PROLOGUE
THE YEARS MY BIRTHDAYS WERE NOT IN SUMMER
Birthdays in Toledo, Ohio, in the 1950s and 1960s were almost constantly with my family of eight children, mother and father. As a result, most of these yearly events passed without fanfare except for my mother’s ice cream cake made from the favorite ice cream of the birthday child, along with the angel food cake and a few candles.
My birthdays usually didn’t even have the luscious cake, since it occurred during Lent and as such was during the dullest, greyest, and most tedious part of the year. In fact, my parents often escaped to Florida for two weeks during the beginning of March because the world outside was cold, clammy, and colorless.
Lucky for me in the “Lucky Country” (Australia), all of this was about to change.
CHAPTER 1
NOW ONTO MY NEW LIFE
Turquoise, turquoise, and shimmering white, the sea and land shine like mirrors as we land in Sydney. After a grueling 19-hour flight, I am dazed as we come into the airport and we skip over Sunday into Monday. Missing my plane connection to Perth because of the race ahead of time, I am stressed, trying to decide what to do. The next fight isn’t until Wednesday morning, and this is Monday. I hurry over to the airline’s clerk and ask about going stand-by some time that day. His glare at me looks like a person closing his car window, raising it quickly, as he says, “There are no flights until Wednesday, period.” I am worried since I know my Rotary counselor will be waiting for me while I am still in Sydney!
So, here I was in a new and glittering land, looking like the sorriest person on the planet. Australia seemed like a mixed-up and frightening prospect then compared to my mundane and predictable world back in Columbus, Ohio. I soldiered on mainly because what else was there to do? I had little inkling of the dramatic and poetic days ahead; of a secret and intimate affair lurking just around the corner; and of traveling in the interior with my beloved Aboriginal mates Vivienne and Lorna. A new and brighter me would emerge from this wonderful world.
ARRIVING ON A JET PLANE
Heaven exists. I know. I’ve been there. Spending 14 months in Australia was glorious for me, but it was a real struggle when I first arrived. The dream “down under” was a nightmare that July of 1983 when I traveled to “Oz” as a Rotary International Scholar.
Remembering those days today is a bittersweet experience for me. I became a new PH.D. Entering academia at a community college in Ohio when I realized how much I had alienated my boss during my obsessive career process. Besides teaching non-stop, I was also a writer at an interactive television station, the only one then or since that has ever existed. Mesmerized by the glamour of television, I soon started to ignore my real teaching job and had started to let some of my classes slide.
In the early 1980’s, I was a 36-year-old woman who was really starting to panic about her future. After a 5-year intense relationship with a brilliant and handsome mathematics professor, I was a lonely and troubled traveler of life still looking for some way of finding meaning. John, my former companion and lover, had seemed like the “man for me.” We had a witty and intelligent, yet smoldering love affair and even my father thought I had found “Professor Right.” But, John’s phobia against ever having children even if we had married made my leery and angry. Eventually, I chose to go it alone.
Finishing my doctorate, I was at a crossroads in my life for I needed and wanted to be more; I felt vulnerable, lonely, scared, and reckless. I was obsessed with discovering a new love, a new world, and a new me. Now, all of these new experiences were on the breathtaking horizon.
My boss and I had several bitter confrontations and soon I realized I had to do SOMETHING. That SOMETHING turned out be a Godsend. I won a Rotary International Scholarship and was off to the West Australian Institute of Technology in Perth, West Australia. Now I had the chance to start over, but was terrified at the prospect. It sounds perfect, but the original experience was almost anything but.
LONELY, UNMARRIED, VULNERABLE
What to do for two whole days while waiting for a plane? I had brought $450.00 with me, but the Sydney Hilton was $200 a night. Homeless, I decided to call friends of a Columbus friend to ask what to do now. Gwenda and Richard, now beloved and treasured Aussie friends, must have thought I was a true Idiot. Generous as they were, they drove right out to the airport and picked me up. I, bleary-eyed and jet-lagged, stayed with them while I tried to pull myself together. At an elegant dinner they took me to overlooking Sydney’s scenic harbor, I even vomited.
The Bates family is a golden Aussie family who radiated generosity and caring towards me. Gwenda, the mother of the family, along with Richard, her husband, and their two sons Andrew and Stephen, became my closest friends in Sydney. From their engaging Aussie accents to their vibrant way of life, their home became my home in Sydney.
My arrival couldn’t have been too impressive to them: I missed my plane, world all askew around me, my marine-like hair cut above fat and swollen, rumpled, bedraggled self. They rescued my anyway. Later, when I came back to Sydney during Christmas, the family and I spent the day after Christmas at Bondi Beach. Together, lapping up the sun and surf, feeling the freedom of a world unfettered by Christmas commercialism. Of course then, too, I was much freer myself, caught up in a passionate affair with a married Canadian man.
The city of Sydney will always be for me a place of wild joy, abandonment, and beauty.
PERTH, WEST AUSTRALIA
Finally, I was on my way to Perth and my new life of being a student and a Rotary Ambassador. Even so, those first few weeks in Perth were turbulent ones and I came close to leaving and returning to Columbus, Ohio. Although I almost didn’t come back home or go anywhere at all, or maybe to the true heaven above! My Rotary counselor, Phil, and his wife, Lynne, were there to greet me as I stepped off the plane. Phil, a jocular, impish sort of man and Lynne, his redheaded German teacher wife, took me to their home. They didn’t seem to go together but had a vibrant relationship nevertheless. I stayed at their home for a few days, but their constant smoking made my living there unbearable. They were generous and fun loving, but I guessed they wanted me gone, too, because I am sure they expected a 20-ish student and not the 36-year old misfit that I was. I was almost their age and our relationship was a strained one at best. I needed to find a place to live since classes were soon to begin and I was anxious to start my new Aussie life.
FEBRUARY, 1984 -- ROTARY PARTY
Phil Dempster & wife Lynn (center)
Lynne Dempster
Thus, I was looking at apartments and trying to find my niche there with practically no money. I ended up moving four times. What a strain, feeling so rootless and uncertain as to what to do. My last place to live before finally getting a single room at the Rotary House at the West Australian Institute of Technology was with several hard partying Aussie students. The duplex home they were renting was filled with smoke, booze, dirty dishes, dust, and upheaval everywhere. The last night I was there, I ended up having severe asthma attack and staying up all night since I couldn’t breathe at all. I was convinced that it was going to be my last night on earth, but somehow I survived that terrifying night, suffering and worrying and alone. I even decided to return to the U.S.A. since my life in Australia almost wasn’t and clearly wouldn’t be stable.
Fortunately, I finally found a home at the Rotary House, the only dorms at WAIT, and a single room, which provided a cozy place for me to thrive. My room faced a pond where birds gathered each morning, a glorious and dynamic beauty of sight and sound. I also awoke to the call of the Kookaburra across the way in the bush lands surrounding the campus. My new life was not starting to come alive for me and I felt anxious and eager as to what it would be like. Although I still felt like an outsider, I had the exciting promise of living in a world exotic and unusual with a whole new spectrum of experiences.
Being in Perth made my Aussie experiences more authentic and more colorful. What a glorious city! Edging the Indian Ocean with its long, leisurely beaches and its bright blue water, Perth is a true sparkling gem. Separated from the rest of Australia by the Simpson Desert and thousands of miles of arid bush lands, Perth doesn’t have as many people or the constant traffic that Sydney has. Many Australians never even get over to Perth, so my living there accentuated the primary and pristine beauty of Australia. Part of my soul still lingers in that lovely and alluring place.
Lorna Little, Alice Wann, Annette, Cynthia, Vivienne Fuller
Rotary House 1983
The Rotary House was home to a few Aussie students and several international students such as myself. It boasted several buildings with each floor hosting its own group of people with a kitchen, shared baths and showers. Each person had his or her own room on the floor. My dorm floor housed only women, for which I was glad, for the other floors were coed and had several romances blooming and there were parties every weekend, all weekend. I was unusual in that I was a 36-year old American woman to the normal 18-year old Aussie women all around me. Seeing life through their eyes made my experience in Australia even deeper and more profound.
I vividly recall the first morning I shared “brekkie” with my flat mates, who spent the morning baking fresh cheese scones with pure butter and white tea. I was amazed at the homemade cheese biscuits topped with butter, as vibrant and sunny as my mates. Capped with white tea, tea made with fresh milk, the breakfast was classic and lovely. Below is the recipe.
Easy Cheese Scones, adapted from Angela Gear@allrecipes.com, 2003.
Lorna has a sister Vivienne who didn’t live with us, but became my closest and most treasured Australian friend. Vivienne, like her name, is a vibrant and buoyant woman who literally took me all through Western Australia. Our free-spirited travels all through the Outback were fulfilling a true fantasy for me.
Eva Gajda, Rotary House
Jenny Keough, Taronga Zoo 1984
Vivienne Fuller & Lorna Little, July 1983
Vivienne, too, is a beautiful and spiritual person whose aboriginal bond to the land is reflected in her bright, dark eyes and smooth exotic skin. Our travels together were profound, exciting, and extraordinary. Vivienne is my true and loving “blood” sister!
MT. MARGARET SPIRITUAL RETREAT
One extraordinary trip occurred when Vivienne asked me to accompany her to Mt. Margaret, an Aboriginal reserve near Kalgoorlie, West Australia. Kalgoorlie was the first gold mining town in the west and also was the center of blossoming farmlands. President Hoover, then an engineer for the American government, had designed the pipeline from Perth to Kalgoorlie in the early 1900s. Because of the vital water now available, thousands of acres of farming lands became blossoming vineyards, farms, and sheep stations. The discovery of gold then led to an exodus to this wild western town.
I was ecstatic to be sharing this trip with Vivienne, who also asked my two Rotary friends from the University of Western Australia, Katherine Swann and Connie Murphy, to join us. While in Mt. Margaret, we would share in a weekend retreat under the stars. Following that, we would stop at Kalgoorlie for a tour.
Lasting 13 hours, the car trip was a wild, wooly, and transcendental experience. Driving and immersing ourselves in the red-hearted Aussie west, Katherine, Connie, and I were introduced to this glowing, ceremonial experience. Katherine, from Tennessee is a dark haired, charismatic Yank in her twenties, as rambunctious and troubled as myself. Connie, from Calgary, Canada, a calm contrast to Vivienne, Katherine, and myself, is a twenty-year old, mild mannered, and serene Rotary undergraduate. Together we would be uplifted by the bare, candle-lit ceremony in a wooden church under the stars. We are closer to the skies and to a dreamtime of primordial spirits.
Arriving, Vivienne is surrounded by kindred spirits, Aboriginal people whose hearts and souls exude a sparkling reflection. The group gathers for prayers, hymns, and testimonials to the Higher Power so clearly with us. The peaceful and profound spirit of the Australian native people is moving and meaningful. All of us then camped in tents under a brilliant midnight blue starry sky. Reflecting on the haunting, glowing spirit of the night, I fall into a deep and undisturbed sleep.
Mt. Margaret Aboriginal Spiritual Retreat, 1983
Katherine Swann & Connie Murphy, 1983
BUSH TUCKER
The next sunshiny morning, we are invited to share in a bush breakfast, food literally cooked in the glowing ashes of the still hot campfire. Billy tea, damper, grilled sausages, leftover kangaroo stew, and Anzac biscuits waken us to the newly emerging, bright-skied day.
Eating the damper bread, kangaroo, and drinking bush tea was yet another new and magical experience. The stew was brown, savory, and wild, while the damper is a heavy, fresh, and moist bread baked in foil at the campfire. Billy “Bush” tea is not for the faint-hearted. Dark, strong, sweet with sugar, it is notorious for keeping sheep drovers and cattle drivers awake through long days of travel. Crisp Anzac biscuits made from wild oats, honey, and coconut, completed the meal.
Noongar breakfast menu recipes for Damper, Kangaroo Stew, and Bush Tea shown below:
DAMPER
By Lorna Corbett Little
3 cups Self Raising flour
1.5 teaspoons Salt
100g Butter
½ cup Milk
½ cup Water
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Sift the flour and salt together into a bowl.
Rub in the butter.
Put a hole in the middle of the mixture and add the combined water and milk.
Mix lightly.
Put on a floured surface and knead lightly. Pat dough into a circle (15 cm).
Cut 2 slits (1 cm) into top of the dough.
Brush with a little milk.
Bake over a campfire in greased aluminum foil at least 20 minutes.
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AUSSIE KANGAROO PIE
By Vivienne Corbett Fuller Sahanna, 2006
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BUSH TEA
By Anne Yarran
Ingredients: Honey Bush Tea; Black Tea (Add cream for white bush tea).
Cooked on the open fire in a blackened iron tea kettle.
