The magnificent force of nature where I grew up is best demonstrated by a dust storm.
A tsunami of red sand billowing towards you from the west, gathering dust particles from wheat and sheep paddocks, blocking out the sun and giving a rosy haze to the sky is quite spectacular. From the vantage point of the family home, perched atop a red sand dune is truly quite awe-inspiring.
A few years ago a major dust storm crossed Australia from west to east and arrived in Sydney carrying the legacy of our deserts. This caused widespread amazement and many photos of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and Sydney Opera House bathed in a red hue. But where I’m from, this isn’t so unusual. Granted, it’s not an everyday occurrence, but you get a handful of big dust storms each year that make you hurry home to close the windows.
The dust storm dominating the sky
I was with my parents in the truck on Good Friday and as we travelled back home, we drove into the dust storm. The sky darkened and the windswept red rivulets of sand across the highway. As we turned off the highway we started to come out the other side od the dust storm. The mirrors were filled with a stormy red sky and in front of us lay a wide expanse of blue with some wispy white clouds.
“We’d best get home quick to close the windows,” my parents said.
Arriving at home we ran to make sure all the windows were closed and take the clothes off the line and then we were enveloped in the storm.
A water tank stands sentinel during the dust storm
There is something so ethereal about the light and a quiet eerieness to a dust storm, there is a palpable sentiment to the westerly winds carrying the desert. I wandered around the house, searching for the best lookout point and occasionally coughing at the gritty sand that was drying out my mouth.
As I’m about to move to a hilly green seaside town in Colombia, I really appreciated the red sand show nature put on for me.
The other day, while walking through Fed Square enjoying a beautiful Melbourne evening, I bumped into a friend I haven’t seen for a good three years.
She was talking on the phone and noticed me first, and started waving. I waved back and stopped for a quick chat.
We talked about what we’ve each been up to and gave a quick run down on our plans, hers being moving to Uganda for a three month project. It was so lovely to see her and hear her news firsthand rather than via Facebook.
And then she said a really lovely thing “I was just reading your blog the other day about handwriting analysis and that quote at the end just sums you up perfectly.”
First up it was so lovely of her to say that, and secondly, knowing that at least one person out there is reading my blog after such a short time since starting up again provides the incentive to keep writing and posting. Offline encouragement gives you an extra spring in your typing and certainly brings out an inner smile. It’s where those site stats actually form into a person who has their own hopes and dreams and interests and style and who appreciates that you write about your own.
So here’s a big thank you to her and a thank you to all of you for reading!
I thought I was about to burn the house down last night in a baking incident gone wrong.
Of recent times, more often than not, I can be found wearing an apron by the oven. I’ve discovered the joys of baking. These joys include producing a successful baked product, the de-stressing that comes from constructing something with love and painstaking care and the accolades from those who are on the baked treat share list. My obsession with baking came to the point where a friend told me to back away from the oven and stop stalking it.
In a way that other girls are getting their vintage on pursuing grandmotherly crafts with considerable talent and success I’m getting my baker on. I’m trying new things that I’ve never made before, or things that I’ve been scared of attempting for fear of failure, and the results lie more on the success end of the measuring spoon.
Last night I faced up to the biggest possible failure when the element in my electric oven caught fire after the springform tin holding my cheesecake started oozing a buttery fat. I hadn’t noticed the smoky kitchen as I was in my room Facebooking or tweeting, or doing something similarly unimportant. It wasn’t until checking on it about 25 minutes into cook time that I discovered this and put a baking tray underneath the tin to catch the drips.
Two minutes later my eyes bulged with disbelief as the coil caught on fire. I watched it burn, as we all do around a campfire, entranced by the flames until I realised I needed to do something. I turned the oven off, but this didn’t abate the flames. I opened the oven door only to realise a moment later that the oxygen from outside the oven was fueling the flames. I yelled in a panicked voice to my housemate to come quick “The oven is on fire! I don’t know what to do!”
The flames started burning with bright blue bases and didn’t seem to be going out. I started thinking about calling the fire brigade, but was so panicked I couldn’t remember where my phone was and I didn’t want to leave the kitchen to set fire while I wasn’t watching.
After a second panicked call to my housemate because I hadn’t heard her answer, she appeared dripping and in a towel as she’d been in the bath. She didn’t know what to do either but suggested we wait. I wasn’t game to open the oven door again and played a waiting game in front of the oven, every fibre of my being tingling with adrenaline and wishing I had a fire blanket handy.
After what seemed like far too long, the fire eventually burned out and I left the door closed to make sure it didn’t re-ignite.
Eventually I opened the oven door with caution and was greeted by a cloud of smoke. I opened the front and back doors and made sure the ceiling exhaust was on high to clear the smoke. I took out the half-baked cheesecake and did what I always do, I phoned home for advice. It turns out Mum has never set fire to her oven before, so there was no comfort there, but she told me to give it a clean out where all the butter had pooled on the floor of the oven and see if it still worked.
