

We ended up intercepting them in the airport pick up area and loaded them into the back of the intricately repacked Jazz. There was no denying that fitting an extra two people and two large bags was challenging. We drove into Adelaide to show them the highlights and spent around 30 minutes looking for a free park of more than two hours. After that, two hours seemed like enough.

I pointed out the gorgeous architecture, the mysterious ‘polites’ signage, the city library and parklands and Haighs but they were very tired and hot. So we squeezed back in Rojito and took the scenic drive up to Tanunda.

Staying at paying camp grounds is not just about running water and showers and camp kitchens though these things are increasingly feeling like extraordinary luxury. To be worth the cash they have to offer that little bit extra. And that little bit extra is, specifically, a giant jumping pillow. 

This is because, on my first glorious trip to WOMAD, we stayed at a camp ground that had one AND adults were allowed on it. I've never forgotten it. If you jump on it at the same time as kids they go flying off in all directions.

I had regretfully forgone a repeat stay at this legendary campground in Adelaide because it was much more expensive than other options but when we drove into our tiny campsite in Tanunda, there it was in all its stripey bouncy glory. 

This almost compensated for my sister's exhausted and stricken face when she realised that they had forgotten the plug for their lilo (the campground owners kindly lent her a mattress and we bought a 'twin' replacement the next day that apparently fitted two people only if they both lay on their sides).

In a quick trip into town to buy booze and pate I had noted an appropriately hipster breakfast venue and the next morning so it turned out. It’s called Nosh. They serve scrambled eggs in tea cups and have waffles on their lunch menu and when I accidentally started drinking my sister's coffee they made her another one.

Feeling the boldness of a successful breakfast selection, I decided that we should go for a walk to the ‘sleepy hamlet of Bethany’ in the afternoon via a couple of wineries. These were very good. We walked along what we hoped was a disused (or rarely used) train line past the sweet little station and an enormous pile of discarded grape skins that looked exactly like oily crushed deep purple pastels. 

And then we just kept walking. For a while I kept up an optimistic patter about the history of the village and its supposed picturesqueness and how we would enjoy our iced coffees so much more when we got there. But there never came. The houses petered out into fields again without so much as a rundown petrol station with a Coke machine. I was in trouble.

We plodded back to the campground spread out along the road, each sunk in our own private hot and thirsty thoughts. Luis hit high speed on his long legs and disappeared over the horizon. By the time we caught up with him outside the camp office he was finishing the last sips of a cold drink.

An apologetic icecream later and we were back in business.

Over the next few days we sampled as much of the famed Barossa food and wine as we could. We tried every chutney, jam, pate and olive oil at Maggie Beer's Farm and we sampled a lot of wine in search of the perfect rose. Interesting fact, the 'picnic hampers' at Maggie Beer's are some bread, some salad and an off the (supermarket) shelf pate. Delicious certainly but also lacking some the the rustic sumptuousness expected from the experience.

The highlight of this part of the trip for me was an evening spent at an Asian hooker food inspired event at one of the wineries. We had seen this advertised as we swung through for our free tasting and promised to come back mostly to spend more time in their beautiful garden. When we rolled in later in the evening something was clearly very wrong. The event organisers had managed to secure the least appropriate DJ possible for this very lovely family event. The lush grass in front of the food stalls and the speakers was almost completely empty as families and the semi-retired took their picnic rugs as far out of earshot as possible. Between dance remixes and the latest outer suburban club hits played at high volume the hapless and no doubt lovely fellow in charge of the music exhorted the crowd to get up and dance. When we perused the food stands I, like so many of the under 5's present at the event, had to cover my ears with my hands. But as the night wore on and the occasional classic hit got a whirl and we finished our bottle of rose, things started to fall into place. It was lovely watching kids running riot with glow sticks and my sister surreptitiously snipping of a selection of herbs out of the garden (just as our mother before us would have done) and it was lovely being there all together.

I want a biscuit

Its 3:30pm in Port Elliot and it's cold. There is a retro cafe come second hand furniture shop. It's my biggest temptation since we started the trip. I want a coffee. And I want a biscuit. 

I've been working professionally since I was 22, first as a social worker then community development, advocacy and most recently organisational policy and project management. Everyday, virtually without fail, I've gone to a cafe before work and had a coffee while I've studied, worked, socialised, read or written. Everyday.

