“… The car ferry is cheaper, isn’t it?”
“Well, yeah, but you’d have to cross the bridge and then walk a fair distance to get ‘ere.”
I thanked the driver and clumsily got off the bus — with my backpack and the groceries in my hands, I was unable to turn around. The doors closed and the bus went on its way, to the Sealink ferry. The one we would not take.
Let us be honest: India, though a marvellous and eye-opening destination, has more than a fair share of hassles in pack for travelers. I have talked with people disgusted after leaving the country, seen travelers pack up for home almost as soon as they had arrived, and read so many warnings that I could tell stories about that fact without even mentioning my own experience. The short conclusion is: most people love and hate India. At the same time.
And even though I tend to think I loved it more than I hated it, Phillip Island (Victoria), where Aunt Coeri and Uncle Rod took us for some holidays, still was a huge shock for me. An agreeable shock, mind. As opposed to the mountains of garbage and plastic we had previously encountered, Phillip Island boasts a pristine or, if altered by man, well-conserved environment. The contrast with our months spent in India was tremendous; and this contrast, I think, made our enjoyment of the Australian flora and fauna all the better.
Since the last time I was in Goa, three years ago (already!), I only wanted to come back; and deep in the cold of the Himalayan mountains, a few days before entering India again, I thought of Goa to cheer me up. Not of the Taj Mahal, not of the Indian food, not of the bright, colorful, ever-joyous and crazily chaotic Indian culture. I thought of Goa.
That is the reason why the blog has seen so few updates in the last three weeks. Not the cows: the beach. While we were declaring to everyone we were super ultra busy in our travel, we were actually shamelessly whiling the days away, basking in the golden sun, sipping fruity lassis or playing frisbee (admittedly at a terrible level). Well I guess that still made us a bit busy.
Oh God, I want to be back in Goa already. Why did we leave, again?
I checked the time on my cellphone — I had forgotten to turn it off to save power. 2.52 am. I stayed on my back for a few moments, looking and listening around me. Ladina did not seem to be disturbed by any of it: she was fast asleep — and for the better, since not only had we woken up at 4.30 the previous morning to see the sunrise from the top of a dune, but she also would have to drive for the whole following day. My driving license was still stuck in a cargo plane somewhere between France and Hong Kong.
A gale, more powerful than the others, violently shook the tent. I thought I heard a line ripping outside. I really had to go out.
After the nerve-wrecking events of the last weeks, we took ten days of rest to recover — hence the radio silence on the blog. Swakopmund, a little town on the Atlantic coast of Namibia, with its cosy coffee shops and sunsets on the beach, seemed a perfect choice for us to settle down and enjoy.
In the midst of countless unexpected complications (bad schedules, stuff to do, personal problems, journey delays), one thing from my stay in Marlo remained: I saw Bailey again, after our amazing trip in the Middle-East, and before going on around the world.
To be honest, I would have never heard of Marlo, a small village of 340 inhabitants – they call that a town in Australia – lost on the South Coast of Victoria, if not for her. We had agreed on meeting again when we parted in Cairo airport, almost six months ago now (God time flies) – and despite the lack of communication means, despite the vague schedule of my hitch-hiking, we did.
And thus I ended up there – where the Snowy meets the sea.
Yeah, Newcastle, but not the one in England. Several places bear the same name as others back in the United Kingdom, as if the founders of the towns had absolutely no inspiration at that moment, or maybe too much nostalgia for their homeland.
Because Australia, as some of you already know, was colonized (some would say stolen, conquered from the Aboriginals) by Captain James Cook, the first European explorer to reach the East Coast of Australia. It quickly became a jail, England sending entire ships of convicts there, on the other side of the world, for them to stay and live the rest of their lives in exile.
But the convicts flourished and thrived, on this land strangely harsh and full of resources at the same time – some would say resources stolen from the Aboriginals. And, in the end, they got their independence.