Once the oven had cooled down, I wiped it out with paper towel, amazed at how much liquid butter was in there, and then with a damp soapy sponge. Leaving the oven door open to keep a close eye on things, I turned the thermostat on to a low setting and watched the coil heat up and glow red. Wisps of smoke rose and when I heard some crackling, I quickly turned it off again. After a pause, I tried it again and this time there was no crackling, just smoking from the cleaning and remainder of the fat. I hadn’t broken the oven after all!
Eventually, it was all good to put the cheesecake back in there to cook. I was worried that it would be smoky or burnt or just inedible, but I was pleased to find that despite some small burnt crumbs, it was a perfectly delicious creation and that my friends loved it.
Like a brilliant phoenix rising from the flames, so did my chocolate cheesecake.
A sample of my handwriting for the purposes of uncovering my personality!
Last night I made an impulse purchase in a bookstore on handwriting analysis.
It’s not a subject I had thought about much, but I had a slight interest – like that of wanting to have your palms read – and since it was only $5 I thought I’d give it a try and see what my handwriting says about me.
According to Eve Bingham in Simply Handwriting Analysis, graphology (the science? art? of handwriting analysis) is a very accurate personality indicator and that many organisations are now asking applicants to handwrite their cover letter so they can be analysed without those laborious psychometric tests. However I’ve never had to handwrite an application for any of my numerous jobs, so that seems like a bit of a wild claim.
Nowadays, with so much technology about us, we’re more accustomed to tapping out words with our fingertips than holding a pen between them. We hardly handwrite anything these days. However I do love writing by hand. I love to write cards with special messages, I like to write out my feelings in my journal and I can’t stop writing lists. I mean, heck, I’m even drafting this blog by hand.
Whilst the book isn’t an exhaustive compilation of handwriting types and styles, it does give an interesting run down on some of the more obvious characteristics. Drawing from the descriptions and examples in the book, it seems I’m stuck in adolescence.
Varying slant – “This type of writing is often found in teenagers when they are unsettled, with all kinds of conflicting thoughts and ideas, and a need for social and emotional acceptance, and more independence.”
Wavy or erratic baseline – “Teenagers often write with this kind of baseline when they are unsettled, with their minds and moods all over the place due to hormonal changes and a lack of definite direction in life.”
I know people often think I’m much younger than I am, but this is really trumps that. I do have to grudgingly acquiesce to the unsettled description, as until about six months ago, I was all over the shop in terms of what I wanted from life, what I wanted to do and where I wanted to be. I wonder if my handwriting will now start to settle down now I’m starting to gather twigs to build a nest… In the meantime, I’m going to seek solace in the ‘garland connection’ of my writing.
“They are, however, kind, friendly, and affectionate individuals who do not have aggression in their nature; they prefer harmony to friction in their lives. These people like an active social life and they enjoy the company of friends and family. This person is an excellent host, who enjoys entertaining on a grand scale.”
And I’m not referring to any of the local and family tidbits my mum shared with me while I was on the road.
There's not really room for three of these LCD signs in this Ascot Vale shopfront.
There are two things I saw while in America that made me think to myself “Look at that. I’m glad we don’t have that in Australia!” It wasn’t banking related, or anything nearly as important as healthcare. But they were:
Family stickers on cars that include all family members, pets and the kitchen sink
Flashing LCD signs in store windows saying “Open”
Every time I saw one of these things I would have a slight inwards gloat that we wouldn’t be that cheesy back home.
So you can imagine my surprise, my disgust and my feeling of foolishness when those two things haven’t just taken America by storm but Australia too.
I think the first time I saw a car back home with a family sticker emblazoned on it, I actually said “Nooo” aloud in disbelief. I struggle comprehend why people feel the need to display their whole family, cartoon style, on their vehicles. I guess we’ve moved beyond “Baby on Board” signs and bumper stickers telling people to back off if they can read it. Do we blame Facebook for this? Are people wanting to extend beyond their online social network and instead post about themselves and their family in a moving billboard style? I’m not sure what to think, I can only shake my head.
I justified the flashing LCD open signs in the US when I realised that this would be helpful for people during a snowstorm. Like Laura Ingalls Wilder leaving a light in the window to help Pa find his way home in a blizzard in the Little House on the Prairie books. However that logic does not apply to Australia where there are really only a handful or two of towns above the snowline. Here these signs are just tacky attention grabbers from DIY marketers.
To remind myself that yes, I am really back in Australia, I have indulged in sausage rolls, meat pies, pavlovas, Vegemite and regularly catch the tram.
It’s been a little while. Six months actually. And I’m slightly embarrassed about this. Why? Well, at the end of 2010 I signed up to write a post a day, and after six months of daily blogging, I suddenly stopped with as much enthusiasm as I started.
I got caught up in my adventures and didn’t have the time or resources to dedicate to my blog. I had ideas in my head, but they never got typed out. Perhaps the promise to blog daily was a little too much, but at the same time, I’m pretty proud that I got that far. Normally repetitious things slide off my radar much more quickly. The other day I inspired a colleague to start a blog, and hating to be a hypocrite, I decided I needed to get back on my blog bandwagon.