Even though I've worked part time most of my career, with no kids, modest tastes and a (recent) manageable mortgage I've always had disposable income to indulge in things like daily caffeine habits. 

So going cold turkey into living (voluntarily) on an average of $15 per day (per person) has its challenges. 

For starters,  everything takes a REALLY long time. I used to take 20 minute lunch breaks which included a 3 minute walk in each direction to the nearest passable cafe for a panini. It cost $8.50 or $11 with a coffee. This is Luis cooking lunch in Port Eliot. 

What you can't see here is that it is really windy. He's cooking rice on our tiny single burner cooker cunningly positioned in the shelter of the BBQ which we are using to save gas. Later we will eat our local sausages and rice out of the saucepan in a little shelter with a seat. Then we'll clean the BBQ, find a tap and do the dishes, take everything back to the car and repack it. Takes ages. Every time.

When the gas is getting low this procedure also involves a long period of staring into the diminishing flame which is patently failing to heat let along boil the water in the saucepan above punctuated with swearing and bottle shaking (me) and suggestions to change the gas bottle (Luis). 

Before we left on this trip my primary worry was about not having enough to do and spending hours staring at landscapes going quietly mad (long distance car travel has not traditionally been my thing). I even packed crochet. I needn't have worried. This is a full time job.

We are also usually either hot or cold. Admittedly, this is partly because I packed in the middle of one of Melbourne's summer heatwaves and subconsciously forgot that outdoor temperatures could ever fall below 20 degrees. It's also because I spent the last two years in an airconditioned tower where I could pass whole days oblivious to the outdoor temperature. After a few weeks my body seemed to relearn how to self regulate it's temperature to some extent though I still spend more time than is strictly fashionable wrapped up in a tiger print furry blanket (see below).

The biggest challenge for me though is not having easy access to legitimate social indoor space and all the connected, person watching, relaxing associations involved in cafe culture. 

Which is why that retro cafe with it's $4.00 coffee and biscuit special really got to me. It's not that we couldn't go in and have the damn coffee. It's that I want to be able to NOT go in and have the damn coffee. We debated pros and cons. We even walked through the door (to assess the quality of the biscuits). And we walked out again. I took a few deep breaths and reassessed the options which included instant coffee and the possibility of something discounted from the local bakery (no such luck) or a packet of ridiculously overpriced biscuits from the IGA. This prompted a longish rant on the pervasiveness of mass production and the difficulties in accurately weighing up local vs supermarket treats in a modern globalised economy. 

When I finally got off my soapbox and took my self imposed first world problem back to first principles, what I really wanted was something warm, sweet and comforting. So, here I am looking terribly proud of myself making powdered milk porridge with maple syrup in the park.

Nothing ever tasted so good.

Adelaide, city of mystery

Growing up in Australia, you get used to hearing jokes about Adelaide. I would maintain that it is one of the better kept Australian secrets. There are two mysteries really. One is how Adelaide continues to be widely thought of as the city of churches when it has beaches like Henley (above, no seriously, that's not some tropical island, that's Adelaide... in autumn).

I have had a soft spot for the city since a good friend moved across and proceeded to live the kind of well cultured, sustainable and well fed lifestyle that would be the envy of any inner northern Melbournite.  Spending some serious time in the city has really won me over though.

Because not only does Adelaide have beautiful beaches and delicious fresh produce at 90's prices, it has free bike hire. 

It also has the Adelaide game, Adelaide's second great mystery. This is where you wander the city streets with the increasingly eerie feeling that you have stepped into some kind of alternate universe. It starts with just one. A single blue and white sign that you may (or may not) assume is a brand name referencing the good manners of the local church-going free settlers. 

Then you notice two, perhaps on the same building. The font, colours and of course the word itself triggers your brain to read 'police' before the manual overwrite corrects it to 'polites'. This seems to somehow increase their visibility. Before long you see them everywhere, and you are hooked.

In the age of Google, this is of course a first time visitor experience because the slightest sense of mystery has us reaching for a smartphone. In the lead up to my brother-in-law's first visit to the city however many a merry evening was passed sending pictures of increasingly 'polites' ridden streetviews. He and my sister still hadn't guessed what it meant (or, amazingly, succumbed and looked it up) when they arrived two weeks later. 

These signs symbolise for me that there is so much going on in Adelaide behind the clean and quiet limestone facades. 

No golfing

Free camping takes a lot of getting used to.