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After breakfast and visiting with one another, the group gathers for prayers, hymns, and testimonials before leaving this spiritual retreat to travel back to supposed civilization. The Aboriginal spiritual kinship extends over thousands of years and I was allowed a brief glimpse of that profound bonding that morning.
In remembrance of the holy experience, I wrote this poem:
HARSH HEAVEN
Bright sky,
Searing, stark,
Turquoise days,
In oceans of sand, stars, sweetness.
The hot, dry days
Stretch out
Like a hand
Which never seems to end.
Southern Cross
Brilliant light
So bright
So fine
So distant.
An echo somewhere.
Harshness and heaven
Together,
Everywhere.
Red dust, clay,
Kangaroos, blood
Of past generations,
Lingering…
In the lure of the land,
Moving to the tune
Of a forgotten song.
The land, the dream,
The loneliness.
The future…
Which never seems to end.
Me and Bobby & Jason Maher, Newgate W.A. October 1983
Katherine Swann with children. Kalgoolie 1983
CHAPTER 2
ATTENDING WEST AUSTRALIA INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY
Rotary House proved to be a haven for me and I treasured its personal freedom and refreshing starkness. But, now I had to follow through with taking my video and film classes at the West Australian Institute of Technology. I was terrified! Not only was I in a very competitive and technical field, at the age of 36 I was double the age of all but one of the other students. Further, I had had a great deal of writing experience, but was not very mechanically inclined. Technical skills such as video editing were a daunting challenge for me. Complicating the challenges was my advisor at WAIT, John Fiske, a brilliant and extraordinary scholar, who had little love for the Rotary or the United States. Later I came to truly admire Mr. Fiske, but our first meeting was anything but friendly and reassuring.
Professor John Fiske was a craggy bohemian; a brilliant man whose mind was sharpened by his acute critique of the mercantile world, especially of the ultra capitalistic United State. I, too, am not enthusiastic of the emphasis the United States places on materialism, even greed, but Mr. Fiske didn’t know this before meeting me. Here I was, a Rotary scholar from the United States and he assumed that I was an eager part of the conspicuous consumption society.
As I walked into Mr. Fiske’s office with its overflowing bookcase, shreds of paper everywhere and the floor covered with more books and clothes, I saw the shaggy-haired professor eyeing me with disdain. My original school advisor, Derek Halrozek, had just left for India for two months without telling me, of course. Thus, the English department chairman told Mr. Fiske that he would now be my assigned advisor. Fiske protested but at last threw up his hands and had me signed into his media class. For two months I didn’t see him except in class. Little did I realize that that would be an advantage since it freed me to pursue life in Australia rather than scholarship in Australia. Later, Fiske decided that I was a worthwhile individual and project, and he persuaded me to write, direct, and produce a documentary about women in Perth, West Australia. As with all my experiences in Australia, my studies and my writing in Australia were deep and life changing for me.
ROTARY LUNCH WITH LAMINGTONS
My initial lunch with the North Perth Rotary Club is a glowing memory. Apprehensive, I was wary because I wasn’t the usual Rotary scholar – that is, a sweet young college kid. Besides, I felt scruffy, bedraggled, and pudgy from my weary trip and my constant moving from place to place. Moreover, I was speaking on Columbus, Ohio, and worried that the resulting speech would fall as flat as my accent and my feelings.
“No worries, Mate,” said my counselor, Phil. I came to understand this oft-used Aussie catch phrase. The club’s camaraderie, its jaunty air and its fun-loving individuals made even the tedious task of fund raising through the selling of Lamington cakes a rollicking experience. Lamington, a sponge cake delicacy filled with lemon or strawberry filling and topped with chocolate icing and coconut flakes, is an Australian legacy much like selling Girl Scout cookies is to the Americans. Lunch was served with the infamous Lamington cakes and followed with my fond memories of my hometown, Columbus, Ohio. Roger one of the younger and bachelor-loving members, recalled coming to Columbus and going to an Ohio State University football game. He said he laughs when he remembers the crowd standing and shouting “Go Buckeyes.” He thought they said “Bug Eyes” and wondered if we Yanks were even stranger than he thought.
I survived my first Rotary meeting and became a celebrity of sorts with my club. I also came to love the casual Aussie fun-loving and unique way of life, even with the cuisine. I shared the leftover Lamington cakes with my friends Jennie, Max, Alice, and Annette back at the dorm.
LAMINGTONS
Named after the governor of Queensland, Charles Baillie, the 2nd Baron of Lamington, the delicacy is a dessert sponge cake coated in chocolate and covered with coconut. The layer inside surprises one with a lemon cream (in Australia) or a strawberry jam (in New Zealand). Lamingtons are a nostalgic part of Oz and July 21st is National Lamington Day in Australia.
I went back to classes and to my studies at WAIT the next week, but I could always count on lunches with my club to be breaks of love, laughter, and lightness.
SEMIOTICS – WHAT IS THAT?
Mastering John Fiske’s semiotics class seemed like a snap because it was theory about the media and its use as a political tool. Having gone to graduate school and enduring endless seminars on abstract and interesting but convoluted discussions, I adapted pretty quickly to both the rhetoric and practice of semiotic thought. However, because I am American, I could bring the Yankee view of some of the more stereotypical thoughts about American media not mentioned by anyone. Because I didn’t need the grade (Who needed another degree? I had three already, including a PH.D.), I was free to “upset the apple cart” any time I felt compelled to speak out. The Aussie grading system is also so confusing that the American Rotary had no idea what the numbers stood for and either did I!
Later I would write a paper comparing the American “Family Feud” to the Aussie “Family Feud,” and thus tipped John Fiske off that yes, I had something to offer them in this program. Until then I was able to focus my real energies on what I had come to Australia to do, enjoy myself, party with the Rotary, and have the time of my life. Unfortunately, I was a little tripped up by my journalism class led by another American, Steve Rogers. Steve actually expected me to write, direct, and produce a journalistic piece for Channel 6 in Perth, along with the rest of his journalism class. These programs were shown every week as part of WAIT’s film and television curriculum. Uh Oh!
W.A.I.T. – West Australia Institute of Technology, 1983 (Now Curtain University)
THE WELLINGTON DAM PROJECT
So, here I was in Steve’s class and just waiting to be found out to be the fraud I was. When Steve asked who would volunteer for the first project – writing, directing, and producing a news video on “The Wellington Dam,” outside of Perth near Bunbury, I volunteered. I decided that going first would be the best plan since there would be no previous video stories to “show me up” or to compare with in the class. The rest of the class, much younger than me by about half, was shocked that a “Yank” took on the first project about a story in Western Australia. I was terrified but decided to “dive in head first and just swim to shore” as soon as possible.
THE MAKING OF THE WELLINGTON DAM VIDEO
Creating the “Wellington Dam” project turned out to be fascinating and enlightening. The Wellington Dam is/was a dam in West Australia which serviced the farmland all around Perth. The Wellington is critical to the survival of Aussie crops and the Aussie people. Having enough pure and fresh water always remains a dominating issue in Aussie lives. The Wellington Dam was threatened significantly by the salt/salinity in the ground water and made the water brackish and unusable.
So, I started. Researching the story, interviewing the scientists involved, talking to the farmers, and connecting to the other students in the class. These bright Aussie students generously volunteered their time in producing the video story that emerged for my urgent drive to get the story ASAP.
Driving down to Bunbury and taping the interviews for the screenplay was only the beginning of a true gem of a journalistic piece. Wellington is an aqua blue water dam with tumbling white waves all through it. The dam is surrounded by the lush, green bush lands that seem to smile from the leaking water around the dam. My crew was eager to start filming and took over the photographic task of recording the dam and its surroundings. Meanwhile, I spent my time interviewing the scientists who were keen on preserving the dam’s cool, clear waters. As I interviewed the engineers, my classmates took an aerial shot of me walking around the dam discussing this urgent problem with the headwater engineer. The resulting photographic piece was breath taking.
Me, Wellington Dam June 4, 1984
The narration or voice-over with the glorious video shots was yet other challenges. I had already written the script, but could not convince any of my Aussie student mates to do the voice-overs for “The Wellington Dam.” Because I was a Yank, in my opinion narrating the piece in an American accent undercut the credibility of the journalistic piece. But, because the piece was about to be aired in five days, I decided to go ahead and perform the narration myself. I still felt the ideal piece would have had a holistic Australian character, but with the deadline breathing down my neck, I had to compromise on the final product. Later, much later, when I wrote, directed, and produced my capstone video “The Glory Box,” I included no narration for the same reason I didn’t want to be a Yankee preacher Down Under. “The Wellington Dam” was my first journalistic video and it was a big success.
ALEX GLASGOW’S SCREEN WRITING CLASS
Finishing “The Wellington Dam” class freed me to pursue my real love, screen writing. My course schedule was rounded out with a screen writing class taught by Alex Glasgow, a Scotsman from Edinburgh, Scotland. I totally fell in love with the class, the students, and Alex Glasgow. A writer for the BBC, Alex’s lilting brogue, his writing experience with BBC mini-series, and his boyish charm and looks made the older women in the class (there were three of us) swoon. We sat in the front row and just stared at him with adoring eyes. It was a miracle that I ever wrote strong writings in the class because I was so distracted. The real miracle was that Alex was an above-board individual with immense integrity. I just pray that he never realized how much we fancied him.
Alex Glasgow
Karen Kuneman, a beautiful and talented young woman in my class, especially captivated all of us, including our BBC writer, Alex. Glowing when she would ask questions, Alex seemed bewitched with Karen, as had all Aussie men I had come across.
Stately and charming, Karen looked like Jackie Kennedy and had a sophisticated style similar to the sharp-looking and sharp-witted former first lady of America. Like Jackie, Karen was a versatile camerawoman who helped shape much of my screen play/documentary and its contents. When accompanied by Karen to the pubs, we would almost automatically be surrounded by drinks, followed by ingratiating fellows eager for her introduction. Fortunately for the rest of us, she had a full-time fiancée. She invited me to several of her family’s wild and wooly cocktail parties. Maureen, her mother, reminds me of a real life Auntie Mame and even looked like Rosalind Russell. Serving “Down Under” drinks like expensive wines and sherries, Karen also had a wonderful Tasmanian Sardine Spread, which was as classic and unique as she.
Karen Kuneman (far left), Roger Holt and Roger Holt’s Sheilah
WRITING SCREEN PLAYS
Even though I was distracted by the class, my teacher, and partying, I did manage to learn a few screen writing pointers. Alex assigned us to choose a piece of literature as a stimulus for a screenplay; not an adaptation, but a metaphorical jumping off place for our own ideas which were then written into our own narrative screenplay. I chose Hitchhiker in the Galaxy, which was a very popular hippie book at the time. I actually had not read it, but wanted to. I thought this would be an incentive for me to read the novel. After picking up the book, I realized how difficult the plot was since it was a sense based experience and as such had no plot. What Hitchhiker did have, however, was its own constructed language. This prompted me to write a screenplay where the Australian bush animals and birds are trying to stop the humans from invading their pure and unadulterated territory. I found a great deal of writing material in my next adventure, orienteering in West Australia’s bush lands.
ORIENTEERING
Based on an ad I had seen at WAIT, I signed up for an orienteering weekend outside of Perth. I had no idea what “orienteering” was or how I would manage the trip, but the idea sounded wild and romantic. I had decided to try all sorts of projects while I was in western Down Under.
Eva, Jennie, and Mox, my “mates” at Rotary House seemed shocked that a 36-year old Yank wanted to and COULD participate in this macho and strenuous ordeal. I borrowed a sleeping bag, found a ride, and headed out to yet another glamorous yet mysterious trip. Little did I know that I would met another North American who was as eager to DO all of Australia as I.
Orienteering turned out to be an elaborate outdoor scavenger hunt with teams competing for the first prize. I have no idea what the first prize was, but it was something like a ribbon saying, “I am the best Orienteer in the world!” The whole event took place over several areas called Wandering. These areas were farm/reservation area/ bush lands, outside of Perth with the beautiful, wide powder blue Australian sky beaming down upon these tanned, hard-bodied, mostly male people competing. They seemed to barely notice the gorgeous Aussie bush all around or the magnificent Southern Cross shining on them from a darkened, mysterious sky.
The orienteering trip was my ideal of a camping trip. Other, rugged, people did all the work - the cooking, cleaning, worrying, and organizing - and I just paid my fees and experienced Aussie life all around me. Besides just going with the flow, I witnessed the true stark beauty of the Australian outback with its precious wild plant and animal life. In addition, I met another North American, a wily man, a Canadian scientist and cabinet member from Ottawa, who was older, sexy, and brilliant. He was one Canadian who is as shrewd as his American neighbors and even triumphed over them.
On that clear-cut shining Friday night, the night before the walk began, I was mesmerized by the glorious Australian sky set off by the diamonds in the Southern Cross high above me. Glowing the dark, the night seemed full of mystery, silence, beauty, and passion! Little did I know how true and real all of this would be the next morning.