“When you feel that you have reached the end and that you cannot go one step further, when life seems to be drained of all purpose: What a wonderful opportunity to start all over again, to turn over a new page.” – Eileen Caddy
I really love shopping for stationery. There is nothing better than wandering around Officeworks, plying the stationery aisles of Kmart, making a round of Kikki K or Smiggle, or longingly browsing a boutique stationer. I just love it.
Here in Latin America it is quite a different shopping experience.
On my first day of Spanish classes, I found a papeleria where instead of wandering around, touching and feeling items that arouse curiosity, everything is behind a glass case, or tucked away on a shelf out back somewhere. So you have to ask for what you want. On Spanish Class Day 1 I was just looking for a notebook, a cuaderno. It is also important to ask for one with lineas, or lines, as the majority of latinos write on that graph paper with little squares. I don`t really understand that one at all. Perhaps a question to ask my teacher tomorrow.
At the end of classes last week, I needed something to put my photocopied handouts in. I asked my teacher to tell me the name of the plastic pocket he had, and he said separador plasticos. I probably should have used this terminology at the papeleria because when I said “Estoy buscando por algo para proteger mis hojas” (I`m looking for something to protect my pages”) the joker responded “¿Policia?”. It was quite funny and I laughed a lot. Instead of a plastic pocket, I got one of those coloured plastic things you close using the string and two circles. I am still debating the functionality of these closures.
Anyways, todays papeleria outing was for paperclips. While in the library doing my homework, I asked a couple of guys at the same table how to say paperclip, since I happened to have a sole example with me. It was funny to hear that the answer was “clip”. That is pretty easy to remember, and the girl at the papeleria knew exactly what I was after when I asked.
Whilst stationery shopping is rather different than in Australia, there are good points too. I only wanted a few paperclips, I didn`t need a whole box, so when I asked for 15 paperclips it wasn`t a strange request. It saves a whole lot of waste instead of buying everything in bulk like we seem to do at home and are constantly pressured into doing by retailers.
So my papeleria expenses so far are:
cuaderno, 200 page, A5 = $2,500 pesos
plastic folder = $2,500 pesos
15 paperclips = $350 pesos
A grand total of $5,350 Colombian pesos or AUD$2.85 (the paperclips cost 18 cents).
After I arrived in Colombia I discovered a couple of things about my ability to communicate in Spanish:
I´m not really very good at speaking Spanish, but at least I can get my message across, mas o menos.
I cannot for the life of me understand Colombians. They are supposed to have one of the clearest accents, but instead I find myself staring at them as though they´d just said something to me in Russian.
I don´t like not being able to participate in a conversation.
I HAVE to get better.
I do love speaking in Spanish. I love the novelty of being an Australian who can speak another language. I love being in Latin America.
Now that I´m in Bogotá for a couple of weeks, I´m taking this opportunity to get into a little routine, something I craved by the end of my roadtrip.
So I go to my classes in the morning, then at 1pm I go to a restaurant called Mele that has quickly become my favourite for the daily special and then either go to the after school activities or come back to the hostel to do my homework and study a little more on my own. I´m trying to avoid speaking English wherever possible, because that doesn´t help my fluency in Spanish.
I like that I´m the only foreigner at the restaurant amongst a sea of Colombian students and business people. I also like that today three of the staff of the restaurant recognised me and had a little chat with me. I want to be a regular!!
As soon as I left the hostel this morning, I got my first comment.
A dirty man sifting through rubbish followed me with a barrage of comments on my looks and appearance. That set the tone for the rest of the day as I constantly had people staring at me and dishing out comments. That is the thing I hate the most about Latin America.
By the time I got to the Metro station, I realised the errors of my ways. I was the only female with bare legs. While I was wearing denim shorts, the rest of the girls were wearing jeans two sizes too small. This latina condition is what my roommate at the hostel calls “chicken bus jeans” – they pack as much into there as possible and as long as they can close the door most of the way, all is good.
So for the rest of the day, I copped a stack of (unwanted) male attention. This is one of the reasons I´ve decided to head back to Bogota. At least it´s too cold to wear denim shorts there, and I seemed to be able to roam the streets without the looks and stares.
While waiting at the gate to board my flight from Miami to Bogota, I noticed quite a lot of airline staff milling around and donning yellow hi-vis vests.
A little later a lady came over the PA and said “You may have noticed a number of agents here today. We are here because we lost an agent.” She then needed to recover for a moment, and continued with “and she is returning to Colombia today.”
Around me other passengers were looking about in that unsure manner about what had just been said.
As the plane left from the gate, more than 20 staff members stood on the apron watching the plane depart. Some were waving, others stood resolute. It was very sad. I felt very sad and that it was tragic, even though I didn´t know the name of the girl or the circumstances surrounding her death.
Later, as we were about to commence our descent, the pilot asked for us to all observe a moment’s silence for the girl whose remains were being transported back to Colombia.
It made me wonder how many times I´ve been on a plane carrying a body home. You would never even know.
a little cameo 