In small towns or out in the bush its no problem. We camp, we buy things from the local shops, and no one seems to mind.

Cities on the other hand are another matter entirely.

Technically there should not be anything illegal about sleeping in your car (and plenty of people have to). But it is something that has so much stigma and fear attached to it. Or at least, I feel like it does.

There are fears for your own safety, fear of the police or council inspectors (which for me is more a fear about screaming when they wake us up followed by the embarrassment of having to pack up our stuff in my pyjamas) and fear of people seeing you when they walk their dogs in the morning and then calling the aforementioned police or council inspectors.

Adelaide was our first urban free camping experience. And it was both nerve wracking and relationship testing. Wikicamps had done the hard work for us by recommending a good place to hole up for the night - a large park with a hedged parking area. We arrived late and were relieved to find a camper van and several cars already in residence. But then, where to park?

Cultural differences come out at the oddest times. It would seem to me completely obvious that when trying to camp surreptitiously in a park, one would park one's car in the darkest, most hidden corner possible - in this case tucked away next to the hedge. Equally, it seemed completely obvious to Luis that when sleeping in one's car, the logical place to park is in a nice open location where (quote) 'you can see what is coming from all sides'.  Luis was driving. I was navigating.

Some time later we were finally installed in the Jazz listening to the periodic sounds of cars approaching, pausing and then driving off rather fast. Perhaps, we thought, they were locals accustomed to fewer neighbours in this particular spot.

In the morning, terrified of the dog walkers and their judgement, I made us get up very early.

It's was beautiful park and uniquely South Australian, with ancient twisted gums spread across the lawns. We sipped our instant coffee and smiled at grandparents walking with their grandkids. I even smiled at the dogs (through was still wary of the owners).

On the second night at this park we slept soundly. Firstly because when I went to clean up after breakfast at the public toilets I noticed that they sported a sign reading 'golf prohibited'. I reasoned that if this was the major concern in the vicinity of the toilets then we were fine.

Secondly, after our leisurely breakfast we returned to our packed up and innocent looking car only to find that the camper van in fact had a tent pitched next to it and the hippy's within were only just emerging, blinking, into the light of day. IN THEIR UNDIES! (Luis' emphasis).

Japanese funk and the freaks

We started travelling in March because we needed a deadline and that deadline was Saturday 8 March in Adelaide for my annual pilgrimage to WOMAD.

I love pretty much everything about WOMAD. The tasty food, iced coffee sitting on the sticky carpet of the chai tent, picnic rugs spreading out like multi-coloured moss from the base of every morton bay fig and dozing off to the sounds of something fascinating and magical and otherworldly.

But over the years I've come to realise that nothing is ever going to come close to my first WOMAD. Perfect experiences just can't be repeated.

This year was a case in point. For financial reasons we had decided to only go to one day and night of the festival. On the main stage we caught a Japanese funk band that essentially impersonated James Brown. They wore suits and ties and were sensational. But I was left with the feeling that they could have been from anywhere. Their only reference to Japan was to say 'we don't play Japanese music'.

There were some astounding Indian acrobats too but throughout their performance, we later admitted to each other, all we could think was 'shouldn't those kids be in school?' (Jess) and 'is that going to damage them for life?!' (Luis).

After blowing a weeks budget on watermelon slurpies, cider and a plate of ribs (I actually asked the guy serving us if they were the ribs, I honestly couldn't see them) we went home to the car.

The next night we decided to try the Fringe. We meandered through the Garden of Unearthly Delights resolutely not buying snacks until we saw the guy juggling chainsaws. Luis loves nothing better than to be simultaneously amazed and horrified. He's intensely squeamish and so, paradoxically, attracted to the possibility of gore. We watched the chainsaw guy through our fingers (he luckily still had his at the end) and then stood still, torn, as the green spruker sold $10 freak show tickets.

Best $20 we ever spent. There was a guy who swallowed balloons, popped them and then extracted them from his stomach. There was someone (see below) with horns implanted in his head and a forked tongue. Apparently he is famous in certain circles. The finale act involved someone getting shot at with a cross bow and catching it mid-flight. Which he did. Effortlessly.

We lashed out on a shared icecream and walked back through the deserted Adelaide streets quietly, hand in hand, pondering the strange things that people do with their time. Luis was very quiet and lost in thought. Finally, and a little hesitantly, he said 'did that arrow seem a little slow to you?'