Orienteering. Wandering, West Australia, 1983
West Australia wineries
PROFESSOR JORDAN
Wandering back to the camp site, I am shocked to hear a North American accent. A tart, smiling salt and pepper-haired man with bright blue eyes turned around flashing a friendliness I hadn’t seen since I had come here. I was instantly smitten. Introducing himself, he said, “Professor Jordan,” and “I’ve come to Australia from Canada to teach radiation tailing at Murdock University here in Perth. And who are you, I might ask, and where do you hail from?” he asked in that courteous Canadian way that I came to appreciate. Our splendid Aussie travels started from that point forward.
Jordan, who would become my mentor, friend, companion, and lover for the next three months, enabled me to experience the vast panoramas of Australia. Because Jordan was a Canadian and had the resources of a job, money, car, and time, we were able to go practically anywhere and were received with fondness and caring. The Aussies see Canadians as cousins in the Empire and they seemed to have poise, serenity, and unthreatening demeanors that Americans lacked. When I traveled there, many Americans would put Canadian flags on their belongings so that they wouldn’t be perceived as aggressive Americans. From that evening forward, Jordan and I became companions and lovers.
Jordan appealed to me because of this worldliness, wiliness, and sophistication. His bright-eyed glamour added that spark which ignited a passionate love affair between us. Because I was an older student as well as a Yank, most available Aussie men were off limits to me. They were too young, too married, or too weird, and they were definitely not interested in any woman who challenged them in any way. Jordan had all the appeal, intelligence, and confidence of a world traveler as well as being an educated and articulate man. Jordan was handsome, had a taut build, salt and pepper hair, eyes as blue as the sea, and was a skilled and aggressive lover. He was also very sexy; my young and vibrant self seemed to lure him as well.
Jordan
BUNGALOW BY THE SEA
His bungalow by the sea rang with the tempo of the waves embracing the shore. Our love making seemed in tune with the universe, rhythmic, natural, serene, and passionate all at the same time. The experience was a fantasy, a dream, and a wild love affair. I had been searching for a soul mate, an aggressive lover, and an understanding companion. Here he was! But, besides his wonderful appeal, he confessed that he was married to an apparently unknowing wife back in Canada. That was a startling revelation. It also bore a deep well of pain within my spirit since I couldn’t help falling in love with this forbidden lover.
That “wandering” weekend became the basis for my later screenplay “No Worries” for Alex Glasgow’s class. Although the film and video classes at the West Australia Institute of Technology were definitely beyond me when I arrived in Perth, West Australia, I perceived and produced some interesting and thought-provoking American work there. As a Yank, I could transmit another message through what I was trying to accomplish there, but was often misunderstood by my Aussie peers and classmates because they had no concept of the competitiveness, the overcrowding, and the anxiety of the American world. And how could they? I had a distorted and romanticized notion of Aussie life before I actually lived there.
Phillip’s Island
Indian Ocean. Perth, West Australia
Gordon and I had several outstanding dinners, especially while on the road outside of Perth, West Australia. Here is a native spiced steak dinner to share.
Dingoes at Perth Zoo
CHAPTER 3
TRAVELING ROTARY IN THE “LUCKY COUNTRY”
I dated A Rotary Club member named Mike, a dark-haired, trim and fit British man newly divorced with two young blond-haired sons. We were wrong for each other, but I fell deeply in love with his two impish sons.
My longing for a child was manifest in my many relationships with men, even as I saw being a mother dominating the world of women, especially in Australia. The desperate pull of my psyche between having a life of my own and a career agonized me. The film, “My Brilliant Career,” another Aussie film in my class I was teaching, dramatically described this painful conflict. Mike and I suffered a few dates together; he, really wanting to be attracted to me and I really wanting something MORE. Finally, both of us confessed that the love affair was not what we needed and wanted and we decided we should just be friends. Although I knew it was the right decision, it still hurt deeply that he had rejected me, mainly for the physical reasons.
CAREW, WEST AUSTRALIA
Carew is a farming community on the shores of the Indian Ocean. As we arrived, we breathed in the fresh, cool, clean sea air. The sea shone and sparkled all around us. I remembered the early years of the fifties when I was a child and spending time with my father and family at the Catawba Beach Club near Put-In-Bay, Ohio. Then Catawba glowed with a bright buoyant lake air and vibrant, unsullied Lake Erie. Suddenly, I was transported back in time to a virginal American world and time. Carew, West Australia had that loveliness, laughter, and luxury of a time undestroyed by massive crowds and decadent, grasping groups desperate for a Good Time. I was enchanted with both the beautiful people and the glorious environment.
Although the turquoise and lavender sea shone all around me, I was also stricken with painful and horrible menstrual cramps that had set in during the trip to Carew. Driving with a mostly male Rotary Club didn’t make me comfortable with disclosing my medically painful condition. I was the “star” of the evening and needed to get my vibrancy and energy back so I could perform as I wanted to, both for my North Perth Rotary Club and for these uncomplicated country folk of the Carew club. I had fallen in love with these Aussies and wanted to be the glamorous Yank as they had billed me to their “Country Cousins.” The entire trip felt like the North Perth Rotary Club members were “stars” from Beverly Hills and the Carew club was their sweet “cousins” who were living the simple Aussie life.
Carew, West Australia 1983
AUSSIE WOMEN STEP IN WITH LOVING AND CARING
So, here I am, loving and living the heavenly Australian life and feeling like HELL at the same time. Lounging in my small apartment-room at the back of a sprawling wide-berthed Australian home (much like the American cabins in the West with wrap-around porches). I often had to use the loo. Australian bathrooms (loos) are actually split into two small, side-by-side rooms. My bloated abdomen was swollen with MS tissues and symptoms. My energy level had dropped precipitously and I was just praying I could survive the lecture/gathering scheduled for that evening. That experience gave me a glimpse of what it must be like to be a stage performer who is suffering but adhering to “the show must go on” attitude.
After one of my many trips to the facilities, I was stopped by one of the Aussie women/wives and asked if she could get me some “tea.” Looking very concerned and after noticing my frequent loo visits, she gently inquired if I was feeling all right. Admitting the condition my condition was in, I confessed my trepidation over the coming evening. Several of the Aussie wives gathered around me with caring and they gave me medication to ease my cramping and bloating. They also eased me into bed, telling me to rest until we were to leave, saying they would handle all of the arrangements and the awaiting Rotarians.
After taking the meds (which I continued to buy over-the-counter the remaining year I was there), I suddenly felt a cessation of the pain and a slowing of the bloating and blood surges. I was amazed at my rapid recovery and the loveliness of the female caring I received. All through my time in Australia, the bonding between women, especially the wives, was an almost palpable experience. Perhaps it was the frontier spirit or perhaps it was this underground support, but I continued to have affection and concern from Aussie women the whole time (which extended from Sydney to Perth to the Outback of Australia). The gender bonding is also exhibited in my video, “The Glory Box” in its female innocence, vulnerability, modesty, and sensitivity.
Carew women. Rotary Club 1983. Me standing at left.
CAREW SPEECH. ROTARY CLUB 1983
BREAKFAST IN CAREW
Anzac Biscuits, Vegemite on toast with eggs, oranges and lemons off the trees, white tea (milk added), and fresh water from the cistern.
Vegemite and Eggs
Vegemite, or marmite, is a tangy, highly concentrated beef spread as though the beef soup cubes were condensed. Highly salty, vegemite is nutritious but definitely an acquired taste. It is kept in a kitchen closet and will last for years. Aussies spread it on toast and often serve it with soft-boiled eggs. It is used as a very thin layer on toast and adds a dense, soy sauce-like taste to whatever it is added.
CAREW ROTARY CLUB MEETING
RETURNING TO PERTH
The Rotary Club and I then boarded the bus for our way home to Perth. That week following was the beginning of the America’s Cup Race, a sailing contest that I had never heard of back in Ohio. In 1983, the Aussies and Americans were hot on each other’s trail to win.
Many of the Australian sailors on their ship were from Cottesloe and their excited mood was infectious. Also, unnerving since the Aussies expected me to root for the Yanks. But, I felt more allegiance to my new-found mates, the Aussies, the underdogs in this contest. The sailing contest was exciting and became national when Prime Minister Bob Hawke announced a day off for all Australians when their ship won! All of the country was ecstatic and I felt like my time there was a special time for all of us.
WINNING THE AMERICA'S CUP
The Aussies won in a sweetheart victory at the last moment. The entire country was jubilant, with Prime Minister Bob Hawke giving the nation the day off for victory. Perth had a joyful celebration since most of the crew was from Fremantle, West Australia. Under a bright blue October sky, a giant Kangaroo float came down the center of Perth holding the cup, saying, “It’s ours.” I felt a great deal of excitement and jubilation at the victory and for the Aussie people.
Jordan and I celebrated by taking a sailing trip of our own to an island off Perth called a not very becoming name, Rotts Nest Island. A glorious night, we spent it just cuddling on the beach, watching a shooting star above us. The night was deeply and mysteriously dark with the two of us completely alone and filled with the serenity of our last night together. Sex was highlighted, a gentle evening that night since we both needed time just to be together and to be psychic friends to one another. I felt even closer to him. Then in that evening we decided to meet at Christmas in Sydney. He was leaving the next week for Sydney, in the eastern states.
Ironically, only the two Americans (myself and another woman) in my journalism class wore Aussie t-shirts the day after the Aussies had won the cup race. My lover, Jordan, too, was decked out in an Aussie t-shirt when we met that following week. An intriguing dilemma for us North Americans, identifying with Australians while still being our American selves.
The next day Jen and I went with Glen to “Aussie Assault,” a colorful documentary film depicting the Aussie sailing victory in the America’s Cup Race. Glen, a raw and seemingly simple bloke, had been a crew member on Australia II, the winning ship, so it was very exciting for all of us. The boisterous race and the jubilant crew reveled in their win. Surprisingly, we never saw Glen in the documentary. I asked him about it. He claimed to be below doing the “leg work” and was never in the filming of the race. Later I found out that Glen was conning us throughout the experience since his name was nowhere to be found on the roster! Glen turned out to be an Aussie “rounder,” someone who fooled others with him simpleton bravado. And I thought he was dense!
Jack Thompson, America’s Cup. Perth, October 1983
LEAVING FOR THE EAST
The next month flew by and I finished my coursework and scheduled a film conference in Melbourne on my way to Sydney for the Christmas holidays. Both Jordan and I knew our magical time in Perth was coming to a close, but we still had a few days in Sydney to look forward to in December. I was soon off to a film conference and Jordan was lecturing in China for his work. We planned to meet in Sydney for the last time just before Christmas. Thus, our night was velvet, a loving time and not quite the end, yet.
Summer was officially here in November and what a magical summer it was. I was leaving Perth for the East Coast for the Summer/Christmas holidays. I had arranged a room at the University of Sydney for all of December and would also try to attend the Australian Film School while I was there. Finishing off my assignments for the film and television program freed me to start yet another new adventure Down Under. I was a little intimidated about attending Australia’s premiere film school, but the weather, bright and beautiful all around me, my apprehension. I had purchased an across country Greyhound round-trip ticket and off I went to see the rest of this mysterious and exotic country. I would also see Jordan for a few days in Sydney before he returned to Canada.
BUS TRAVEL ACROSS THE NULLIBOR HIGHWAY
There I was, three days on the bus across the Nullibor Plain with various and exotic Aussies all around me. The Nullibor Highway is the only road connecting Perth with the East Coast (Melbourne and Sydney) and winds along the glittering ocean through the arid and sandy bush lands with stunted bushes and a moon-like surface. Mesmerized by the bright, arid land passing beside us, I grew to love the Aussie countryside even more. I filmed the sun, an orange burst of color, coming up over the Nullibor, a foggy mist- laden land where kangaroos and snakes share a secret life seen only by the crows cawing above them.
On the bus we passed the time by watching videos, reading, sleeping, and getting to know the other passengers. Middle-aged couples vacationing, Aussie cowboys, spring break students, and various other country folk made our trip quite lively. My friend Jennie and I shared meals together when we stopped at elaborate truck stops where passengers also took showers and tried to stay presentable. Traveling across Australia on a bus gave me a chance to see the land and lives up close.
MELBOURNE!
After three days we arrived in Melbourne and were able to go to Monash University where we had students rooms for a few days to catch our breaths. Monash University is a city university much more formal and scholastic than the West Australian Institute of Technology, which was very new and more applied for practical careers. I was on my way, however, to the University of New South Wales, where I was attending a film conference, so Monash University was a very brief experience. While at Monash University I participated in an academic study (answered a few computerized questions) to make a little extra money.
