Opposites

This task was set by Tony. We were to reflect on something we had done recently. Our process was to mind map our thoughts and produce a piece of writing.

This piece is the product of several mind maps on my summer holiday, road tripping with Geoff, through country and coastal Victoria.

Luggage stowed, snacks in the back, we pour into the bucket seats. The sun beats down on the bonnet, air-conditioning is on high, a long road stretches ahead. Ten days separated from Sydney. What is in store? What will we see? Will we survive? We’re total opposites and we’ve never been away for so long. We ask the questions but anticipate nothing.

We arrive at Marysville, greeted by a humble sign. One tiny street, washed under leafy trees that rustle in the wind. The air is cool. We can’t see mountains, but strangely we can feel them. Water gushes down the falls. Glistening over rocks and jumping between them.

The green signs shout at me. Too late, I missed the exit. Again. When will I learn? The streets are congested. Red lights flash on and off in anger. The air fills with smoke. I am grateful for the windows that encase me. As I drive along, the high rises close in on me. Will there ever be a break so I can see the blue sky? I drive past water which streams down the gutter. I feel angry about the pipe which has burst. Don’t they know we’re in a drought?

We reach the cornflower blue and white guesthouse. Perched high in the grassy hill, the black tar of the Great Ocean Road hugs the rugged coast. Far below, the rough seas silently pound the cliffs. The scene is straight from a postcard. We feel we’re not on the ground anymore. The mist from the ocean spray lays a blanket of haze over the land and sea. It gives us the sense that we’re dreaming.

My feet pound the grey concrete. I fly past shops, cafes and people. From the corner of my eye, colours and shapes blur into one. There’s no time or space to stop and look. I hear sounds. A lot and loud. It never stops. I see and hear things, but they mean nothing.

It’s New Year’s Eve in Port Fairy. A town as charming as its name. A quiet promenade is lined with fishing boats. The river’s water is calm, but on the other side, the ocean crashes onto the beach. We have our tartan picnic blanket and a soft cooler bag of food. The grass if thick and soft. People are scattered far and wide. The temperature cools as the sun dips below the horizon. Hours pass, we anticipate fireworks. We wait on the bridge and colours begin to explode far away in the sky. We quietly enter the new year.

It’s the place to be, but is it really where we want to be? The grass is sparse and dry, the ground is exposed, dust is kicked up and settles on our things. The sun’s rays stretch towards us for the last time this year. The heat is suffocating and so are the people. So close, we can hear their every word. The harbour water is constantly disturbed by the boats. They draw near the bridge. The wait is long and when midnight strikes, the sound is deafening. The fireworks are dazzling and I sigh relief as they fizzle out in the air above me. When it’s all over, a strange quietness falls on the night. Every year it’s the same. It’s not special anymore.

We walk out to the deck. Dusk is settling over the port town. People talk in hushed voices even though it’s not necessary. Out eyes straining and searching for the first sign of mutton birds coming home. Night falls, what remains of the sun is like glowing embers in the sky. Silhouettes of the birds begin to appear. They swoop around and down in silence to feed their young. More and more arrive home. Still not a sound. Everyone is quiet now. Are we meant to be here? The birds behave like we’re not anyway.

We walk down beneath the bridge. The concrete and steel heavy and creaking. We settle down to eat lunch. Seagulls being to approach. First one, out of curiosity. Daringly close, its eyes fix on our food. I swot it away, but it’s hardly scared. It comes back, prompting more to join. They swark and swarm around us, circling and eyeing us eating our food. All we want is peace.

The car rolls into Beechworth. Our last stop before home. Old buildings line the wide street with drains of orange cobblestones. A proud bakery stands on the corner. It smells of home-made cooking. We’ve stepped back in time into a sunburnt outback town. It’s Ned Kelly country.

Buildings of grey concrete and glass replace the old. History is lost, no story for today. Coffee shops squeeze themselves between buildings and spill out onto paths. Grinders chomp and machines squeal. The rest of it is fast food and take away. It’s Sydney city and I know I am home, but I wish I were far away.