THE FILM CONFERENCE AT LATROBE
Taking a train to South Australia where the film conference was held was my next adventure. Trains always seemed romantic to me and this was no exception. Although Melbourne has beautiful gardens and a sophisticated people and atmosphere, traveling east to Sydney lured me because of the city’s dynamic, exciting persona and, of course, Jordan was there waiting for me. I traveled at night on the train, whizzing by lights and buildings into the dark and expansive bush lands that connect Melbourne to Sydney. On the train were dining cars and places to play cards and visit with others. It seemed like I was back in the 1940s with all the glamour and charm of that era.
FIRST CONTACT
Now I was arriving at LaTrobe University and the wonderful film conference was even more inviting. Sponsored by the Australian Film and Television School, the conference displayed films from around the world and was glamorous as well as enlightening. One film that stood out dramatically was “First Contact,” a documentary of the white “settlers” of New Guinea who arrived via airplane in the 1930s. The films of the awestruck native people who see the white conquerors fly into their homeland and their shocked faces reflect their view that these invaders are white “gods” coming from the sky. Later in the documentary, Robin Anderson interviews several natives regarding their memories of this event and its impact on New Guinea. Her interviews also reflect the fact that she is a native (grand-daughter) ancestor of the original Leahy (leader of the invasion). “First Contact” is a powerful and unique film with a core of sadness relating to the impending violence that awaited New Guinean native people.
ON TO SYDNEY
The film conference was a thrill and especially appropriate since I had been hired as a film lecturer at the Western Australian Institute of Technology before I had left Perth for Australia’s eastern states. First semester 1984 at WAIT started in March, so I had three months of travel and experience to get ready for this new opportunity. I was thrilled. In early December I left LaTrobe and traveled by train into the heart of Sydney. There I would be celebrating the holidays and seeing Jordan off for the last time. He was returning to Canada, to his real life. We had both reserved rooms at Sydney University and planned our parting rendezvous time there.
SYDNEY SIDER SUMMER
Christmas in summer is a reality in Australia and the exotic adventure continued for me. Although the weather was hot, not steamy like Columbus, Ohio, but intensely hot like a sauna bath, the skies were brilliant blue and the beaches a crystal clear, white, sandy, and glorious panorama. I arrived at Sydney University and located my room. Since it was summer, the usual students were home and the university rented its dorm rooms to travelers visiting Sydney or (in my case) living in Sydney for the break in the school holidays. Jordan also rented a room there on his way back from China for his scientific work and presenting academic papers while in this part of the world. He was stopping in Sydney, Australia for a few days before going to Canada for the Christmas holidays. Thus, we both arrived in Sydney about the same time and rendezvoused at the dormitory.
SYDNEY BRIDGE, 1983
THE LAST DAYS OF A SMOLDERING LOVE AFFAIR
Our meeting in December is a bittersweet memory for me. Meeting and loving him again was breathtaking, but the time rushed on and soon he was gone forever. We spent the last part of our love affair frolicking on Sydney’s exciting beaches, gazing at the Southern Cross at night and spending our evenings in each other’s arms. Our lovemaking was frantic yet still exhilarating. My heart was filled with a terrible awareness of how soon we would be parted from each other forever.
SAYING GOOD BYE
So, now the day arrived when Jordan left and I was alone in Sydney during the Christmas holidays. Both of us shed tears and said we would see each other again some day, although we both knew it wasn’t to be. I felt a terrible pain for the loss of a lover, friend, and beloved companion. I felt as though the sky darkened for me that day. Christmas was happening in the next few days and Jordan’s departure made me realize how much I missed being at home and seeing family. A profound wave of homesickness washed over my spirit and I felt very alone.
CHAPTER 4
CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS
Christmas Day in Sydney was hot, at least 100 degrees; the Christmas decorations of snow, red velvet, and silver icicles seemed like a weird other planet. Jeannie in Perth had given me a small, artificial Christmas tree and I placed it on my desk in the University of Sydney’s dorm and a reminder of Christmases past. It brought both fond memories and sad reflections. The residence hall director kindly held a Christmas dinner for all foreign students. There we had turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, salads, and plum pudding. All hot and all heavy, the foods which seemed so right at Christmas in the winter in America and in England seemed so ungodly with the blazing heat in Australia. After dinner I nearly crawled back to my room, stomach aching from the rich and dense food. Luckily, I had tomorrow to look forward to – surfing at Bondi Beach!
Tomorrow did come. What a bright and glorious and sunny day. I was off to Bondi Beach with the Bates family. It seemed almost a sacrilege, but surfing the day after Christmas was a part of the Australian Yuletide. The sea, sky, and the waves were blue, blue, and even bluer.
Me, Richard Bates, Gwenda Bates
BONDI BEACH
Bondi Beach with its sexy young men and women was glamorous, beautiful, and exciting. The turquoise waves were refreshing and clear with a life all their own. Gwenda, Andrew, and Stephen Bates and I body surfed and luxuriated in the blue velvet ocean. All around us Australians strolled the beach, picnicked on the sand, and even sun bathed topless in the enveloping sun and surf. Afterwards, we returned to the Bates’ home in the Sydney suburbs and ate Australian steak and chips under the Southern Cross high above us in the sky. I called my family back in Toledo, Ohio, where they were huddled in the family room, arguing over who should get what gift, overwhelmed by eight inches of snow falling as we spoke on the phone. Even though I didn’t want to be in Toledo, Ohio, in any way, I missed my family terribly. A surge of homesickness washed over me. Christmas wasn’t Christmas in Australia, but it was a world all its own. I was a stranger in a strange land; a land whose mysterious lure intrigued me.
JANUARY 1984, NEW YEAR’S EVE EVENTS
January, 1984 was dawning with brightness and clarity, and the day was shining in the sun. It was hot, very hot, but with a heat unlike the steamy, dense, overpowering, cloudy heat that accompanies August in Columbus, Ohio. Here, the heat was like a red-hot current that never dissipated, even after dark. All around me Aussies strolled the urbane downtown Sydney streets, wearing the brightest of costumes (the Aussie word for clothes) and always, hats. I could easily see why. The sun dominated their lives. Sydney also had the promise of a glorious January with a month-long arts festival to come and my attendance of evening classes at the Australian Film and Television School.
But, first I had to face that I could no longer stay at the University of Sydney dorm because it was too expensive. I also wanted desperately to attend the summer session at the Australian Film and Television School, located in the Sydney suburb of Glebe. Earlier, my friend Jennie from the Rotary House in Perth had traveled to Sydney to spend a month with relatives (rellies) and I met her at the Greyhound Bus station. Shortly after January 1, 1984, both of us were staying at the University of Sydney dorm, but neither of us could afford it much longer. After investigating several possibilities, we decided to move to the University of New South Wales located across town. Because I had so much stuff (clothes, books, films, etc.), I decided to rent a taxi and the two of us would move that way. Jen wanted to take the beautiful and inexpensive subway, but switching trains, etc. would have proved to be too grueling.
THE UNIVERSITY OF NEW SOUTH WALES
Now, Jennie and I were staying at the University of New South Wales, with the cost about half the price of a room at the University of Sydney. My room was an older, darker room, but quite shady and private. Giant flying cockroaches would appear from outside the grounds into our rooms through the windows like UFOs. Unlike the University of Sydney, the rooms were not air conditioned, so I borrowed a tiny fan from the Bates family to cope with the all-consuming heat at night. Jennie and I spent our days at the Sydney Art Festival that blossomed all around us in the Sydney streets.
Ian Thompson & Jennie Keough, Manley Beach January 1984
Gwenda Bates & Peg Fitzgerald, Curl Curl Beach
THE AUSTRALIAN FILM AND TELEVISION SCHOOL
The Australian Film and Television School is very prestigious, graduating such brilliant filmmakers as Peter Weir. One Perth writer from my screenwriting class at the West Australian Institute of Technology was chosen to go there. It was a real national honor and career trampoline to greatness. Only Australians could attend the day (regular) school, but everyone had the opportunity to take classes at the night, general education part of the institute. I was determined to attend classes there since being in Sydney for those three and a half months was a once in a lifetime opportunity.
ON MY WAY TO AFTS
AFTS is in Glebe, a suburb of New South Wales, and I was located downtown at the University of New South Wales. So, another transportation problem loomed. I was saddened to see that the people of Sydney were taking on one of the USA’s crippling problems, the dependence on cars. Since Glebe is close to Lane Cove, where Gwenda and Richard Bates’ home was, I asked them if I could stay at their home for the weekend until I could figure out some transportation to the institute. I took several buses to the school and arrived just in time for my night class, Oral Interpretation, the only class available to me since all others were filled.
The radio class was taught by Australia’s “Marlboro Man,” a gravelly and deep-voiced, tiny man with a barking cough and a mean-spirited attitude toward Yanks. I guess being short isn’t obvious when you’re riding horses, so the irony of a masculine pixie was lost on the Australian smoking public. Joan, the community outreach coordinator at AFTS, kindly introduced me to the class and asked if “anyone could drive Rita home tonight.” Again I was struck by the loving and personal touch of the Australian people. I was now about to meet one of the sweetest blokes in Sydney, or anywhere, that I have ever known.
CHRISTOPHER – GREEK AUSTRALIAN
One young, dark-haired and dark-eyed Aussie quickly raised his hand and said he would be glad to do so. In the USA, I would immediately assume that he’s an unbalanced person, a serial killer, but I was surprisingly calm and assured by this young man’s earnestness. Christopher Madoryis was the most talented person in the class. When he read “Gallipoli” that night, I was in awe of the deep-voiced young man who could make the words really speak on the page much more profoundly than Mel Gibson ever could. Even though our teacher was caustic and demeaning to me, he encouraged Chris to pursue his dream of broadcasting because he was obviously a truly blessed and far-reaching performer. Later both Chris and I would have better educational opportunities from this class and this teacher, but that first night Christopher glowed in our class as a true-blue Aussie talent.
Me with Bates Family; Christopher Madoryis second from the end in back
DRIVING ALL THROUGH SYDNEY’S STREETS
After this truly inspiring class, Chris and I walked out to his flatbed car. He was an auto mechanic as well as a performing talent, and the combination made him a fun-loving person. He was also a Greek Australian. His family had immigrated to Australia fifteen years before from Athens, Greece. Dark-eyed, dark-haired, with a mischievous personality, Christopher was also humble and romantic. He was deeply in love with his high school sweetheart, Victoria, also a Greek Australian living in Melbourne. I was shocked to learn that she had spurned this sexy young man and he and I spent many hours talking about our doomed love affairs while he literally drove me all around Sydney, Australia in his souped-up car.
CRUISING
Looking back on the experience, I wonder why Chris and I didn’t have a romance. He was dark and handsome, loving and very kind. What a gallant young man he was, very generous and caring toward me, always making sure that I arrived home to my dorm room safely. Not only that, he showed me all the ins and outs of the Sydney metropolitan area; not only the opera house, the zoo, the park, and the bridge (which all the tourists see), but also the suburban homes, the soccer fields, the ethnic restaurants skirting the center of the city, and the buoyant night life all around us.
Chris' family (part of the Aussie invasion from ethnic Europe after World War II) in Australia was often berated and looked down upon, not openly, but secretly, just as the Aboriginal people were. An ethnic slur, wog, was scrawled along several bridges in Sydney saying, “Wogs are dogs.” I thought it was an affectionate term and one day I laughingly referred to Chris as my Wog friend to Jennie, my Aussie mate from Perth. “Oh, no, Rita. Don’t call him that,” she said. “That’s like calling him a Nigger in the USA,” she cautioned. I felt that part of Chris and my loving bond was the bond of outsiders who felt disapproval and lack of acceptance from “regular” society. He was and still is a treasured Aussie/Greek friend to me. I also felt his love and struggle.
Here is one of the Greek pastries we sampled as Chris and I toured the streets of Australia.
SEEING SURFER’S PARADISE
Even though I was attending the AFTS a few times during the month of January, Jennie and I also made time for adventuring through other parts of Australia. We decided to bus up to Surfer’s Paradise, a luxurious tourist beach in Brisbane, Queensland, about three hours from Sydney. We had heard that Surfer’s Paradise was a posh and exciting playground and we wanted to see its beauty for ourselves.
A LITTLE NUDE TO A LOT OF NUDE
One phenomenon in Australia I found very common was the lack of clothing on the beach in all the places I visited, but it was usually only women. In Sydney, beautiful and fit young women often sunbathed topless. Going with Jordan to a beach was a tiresome experience since he wore his sunglasses the whole time to hide his stares at these women.
“No wonder Australia leads the world in skin cancer,” I thought. While at Surfer’s Paradise, walking down the long, extended beach, I realized that the clothing/bathing suits became skimpier and skimpier. Suddenly, Jennie and I, still with our suits perfectly intact, were in the midst of a totally nude beach. With nude bodies all around us, I also noticed that some of these people really needed to leave their clothes on. They’d obviously been eating and drinking a bit too much at the Aussie barbecues!
SHARK SPOTTING
Jen and I decided to move back to the earlier beach, though it was crowded with tourists everywhere. Surfer’s Paradise definitely made me long for the open spaces and untouched beauty of the pure beaches in Perth, West Australia. While lounging by the “paced” beach, I daydreamed about Jordan and other romances when I decided to wade into the turbulent Pacific Ocean. Suddenly I hear the haunting bell ringing of a bell. Jennie rushed to the edge of the shore screaming, “There’s a shark near you, Rita. Get out!”
I realized I was the only one in the water for miles and a terrifying fin started emerging from the blue-grey waters. I literally jumped several feet to the shore and lay there, panting and terrified. The bell signified the presence of a shark in the waters and everyone knew that but me. Australia had plenty of surprises and shocks for me!
Soon after, we left Surfer’s Paradise and headed back east to the relative safety of Sydney. While in the eastern states, I wanted to also tour Canberra, the capital of Australia because I was close by and really knew nothing about it. Boarding a Greyhound bus, I ventured along with several other Americans on a tour of Canberra. Most of the travelers were still recovering from jet lag and were older retirees on a package tour from the American embassy.
Because I had been in Australia for five months, I easily became very judgmental and even embarrassed by these elderly Yanks who only seemed to talk about getting the cheapest opal jewelry while in Oz. I would become even more discontent when we arrived in Canberra, as I was soon to find out.
Canberra, Australia’s capital, is in the middle of a “bush nowhere.” Located equidistant from Melbourne and Sydney, Canberra’s place in the sun is the answer to the conflict between these two vibrant cities which should be the capital of Oz. Elegant, pure, and a little sterile, Canberra has the discipline of a planned city, but not as much of the spirit of the other Aussie cities. The central area of Canberra is Capital Hill at the apex of a triangular spot called “Griffin’s Parliamentary Triangle.” A new parliament house was to be built in five years (1988) and located in this area. The whole architectural plan of Canberra was that parliament be the hub of a wheel with the spokes leading to the business area and the suburbs.
TOURING CANBERRA
While in Australia’s capital, my Yankee companions and I were shown the many parks in the area. We were also taken to the world embassies, especially the American embassy. Shockingly to me, the American embassy took up more ground, was larger, and more imposing than even the Australian Parliament House! Somehow, America seemed the domineering big brother again, even in the Aussie capital. Nevertheless, the charm of the natural beauty of Canberra was reflected in its green, flowering gardens. The showering, bright fountains remain my most vivid memory of the area.
Rita Bova at Canberra
Rita & unknown bus friend. Canberra 1984
LEAVING SYDNEY FOR ADELAIDE
I am now back in Sydney and realizing that I was leaving in a few days to go to Adelaide on my way back to Perth. Deeply saddened, I spent the next few days taking in my favorite spots: the Opera House, the circular quay, the downtown, and the beaches with my beloved friends, the Bates family. I had fallen deeply in love with the people and this place and my heart was breaking that I had to leave. I vowed, like MacArthur, to return someday and continue to live this magical life.
Fortunately, while in Perth I had purchased a round-trip Greyhound bus ticket so that I could travel all through this fascinating country. Now I was on my way back to Perth and to substitute teaching the Film and Television Theory class at WAIT; another dream come true! The scheduled teaching lecturer/assistant had disappeared and the comptroller, Bill Kerry, asked me to take over. I was ecstatic. I would receive a paycheck to augment my flagging money and resources. I needed to get back to Perth by the end of February so that I could prepare enough material for the class, which would start in early March, 1984. I was also very nervous about being competent enough to lecture about film, especially Australian film, the main theme of the class.
So, I boarded the bus from Sydney to travel across New South Wales, Southern Australia, Adelaide, the Australian Bight, and the Nullibor Plains to get back to my “hometown,” Perth. The bus trip was raucous and lively, full of fun, as were most Aussie experiences.
The airlines were on strike, a common occurrence I soon discovered, and bus tickets were now worth twice the money I had originally paid! I had met several people at the film festival in Melbourne who lived across Australia and I connected with them while traveling. I even stayed at their homes. I found the Aussies so friendly and generous after one becomes friends – “mates” – with them.
The bus trip alone was worth twice the value of traveling quickly to get somewhere. The people on the bus ranged from down-to-earth Aussie families to retired, bright-eyed married couples, to a few Yanks such as myself seeing the countryside close up and personal. Traveling miles and miles (kilometers to Aussies) over bush lands emanating from Sydney, there seemed a vastness; a wild countryside, hot, bright, and filled with secrets in its red, red and redder interior. While on the bus, the riders would alternately watch videos, nap, chat, play cards, and seemingly enjoy themselves immensely. At night we would stare out the windows at the black sky with its Southern Cross shining down over where the kangaroos, snakes, lizards, and other creatures were hopping, living, and doing their own traveling.
Koala in Bush Park
STOPPING BY IN ROAD STOPS
Periodically, we would stop at road stops with showers, a restaurant, and a pub for a few brews to lighten the torrid sun and sky above us travelers. These road stops seemed to come out of nowhere, a sudden man-made oasis in this nomadic land.
My mate Jennie and I were traveling together back to her real home, Kalamunda, in the hills of Perth and to my new found home, Rotary House. As such, our voyage took us through Melbourne to Adelaide in South Australia, past the Great Australian Bight along the Nullibor Highway, through the quaint, small towns and the glorious, stark countryside. I videotaped the sights as they flew by the one lane highway; the country towns with their one street main thoroughfare and their one-floor buildings topped by red brick roofs. Wild flowers in lavender, reds, yellows, and blues waved as we passed under a turquoise blazing-sun sky. Because wildflowers were “introduced” into Australia, no one was allowed to pick them; picking them being illegal because gathering them would diminish their numbers. A bright mosaic of wildflowers bloomed all across the tapestry of our trip back home.
Videotaping the bush lands in the early morning hours was equally enchanting. A deeply darkened environment which seemed to stretch forever replaced the intensely dry, sun drenched heat of the day. The Southern Cross mesmerized me as it seemed to bless us from the sky. As the day was dawning, it revealed the grey looking bush lands with clouds of moisture pooled in its midst. We seemed to drive through a memory, a spirit land, and the eerie caws of the black crows overhead lent a strange rhapsody to this magical voyage.
It seemed we always arrived at a road station at the beginning or ending of the day. Getting off the bus to meander through the encircling bush lands to take a welcome shower and to dine at these Aussie road stops were other appealing parts of the trip.
Stopping at the roadside rest stops, Jennie and felt a bit overwhelmed and confused, but still freer than when we were in Sydney. Splitting an outback Aussie meal, we feasted on burgers which seemed out-of-this-world, or at least the world I came from. Organic beef burgers from cattle which roamed freely over natural grasses, topped with vegetables such as tomatoes, lettuce, onions, and even beets, watered by naturally pure springs, were glorious. Broke and also avoiding too much bloating from sitting so long, Jennie and I communed together as we shared our marvelous meal.
BACK TO MELBOURNE, VICTORIA
Back on the bus we are moving south and southwest through Adelaide on to our final destination, Perth. A full moon chased us as we drove through the night. We arrived just outside of Melbourne for a brief few hours to allow other passengers to disembark. Jennie and I took a train to Melbourne for a brief half hour.
Everywhere, all through the large Aussie cities, we see bridal shops with lacy clouds of dreamy dresses beckoning all to share that experience. In contrast to the leisurely, slow-moving bush lands, everyone here seemed to be on the move–with posh clothes, sophisticated looks, and determined strides. Jennie and I rushed ourselves back to our bus, just making it, and we rode into a beautiful, rose-colored sunset.
Giant Pigeon House, Adelaide 1984
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| Melbourne Train Station |
Melbourne Train
Melbourne, 1984
MURRAY RIVER, VICTORIA
Driving and more driving – the bus driver described the various small towns as we left Victoria for South Australia. Small Aussie towns seemed to share the same architecture, a main street, several small, one-story businesses with such delights as meat pies, choco (chocolate Cadbury bars), and chilled drinks. Pubs with beer and wine and an occasional church whiz by as we drive on. The Outback seemed endless with wheat-colored grasslands, penetrating sunlight, and a wide-open feeling. Before leaving Victoria, we stopped at Murray River, one of the oldest rivers in the world, a sacred place for the ancient people here, my friends the Aboriginals. Giant gum trees seemed to guard the river which had steep cliffs and glowing water. Blue sky is everywhere!
ON TO ADELAIDE!
Next we are in Adelaide, the capital of South Australia. Adelaide, a seemingly smaller city than Perth, but it still having that modern, fresh, feel to it. A sense of peacefulness and calm permeates as I wander through what seems like acres of bright flowers growing thought the downtown. Jennie had gone to visit some of her relatives, so I was on my own. I saw a few film makers I had met in Sydney, women from the Film and Television School who directed “For Love or Money,” a narrative and profound documentary which details the female contributions to this great land. Margo Nash, in particular, a sensitive and vibrant female filmmaker, and I will meet tomorrow after the “For Love or Money” premier. I can hardly wait!
STAYING IN ADELAIDE
Fortunately for me, my journey could be languorous and I could extend it because my bus ticket could be stopped and started as I traveled on the Nullibor Highway to Perth. Still broke, I was lucky to find an American woman (from Morgantown, West Virginia) who was married to an Aussie and living in Adelaide. We had met at the Film Conference in Trabe, Victoria, in November, 1983, and the couple had generously invited me to their lovely home here in Adelaide. While in Sydney I had written them and they had made good their invitation to their quiet and beautiful refuge-like home. So, here I was in Charlotte and Adrian’s backyard, swishing my feet in their cool grotto pool with an Aussie wine cooler in my hand, surrounded by bush lands filled with colorful wild flowers under a clear, powder blue sky. Could life get any better?
Yes, it could, but it wasn’t because of a lack of natural beauty or a deficiency of the grace and hospitality of the lovely people I met. Looking back, I realize that probably many of the people I met and became dear friends with had their own problems, but I was entranced by what seemed so serene and enchanting all around me. I still felt lonely and like an outsider; an ungainly, unsettled adolescent – even though I was in my thirties. Seeing Charlotte’s relationship with Adrian made the aching of my heart longing for love unrestricted and free, too. Again, I thought back to Jordan, our passionate but tortured romance, and my wishing and hoping for more in my life-a home, a family, and a world of true meaning.
Charlotte & Adrian, Adelaide 1984
MORE AUSSIE STRIFE
So, I was off again…to meet Margo Nash at the premier of “For Love or Money” and for more touring of the world of Adelaide. “For Love or Money,” a four-part series on the unsung heroines of Australia, their womenfolk, chronicled the rocky start of women in Sydney-prostitutes or wives of ministers-to the current move to independence, freedom, and feminism. Meeting Margo after the premiere was an honor, but I felt real sympathy for her because seemingly everywhere the project (films) was roundly criticized by the press and the public. Producing “For Love or Money” had taken at least five years and had cost several thousand dollars. Films number three and four contrasted in appearance and meaning greatly with the first, more historic-based, documentaries.
MORE AUSSIE WHINE
So, Margo and I walked together along Adelaide’s beach under a sparkling canopy of city lights and stars, talking about female artists around the world and their lives. It seemed then that a woman had to choose between being an artist and being a mother (two creative experiences), and it was a wrenching choice, especially for me. I told her that I admired her courage, and the courage of the other women artists as well, but Aussie society and critics are incredibly tough on any artwork not “perfect.” The stunning beauty of nature conflicted with the highly critical human nature, which condemned the artistic exposition of any local artists whose artistic expressions weren’t perfect. I found this artistic backbiting all through Australia and I was confused by it.
FLOATING IN A TROUBLED PARADISE
Now, back to Charlotte and Adrian’s private and delightful home, surrounded with lush trees, vibrant wild flowers, and a backyard hot tub. Adrian and Charlotte calmed my troubled soul. Both of them were sipping South Australian white wine and eating prawns covered with chili and lime sauce. Their exuberance again contrasted with my loneliness, but their generous hosting of someone they barely knew was typical of the bonding I found all through Down Under. The wine, prawns, chili and lime sauce, and wafer thin crackers were great, too! All this was heaven, too, while we were floating in their hot tub. Margo Nash kindly supplied the recipe for the “Green Chili and Lime Sauce.”
ON THE ROAD AGAIN
I am off again on my bus tour of Australia en route to Perth. Crossing the Nullibor Plain on the highway, we are the only vehicle for hundreds of miles. The Nullibor has a mysterious glow as the sun rises among the mists in this endless stretch of reddish, scrubby earth. I see spindly kangaroos jumping out of harm’s way and a huge hawk diving down in search for food. The hawk’s wingspan looks to be at least five feet in diameter. The shimmering road heats up as the sun rises in the sky above.
THE GREAT AUSTRALIAN BIGHT
Somewhere between Adelaide and Perth lies the “Great Australian Bight,” a group of pock marked cliffs plunging down to a deep blue and white sea coast. We stopped here for a short break in our road trip because the sight is so dramatic and lovely. It also contrasts starkly with the beige, orange, and harsh brush landscape all around us. Again, I am awestruck by the beauty and the marked contradictions in the Down Under. Back on the bus, we continue our odyssey to the West Coast and Perth.
Another super-heated and brilliant day ahead and all around us the bush animals seek shelter under scrub and stunted trees. The sky seems to go on forever.
CHAPTER 5
BACK HOME IN PERTH
While in Sydney, I had received over fifty letters while I was absent on my travels. One was from Jordan, telling me how special and passionate our time together had been. He expressed how he wished he could still be here in Perth with me right at this very minute. Although I felt lonely and adrift, and missed the passion we shared immensely, I also felt relieved that I now had my own time and space to be and to do what I had hoped for all along. A new and improved me was emerging and I celebrated the song of my spirit and self. I also received a long letter from my former fiancé, John, who complained bitterly that his friends’ marriages were filled with disappointment and suffering. Maybe that was a back-handed apology for how he treated our five-year relationship, but it angered me that he thought he could “con” me again into thinking that “marriage” was the problem, not the selfish individuals in the marriage.
PERTH’S ARTISTIC FEBRUARY
Back in West Australia with my mates, I was working on my course for WAIT and enjoying the “Perth Festival of Light and Arts.” Australia had just celebrated “Australia Day” on January 25. As with our 4th of July, the mood, atmosphere, surroundings, and people were jubilant. Dancing and parading filled the streets. I had returned to Perth just as the city people began their arts festival, which had begun, as had Sydney’s month of January, flowing from February into March with open-air drama, dancers, musicians, children’s activities, and impromptu art showings. While strolling the downtown, I saw children dressing up, painting, clowning, and tightrope walking onto a trampoline. Young people were everywhere serenading the spectators. I even saw someone washing feet! The weather was hot, but perfectly hot, no humidity or very little of it, with bright, blue skies.
Also, love was in the air all around me in the Rotary House where students dallied together before the semester started. Several of us went down to the ocean in Fremantle around evening time and swam naked in the clear, magical sea, dodging the massive waves.
Later, I found out that the shark’s favorite time of the day is evening, when the ocean becomes more mysterious and tranquil. But for now, I swam carefree, only worrying about how I would emerge from the swim without my clothes to shield me.
Rita Bova, Perth
STARTING A NEW ROMANCE
Between partying and evading several of the very young men in the Rotary House, I tried to concentrate on getting my lectures ready for the Aussie/World Film course. The British/Aussie educational system consisted of a lecturer (me) and study groups with other teaching assistants, all overseen by the controller, who administered the course. In addition, I was also taking a course in “Semiotics” with John Fisher and several other gradate students. Darren was one of the other students. He was older than I, in his early forties, and I was shocked to find a somewhat kindred spirit in that class. Later, we became friends, associates, and even lovers; but he lacked the spark that was present in my earlier romantic liaisons.
ROCKINGHAM BEACH
My classes weren’t to begin for another two weeks and Jennie took me to her family’s cottage at Rockingham Beach, outside of Perth. We traveled west up the coastline to the wine country near the Margaret River. Jennie’s father was an engineer who had founded his own construction company in Perth and thus, the family was not only well to do, but also well educated. The coastal properties were long, luxurious, and private. Outside of Perth, I could see the deep, black night with millions of stars facing us. During the day, we would be the only beachcombers climbing the rocky cliffs on the beach. Those cliff paths would eventually lead us down to an almost purple ocean. I felt the freedom of an unfettered life, but I worried about the day ahead at the university. Would I be able to teach the film course as I wanted to? Would I be good enough? I admit I was afraid of looking like a fraud!
FEBRUARY
February in Perth, West Australia, was as different from the Februarys I had known in Ohio as two places on the globe could be. February in Columbus, and even in Toledo, Ohio, where I grew up, is a series of grey and greyer days only interrupted by snow, ice, and bitter winds. Because February is the height of the Aussie summer, the month glowed with brightness and sunshine. It seemed fitting that this month was the courtship month with Valentine’s Day at its center.
VALENTINE’S DAY IN OZ
Among the cards and letters I had received while I was away in Sydney was a friendship/affection card from an engineering friend I had know in Columbus, Ohio. Joey, part of the administration at an electronics school where I had taught several years previously, was a shy and intelligent, interesting companion. But, being free from the daily grind made any sacrifice much, much easier to bear, and I so appreciated living a more free-style kind of life. Studying too, was a delight, especially since I no long “had” to finish a degree program. Nonetheless, academia in Australia seemed even more formal and formidable than my American experience, and I fretted about even attending faculty meetings. Soon, I would be expected to be circumspect, cerebral, and creative-a mixture I wasn’t very good at projecting. I prayed that the “jig” was not up for the counterfeit lecturer.
WAIT’S ENGLISH DEPARTMENT
One of the advantages of teaching at the university was that I now had an office in the English Department. I also received a paycheck. I was thrilled. Money had become a real problem with no funds for dinners out, clothes, and sometimes even food. Being a poor student again was a real shock for someone not used to receiving a full paycheck every two weeks!
GOING TO FACULTY MEETINGS AND PARTIES
My officemate was Gabrielle and I was enthralled by her sophisticated, British accent, and her subtle, ironic wit. Generous with her space and time, Gabrielle also had the academic, Aussie style that I had come to recognize. Unlike my boisterous and often too-forward approach, Gabrielle seemed to have an arms length attitude about political, social, and even educational issues. She wasn’t “cold,” however. She had a sophisticated style of speaking, thinking, acting, and, especially, of listening. Watching her at the faculty meetings, I became fascinated with her style of listening and speaking in particular. As with a very clever and polished acrobat, Gabrielle never openly argued any issue in those meetings. Instead, she spoke with many introductory and detailed remarks, followed by her main points. The effect seemed to disarm any objections to her ideas. Her soft-spoken approach was charming and intelligently delivered. I tried to adopt this style of interacting, but I still wasn’t very adept at it. Perhaps this was because I was anxious, or perhaps that I knew my time there was limited and I felt pressured to establish myself as a credible artist and academic.
One of the favored graduate students at WAIT was Jenny Gordon-Smith, a former Channel 10 on-air news personality and a very polished, cerebral member of my semiotics class. Jenny and I became partners in my video project, “The Glory Box,” and became somewhat friends as well. She represented the intelligentsia of Perth and had the credibility of a news personality. She became the on-air interviewer for “The Glory Box,” a role in which she was excellent. I needed an Aussie for interviewing because too many news shows had been done by Americans, and the British as well. The Australian public was very leery of the “Yanks” and the “Brits” telling them what to think and do.
MY FILM CREW IN AUSTRALIA
All together, I had three women from my semiotics class who volunteered to help film my documentary. Michelle, my lead camerawoman, was especially helpful, committed, talented, and trained. Another woman, Karen Kuneman, had filmed several projects of her own and had excellent editing abilities.
Getting a shooting script together was my next challenge, but the biggest challenge of all was getting the women together at the same time for an extended period to shoot the production. That, plus the editing and completing of my video, “The glory Box,” became my biggest hurdles.
Writer in Residence from NYC, Rita Bova, Derek Halgrade
THE WILD WEST ROTARY PARTY
Meanwhile, I was still lecturing for the Rotary and trying to fulfill my duties as a Rotary Ambassador. As usual, I had taken on way too many obligations and I started to panic about getting them all completed. I tried to remember that I had come to Perth to grow and develop, but lecturing; writing and producing a documentary; speaking and performing for the Rotary; and having a personal life now seemed too much like my old manic persona.
The university started in a week and I still wasn’t really ready. Then, I had a call from Phil, my Rotary sponsor, who invited me to a North Perth Wild West Party. At least partying was something I could do well! I put off worrying for the weekend and headed off to the great party ahead.
The Wild West Party took place at a lovely farm/ranch outside of Perth. All around the property were sheep, goats, cattle, and crops gleaming in the sunlight. My Rotary club came dressed as Wild West pioneers with cowboy hats, scarves, jean jackets and skirts, and gingham dresses. We had great fun just doing square dances, singing songs, and eating and drinking all night. Relieving the stress really helped me for the upcoming week of academic pressure. I used my Super-8 camera to film the party and its golden memories/people still laugh on camera for me today.
Phil Dempster, Lynne Dempster, Rotary wife in Indian garb
Wild West Party, Perth 1984
Roger Holt, Rita Bova
Wild West Party, Perth 1984
TEACHING AND LEARNING THE “ROPES”
Facing almost two hundred students in a lecture hall the next week was daunting. Even more so was lecturing about the history of film, with an emphasis on Australian film. I thanked my lucky stars that I had spent almost the whole month of February preparing for these lectures and that many of the films were films that I had already seen. One Australian film in particular that touched my heart was “Jedda,” the story of an Aboriginal woman who was adopted by white settlers and lived on their ranch/station. A beautiful and captivating young woman, Jedda plays classical piano as she longs for her native roots. Jedda falls in love with the Aboriginal station manager and the two of them escape from the confines of the station. Jedda's adopted father and the sheriff chase them through the rusty red canyons of Ayers Rock. An Aboriginal Romeo and Juliet story, “Jedda” and her lover plunge to their deaths just as they are about to be captured. The vivid characters, the majestic country, and the tragedy of these beautiful people radiated from the screen. My dear friends, Vivienne and Lorna, came the night we broadcast this legendary film because it was so treasured and respected by the Aboriginal community.
One of the younger Rotarians, Greg, flirted with me all night. He was a bright, witty, English transplant, and I found him enchanting. Greg was married, but I had learned my lesson from Jordan. We danced and laughed together, but I kept my distance, even when he showed up at the television studio the following week to “take me to lunch.”
Vivienne Corbett Sahanna
Mount Margaret, West Australia 1983
Learning even more than I thought I would, teaching the World Film class was an exhilarating challenge. Several surprises were in store for me. For example, although the students were very knowledgeable about film theory, many of them didn’t know how to write a critical paper analyzing the film’s content and philosophy. I found myself setting up seminars for the students to tech them how to write film critiques because the trend seemed to be to write papers which were summaries of the lectures, not analytical essays. I was basically teaching both the theory of film and the practice of composition – again! I was more prepared than I thought!
I also discovered several other interesting and contrasting practices to college teaching in the States. One amazing contrast was that at the college where I taught, deadlines were much less strict compared to American colleges. For example, when I asked the lead instructor of the course how much I should reduce the students’ grades if their papers were late, I was told to “just put the paper in my mailbox.” I then found out that at WAIT at least, late assignments weren’t graded down. Aussie time seemed to be more fluid, more relaxed, and much less demanding. This relaxation about time became a problem for me as I tried to finish my documentary.
HASSLING WITH MY TALENT
My major complication, besides trying to figure out what to film, was in getting my film crew and talent together at the same time to produce the video. Jenny G. Smith, my talent and interviewer, especially made the completion of the project difficult. Several times I had reserved the equipment for a weekend and Jenny would call at the last minute to cancel because she was ill–or for some other reason. I should have been hip to her procrastination because she hadn’t turned in her final paper for Fiske’s class, which had ended in November. It was now March of the following year and her paper was yet to be done. Also, Jenny didn’t have to leave Australia in June. I had to leave in June because my visa would be up.
Jenny was an excellent interviewer, however, and I was determined to have an Australian voice and personality in my video. The integrity of the piece demanded that the finished documentary, “The Glory Box,” reflect the true Aussie female spirit. After several cancellations producing craziness on my part, Jenny finally came through with excellent interviews based on a set of revealing questions I had scripted for the project.
My film crew was patient, supportive, and creative. I was suddenly on my way to completing what I had come to do: write, direct, and produce a video/film of intensity and controversy. There was more to do, much more. There was more filming, editing, and researching my topic, but that would come in the next couple of months. For now, I was also learning to take life a little slower as my beloved Aussie mates seemed to be doing. “She’ll be right” is an Aussie idiom meaning “Don’t worry, everything will work out.” And, somehow it all seemed to do just that.
MY MARCH BIRTHDAY, NOW IN SUMMER
March second is my birthday and in Ohio it usually meant wild winds, overcast skies, and possibly snow and ice as well. Usually at the height of the Lenten season, the day is generally dull and not very imaginative. My parents went to Florida almost every year on my birthday. I share the day with Pope Pius XII, Donny Osmond, and Desi Arnez. To say it’s an almost non-birthday is an understatement.
In Australia, the opposite was true, just like about everything else! Gorgeous and the height of summer, March second was a really hot birthday. In fact, the temperature was 38 degrees Centigrade, or, in American terms, 98 degrees Fahrenheit! Celebrations with my new mates were fun, fun, and more fun. Swimming in the pool made me feel like a movie star in Hollywood and I experienced warmth, magic, and happiness all around me.
March 2, 1986 Rita Bova at Catteloe Beach
My beloved friend Vivienne brought over a Pavlova cake, a light Aussie confection of meringue, strawberries, and kiwi fruit in a pie-like arrangement. Perfect!
The Kuneman Family, Maureen & Kevin 1983
Pavlova Cake in the middle
Peacock at Perth Zoo, 1984
Viv and I spent the evening at the Perth concert hall, listening to “The Nylons,” a Canadian folk-rock group, still a part of the Perth Arts Festival. In contrast to a North American raucous audience, Australians are not very vocal or forthcoming in their reactions to performances. “The Nylons” seemed bewildered by the civilized responses to their upbeat music. Still, the day was unique, spirited, and uplifting. I even received a card from Jordan from Rio de Janeiro. I still cared deeply for him and longed for our lost love. I couldn’t help thinking about who he was seducing there. My birthday, usually horrible, now had the magic of a warm and sunny summer day.
BIRTHDAY BLUES AMONG THE RAINBOW TIMES
Although my birthday was lovely, special, warm and loving, I still felt the rush of time at my back. I was 37 now, still single, still childless, and still adrift, not knowing how to make may life more fulfilled. Australia was supposed to be my “new” life, but I was six months into the experience with no special romances on the horizon. Joey, my American engineering friend, was still courting me with cards, flowers, candy, and phone calls. I loved hearing from him, but worried that a romance would destroy a loving friendship. I didn’t feel the rush of my long-term love with John or the aching I felt for my forbidden Jordan. I didn’t want to lead Joey on with false hopes. I was literally at sea with my life and I could see it rushing past me. As I wrote in my journal at that time, “Help me, God, to deal with aging, loss, change, challenge, and opportunity, newness and oldness. Help me give back all I can.” I could have also said, “Help me find the completion of myself here.”
Luckily or unluckily, I could throw myself into work and school, which always seemed the way to cope for me. I was still teaching my classes in film, which I loved. And, still taking my semiotics/media classes, and still trying to film, edit, develop, and finish my documentary, “The Glory Box.” I was also lecturing for the West Australia Rotary Club. So, all in all, I tried to bury my loneliness and longing into frenetic activity. I had several flirtations with some of the unmarried Rotary members, but I seemed to be too independent, too combative, and too fat for most of them. Ironically, I had lost a great deal of weight there and looked the best I had ever looked in my life! I also resented the “man’s world,” where looks, slimness, youth, and coquettishness seemed to be all that mattered.
BACK TO CLASS
The Perth Arts Festival, glowing and wonderful as it was, came to an end in late March and school was now in full session. Ironically, April is the autumn season in Perth, and I was all turned around again, thinking of spring back in the USA. The film class was blossoming for me, but I was still having problems with my advisor, John Fiske, who wanted a more political documentary film from me rather than a sociological one. I also was in the second session of my semiotics class, where I was to meet my next star-crossed romance.
NEUROLINGUISTIC PROGRAMMING
My schoolwork, my lecturing, my film making, and the nonstop partying were starting to play havoc with my mental and physical health. Originally, I had escaped to Oz for a break, but now I was as overwhelmed as ever. I decided to try and simplify something. But what? I needed to make a break with some of the non-essential adventuring with people I barely knew, and I also needed to concentrate on filming and finishing my documentary, “The Glory Box.” The Rotary remained my real priority because they sponsored me and I had come to love and respect the members deeply.
Thus, I decided to drop one of my media classes and take on a course taught by my advisor, John Fiske. “Neurolinguistic Programming” was an ominous sounding title, but I would audit the course and still be able to see Fiske. I needed more direction from him, but he was barely ever available. I could write the script in class and get his guidance there. That became my plan of completion and attack. I still had no idea what “Neurolinguistic Programming” was, but then neither did any of the other students. Darren, one of the few single, mature media students at WAIT, also mystified by the course, became my new Aussie friend, companion, sounding board, and eventually, lover.
Warren (Darren) Williams 1984 Perth
DARREN-A NEUROLINGUISTIC ROMANCE
What neurolinguistics turned out to be was the cultural and media programming of a society, or at least that’s how I would say it. “Changes in language alter the individual’s image of self” is how my advisor described it. To be a semiotics professor seemed to mean speaking what appeared to be common sense in the most inflated, convoluted language possible. I was skeptical of this academic discipline, but my new found friend, Darren, appeared to be a “true believer.”
Class turned out to be a circus of various students all vying for Fiske’s approval by sounding as pompous as possible. I would come to respect John Fiske after or during the completion of “The Glory Box” because he forced me to learn and to grow as a writer, director, thinker, and producer. At the time, though, I was a “boat rocker” who constantly challenged the “thinking” or what pretended to be thinking in the classroom. Darren, on the other hand, seemed transfixed by the rhetoric and the topsy turvey logic of this way of life.
Fiske, perhaps mocking my independence, coupled me with Darren on a project involved with the politics of Aussie media. I would like to think that Fiske decided to do this because I was the more intelligent, creative person and Darren the more authentic Aussie, more experienced-in-the-culture person. But, maybe he originated this scheme to be irritating and contrary. Or, maybe he, too, was a romantic at heart.
He was determined to get his Masters Degree in media and to seemingly prove that his wife would be sorry she left such a successful and enlightened man. I had only recently come to understand what an Aussie like Darren had to cope with in a very macho, male-dominated world. His mild, non aggressive manner contrasted acutely with the majority of Aussie men I had met. His intellectual thirst for “something more” was also a hardship for him since such behavior and thinking was not tolerated and was actively discouraged by Aussie society.
DARREN’S AND MY PROJECT
Darren and I met at his parents’ home in Perth, where I discovered over dinner that Darren’s maternal grandfather was an American. His mother seemed so excited to meet me and she focused on every word I said. Darren’s mother had sandy hair, a winsome smile, gentleness and, it seemed, an aching for a more urbane life. She glowed when she said very earnestly that it was a joy to hear an American accent again.
I can’t remember Darren’s father very well. They may have been divorced, or maybe he was in the Outback trying to earn money by being a station hand or a coal miner. Darren’s family were “Aucher”, unlike most of the well-to-do Aussies I had met at the Rotary Clubs, in the university, or in Sydney. The others being independent business people with a technological bent. I was impressed by their down to earth, unpretentious style and their earnestness in seeking a more upscale lifestyle. “Auchers” in general seemed to be the blue collar workers of Oz; hard working, gaunt, and squinty eyed. They were survivors who mistrusted the government, bureaucracy, academia, business, and usually everything. Many were descendents of the original white Australians who were brought to the country as prisoners and convicts.
Williams Family Dinner, 1984
MEAT PIE/AUSSIE LUNCH
Meat pies, much like pot pies in the USA, are the center point of the working, labor class lunch. Held in one hand, with a cold “tinnie” (beer) in the other and covered with tomato sauce (ketchup), Aussies love their down-to-earth pie lunches.
This is one of Australia’s “icon” dishes.
The pastry is always short crust, with sometimes a flaky pastry cover. This recipe makes one large pie or several smaller ones. The smaller ones, just large enough to hold in one hand, are the most common in Australia, being sold as snack food.
Darren Williams & Phil Dempster, 1984
MORE ON THE “AUSSIE WAY”
Darren and I became close friends as we struggled to articulate the gender conflict in Australia as well as in America. Like his mother, Darren had a gentle quality that he had to mask throughout his life in order to “fit in.” Unlike the American society, Australian values didn’t glorify rebellion and being outspoken or defiant in “bucking the system.” Aussies liked to “blend in” instead of actively taking the lead.
Again, I found there was a term for this “don’t rock the boat” mentality that I had perceived but didn’t know was an actual cultural difference between our two societies. The “Tall Poppy Syndrome” is an Aussie cultural phenomenon which seems to mean that one didn’t want to grow taller than the other “poppies” because then the tallest poppy would be cut down. Apparently, this behavior of blending in, not standing out, developed from the convict heritage since being aggressive in prison meant being disciplined cruelly or even possibly death. Aussie convicts survived by being as colorless as possible.
“The Tall Poppy Syndrome” manifested itself dramatically in Aussie academia. Students in my film classes never, or almost never, contradicted me on my film lectures or opinions. In fact, they would solicit my views so that they could include them in their analytical papers; the traditional route there to a higher grade. I had to cajole them to take chances and to think critically for themselves. I even had to raise grades on film reviews from the controller’s initial grading since he assumed that a lower grade was warranted because the lectures in class weren’t quoted verbatim in the students’ work. Thus, Fiske’s semiotics class was a departure from traditional Australian academic thinking since it encouraged critical analysis of the Aussie media, something the typical Aussie student hadn’t been persuaded to do very often. Darren and I spent that dinner talking and thinking about Aussie ads in particular and of the traditional place of women in Australian society. Obviously, such a discussion came directly out of my planning and experience in the making of my documentary, “The glory Box.” More and more I came to appreciate my advisor, Jon Fiske, for helping me grow academically, culturally, personally, and even spiritually.
Darren’s heartbreaking divorce and my star-crossed romance with Jordan made us both wary of a romance between the two of us. Moreover, even though Darren “talked the talk” of an enlightened man, he, too, seemed to be drawn to the meek, feminine ideal especially highlighted in Perth’s provincial lifestyle. His mother’s influence probably had much to do with this. I, too, for all my independence and bravado, was not initially attracted to Darren’s soft-spoken ways and seemingly passive style. But, I was changing in ways I hadn’t really understood or explored at the time. Maybe he was, too. As Darren and I planned our esoteric talks for class, we were also starting to fall in “like” with each other.
THE INTERNATIONAL WOMEN’S FESTIVAL
Darren and I started our odyssey towards a true, mutual mateship and I learned more understanding and tolerance for the Aussie ways. The next day, Darren and I accompanied my dear friend, Vivienne, to an International Women’s Festival in Perth. I had come to really respect Vivienne as a woman who had not only endured, but also transcended the underground sexism and racism in the culture.
As stated earlier, she and Lorna were the daughters of the chief of the Nyoongar Aboriginal tribe, now gone-evaporated-from their tribal lands. When Vivienne’s husband, Michael, had sexually assaulted their daughters, she had left him and taken her six children to live on one of the reserves outside of Perth. She then went to nursing school, became a maternity nurse, and raised her children by herself in a strict, Christian household. Lorna, too, was now the matriarch of the tribe, an accomplished writer and thinker, she would become the first Aboriginal woman to graduate from the college we attended together, The West Australian Institute of Technology. I traveled extensively, especially in the Outback, with both of them, and I love them as my own sisters.
While traveling with them, I had also come to realize how much they endured. I felt the stinging hostility of the ”wajala” (white) culture. At the International Women’s Festival, I experienced more of the feminist rejection of the Victorian thought and lifestyle still lurking at the base of Australian life. Darren and I were “outsiders” to the frustration many women felt in employment, in the arts, in marriage, in society, and in their own thoughts and actions. Viv, Darren, and I viewed several films such as “My Brilliant Career,” “The Judy Country,” and “Seventeen,” to name a few that described the subtle repression of the female spirit.
Vivienne especially endured both sexism and racism, and my heart went out to her because of the loneliness she felt from being rejected by traditional society and by traditional female-male roles Aboriginal men, generally, had been demoralized because of their contrary values to white culture, their lack of traditional education, and their addiction to toxic substances such as alcohol and drugs. Both Vivienne and Lorna were teetotalers and drank no alcohol because of the massive alcoholism that ran rampant in the Aboriginal peoples.
Rotary Women, Cheryl from South Africa, 1984
After the festival, Darren and I talked for hours about the cultural differences between Australia and America I hadn’t realized until I became more familiar with the society how the gender struggle had emerged in a large part due to the origins of the white European culture. For example, in nineteenth century Sydney, the only women there were prostitutes or wives of the clergy. Such a contrast would create a vast difference in the emerging society. Even though I was steeped in my classes and projects at WAIT, I was still a Rotary Ambassador and lecturing about Columbus, Ohio, USA, across West Australia.
THE ROTARY REGIONAL CONFERENCE AT BUNBURY
That weekend I traveled to Bunbury, West Australia, for the state Rotary Conference. I was scheduled to lecture to over a thousand Rotarians about my scholarship and studies in Perth that year. As usual, I felt frazzled and also a bit intimidated by the huge audience I would face. What can one say to an audience of over a thousand people except “Thanks for the memories.” ?
Bunbury, West Australia, is a lovely seacoast town which seemed to gleam in the sun next to the glittering Indian Ocean. The Rotary Conference hosted clubs from across West Australia, a state which covers three times the area of Texas.
Maybe it’s my nostalgic memory, but the club members seemed so generous, polite, friendly, and engaging. My club and its members seemed to have a boisterous personality and their sunny dispositions seemed to counter my brooding about what to say and do next. Mike, the divorced Rotarian I had dated a few times, accompanied me to the festivities and events there. He also confessed that while he enjoyed my company, he didn’t see much of a romance for us since he didn’t find me the type of woman he liked, In other words, he didn’t find me very physically attractive (too fleshy for him). While I appreciated his honesty, I again felt saddened and at sea with myself. I then wander as lonely as a clod and a cloud.
Bunbury Rotary Conference, 1984
Rita Bova & Wife of Rotary Governor
Back to Perth and back to “The Glory Box,” I did my usual, throwing myself into work, work, and more work. My interviewer, Jenny Gordon Smith, still was quite difficult and almost impossible to tie down to a schedule. She still hadn’t finished her media paper for John Fiske, which was due back in November of 1983. It was now closing in on the end of March, 1984, so making even imprecise deadlines wasn’t very significant to her. My visa as a student in Oz ended at the end of July of 1984, so I could feel the anxiety of the end of my experience there looming ahead. Rather than trying to film without Jennie, I decided to edit some of our footage to see if I could work around the gaps in my script. Meanwhile, the young Aussies in the Rotary House dorm decided to have last gigantic party, The Mad Hatter Party, before the semester really got underway.
THE MAD HATTER PARTY
“The Mad Hatter” party was basically a costume party with a twist of “Alice in Wonderland” to really give it an edge. My floor at the Rotary House dorm was all women and was fondly called “The Convent.” I personally preferred it that way since it significantly cut down the mingling of the sexes and their courtships which seemed to go on forever in the other parts of the mixed gender Rotary House.
Jennie, Ruth, Hong Kuan, and others decided to go as “degenerate nuns” and Ruth sewed veils for all of us. I played “Mother Superior” in a tight black dress bought at a local thrift store, wearing black mesh hose, boots, the veil, and a long cigarette holder. The others also wore varying stages of black mini-skirts, corsets, hose, and sexy underwear, and, of course, the veils. When we walked into the party, we were met with the stunned looks on the others’ faces, as well as uproarious laughter. The party was raucous, an all-night, blasting affair with non-stop dancing, romancing, and drug taking. Stars were glimmering above in the Southern Cross and beaming down on us as I went with several of the others for a bush walk and a stroll around the pond on the grounds. I felt as if I were in the end of “La Dolce Vita,” when the crowd of partiers all stream down to the ocean, a parade of decadent revelers in the midst of natural beauty and an innocent horizon surrounding them. Aussies know how to party, there was no doubt about that!
BACK TO WORK-SORT OF
Monday came, blurry-eyed and bright, and so did the resumption of classes. Although I should have been very able to sleep since I had so little of it for several days, I had developed insomnia. Slogging through my teaching and learning was difficult and worrisome. Seeing that I was starting to get a little frayed around the edges, beloved Rotary friends asked me to come and stay at their home for the weekend. Clay and Austra Brown came to the Rotary House and took me to their home for the weekend. I was delighted since the Rotary House and its inhabitants were still celebrating “The Mad Hatter” party from the weekend before.
A SHORT, TRANQUIL TIME
The Browns were another wonderful couple that I came to love and admire. Clay Brown was an officer with the Australian rail lines. His wife, Austra, was an immigrant from Yugoslavia, coming to Australia after World War II. Both of them had loving and gentle auras about them, filled with generosity and kindness. Because I was feeling so much turmoil over my project, my personal life, and my awareness that time was fleeting, I needed the serenity of being with them for a short while. Their home was built seemingly in the center of the bush lands with an open, natural feeling. Outside was a pool with a natural spring flowing into it in a waterfall configuration. Luxuriating in their pool was glorious while all around me daffodils bloomed and glistened in the sun. Clay had planted more than 400 daffodils in their garden and the visual beauty of the golden flowers under a bright, blue sky was wonderful. That weekend was magical and I was finally able to relax and sleep!
John Grant, 1984
Rita Bova with Rotary wives Mary Dawes (left) & Joan Grant (center)
BACK TO THE “REEL” WORLD
After a brief weekend of comfort and solitude, I was back at the Rotary House, classes, and “The Glory Box” project. When I returned, I was immediately told that one of my former beaus in the USA, David, had called to tell me that he had married Catherine over the weekend. David and I had been engaged during college and I had broken the engagement a month before our wedding, about seven years previously. He had gone on to become a lawyer in Chicago, had married (this was marriage number two), but he had wanted me to regret that I had seemingly “left him at the altar.” His second marriage news wasn’t really a surprise, but hearing it did have the effect of making me wonder if I had made the right decision then. I had followed my intuition, which kept telling me “no,” but I still hadn’t found any sense of completeness with any companion since. Following that, I received a letter from Jordan, who had recently returned from time in Rio, Los Angeles, Cuba, and New York. I couldn’t help wondering if he had “someone” in each of these places and if he ever spent any time at all in Canada. As usual, I felt the rush of time at my back and a kind of anger.
But, I didn’t have much time to brood because the pilot of my video was due and I still had problems with my narrator, Jennie Smith, who had failed to show up for our last editing /scripting/ narrating session. Uneven talent can drive one crazy, I decided, and so I just went ahead and used the commercials as my soundtrack without any narration at all! I was determined NOT to have an American voice on an Aussie documentary. As such, “The Glory Box” had a patchwork quilt quality that symbolized an authentic womanly experience in Perth, West Australia.
FINISHING THE PILOT OF “THE GLORY BOX”
Editing “The Glory Box” became my next challenge with getting the editing suite only one of the difficulties. After piecing together the elements filmed so far and completing the script, I decided to show John Fiske the pilot. As usual, Fiske’s critical eye caught all the incomplete elements of it, but he did remark on its creativity, authenticity, and style. He said that I had caught a truly vulnerable element of Aussie womanhood, and he congratulated me on my perception and sensitivity and intelligence. He also said that I had to redo several shots which were too murky for the screen. So, it was back to more on-the-street documenting.
OFF TO “THE GLORY BOX” MALLS
I set out with Darren and my film crew to go to the City Centre Malls in downtown Perth. Glittering, new, shiny, and glowing, the store windows beckoned with avant-garde mannequins which drew in the excited shoppers, mainly women. It was the perfect backdrop for my video documentary, for the windows were filled with exotic yet glamorous silent scenes of female statues wearing glimmering bridal gowns, rich furs and fabrics, and the latest in fashion for the youth-minded buyers. There was even one set of mannequins tied up in ropes, wearing the latest in halter tops, mini-skirts, and bejeweled fashions. I couldn’t have found a more dramatic background for “The Glory Box” themes if I had designed them myself.
HOLY THURSDAY
Ironically, our filmmaking took place over Holy Week, specifically “Holy Thursday,” and I worried that many shoppers would be hesitant to shop during this High Holy Day in Christianity. I shouldn’t have worried, because no one seemed aware of the significance of the day at all! Because Australians are not, or don’t seem to be, as religious as Americans, they don’t seem as influenced by traditional religious occasions. Other than my Aboriginal Aussie friend, Vivienne, who is a very spiritual, as well a religious person, I didn’t know any Aussies who seemed very involved with religion in any way. I found that observation a little sad for me since my faith had deepened during my time Down Under.
Thus, my film crew, Darren, and I traveled to downtown Perth that Thursday in hopes of discovering more insights into the female soul and representing them in my documentary. Again, the shoppers seemed to echo the same themes over and over, “too fat, too old, too out-of-fashion, and too inferior,” and we didn’t have to probe very far to get these reactions. I was both gratified, yet mournful for these beautiful Aussie ladies who mirrored these belittling comments about themselves, without much prodding or any pushing at all. Darren, too, was shocked at how deeply the sense of inferiority ran for these lovely and very winsome women. Clearly, the “Cultural Cringe” had run very deeply in a personal direction and the market movers and shakers were mining this mother lode of feeling mediocre for all it was worth. That day’s filming reflected perfectly the themes of the pilot. Tired, but inspired, we left the mall, only to be stopped short by more anti-American sentiment.
Darren & me in John Grant’s home, August 1984
WHO AM I, ANYWAY?
As we left the shining siren song of Perth’s downtown malls, I was stopped by an older, seemingly English or native-born Australian who had been observing our film making of the lady shoppers. Apparently, we had interviewed his quite meek and submissive wife and he disapproved of our interference and presence in the mall way, being subversive to the traditional culture of Australia.
Stopping me, he demanded to know “who we were and what were we filming there.” After I answered that we were from the West Australian Institute of Technology’s media and film class, he replied, “And what’s a Yank doing,” referring to me, “knowing about Australia?” I tried to assure him that our intentions were admirable, even if they weren’t, but he grabbed my arm and tried to push his way into getting our video tapes. Shocked, since I had never seen an Aussie acting so aggressively, I pulled back and we all started running out of the mall. “Go back to the USA,” he shouted. “We don’t need your kind here.” I just prayed that he wasn’t part of the Australian Rotary Club.
Later that evening, I said my good-byes to Darren as I pondered the day and its events. I felt that I had uncovered a subtle, yet painful part of the feminine experience. I still didn’t know the answer, if there was one, or if the belittled and judged female identity was a universal one.
CHAPTER 6
DINNER AT MAX’S
The next day was Good Friday and a day where I would be traveling with Vivienne to Broome, West Australia, a pearl diving town 2,000 miles from Perth along the west coast of Australia. Viv was going to meet and live with her Arab-Aboriginal fiancé, Jack, who had just won the Australian lottery of about $100,000. It would be one of the most profound trips of my time in West Australia and I was exhausted, yet exhilarated by the prospect of it. Meanwhile, Jennie, Eva, Max, and I, all women who lived in the Rotary House, were having dinner the night before at Max’s dormitory condo. All of us had about ten days off for school holidays. Most of us were going to stay with parents somewhere on the continent of Australia.
A STING AND A SMILE
What I hadn’t anticipated was Max’s scorching comments and attitudes toward the Aboriginal people, saying several derogatory comments and pejorative name-calls during our otherwise friendly and loving dinner together. Shocked, I asked Max to repeat her last comments, thinking that I hadn’t understood correctly what she had said. She replied, again calling the Aboriginal people “wogs” and “Jackie-Jacks,” words similar to the N-word in American life.
Shocked, I stood up and started to leave, saying I wouldn’t participate in such racist talk, especially since my truly best friends, Vivienne and her sister, Lorna, were my most treasured companions. Chagrined, Max replied that Americans had a lot to apologize for, too. Slavery being one of the greatest evils in the world ever. Agreeing with her I said that I had felt that terrible sting often in my life and that Americans indeed were quite guilty of racism. I also pointed out to her that she must have felt the pain of being an outsider, looked down upon, being an Italian-Australian. I had felt it profoundly and I had been there only six months. Eva, too, agreed with me that as a first generation Polish-Australian, she too felt the agony of not being accepted, especially as a young child. Max then apologized profusely and we all tried to reconcile our mutual talents, sensitivities, experiences, and caring for one another. That dinner reflected an undercurrent of Australian life in much more than just the food, friends, and wines.
ANOTHER PRAYER
After our turbulent dinner the night before, I prayed for my beloved friends Lorna and Vivienne. I also prayed for Max, a truly loving person, but affected so roughly by the deeply ingrained racist atmosphere. Vivienne was coming to take me on yet another long distance and profound car trip the next day. I marveled at her energy, spirit, and love and I eagerly looked forward to seeing the wild and woolly countryside coming up (or down under).
GOOD FRIDAY, APRIL 20, 1984
The next morning I awoke to a bright, beautiful, blue-skied morning and I packed to go with Vivienne on our own jaunt to Broome, West Australia. We are on our way to the red-hearted outback, the center and symbol of Aussie mythology. It is a 2,000-mile trip from Perth to the Aboriginal interior. Broome is a pearl-diving town shining as it skirts the ocean. It is the entry way north to the mysterious heart of Australia.
Vivienne, my beloved friend and soul sister, is the color of honey and caramel with a soul equally sweet and a mind with incredible depth. My heart is torn since I know she is moving to Broome to be with her fiancé, Jack, and this will be the last extended time we have together. We drive Viv’s white Ford Holden with her son, Luke, sleeping off a hangover in the back seat. She is truly the ambassador to the outback for me and I ma blessed to have such a wonderful friend and experience.
The drive is glorious, with long, long stretches of unoccupied highway with one-lane traffic. The horizon stretches out like a giant hand, going, going, going. Mounds of desert glow with giant red anthills on both sides, some six feet tall. When we come across a motorist broken down, we stop to help since the next car could be hours or days away. I see “Willie Willie’s” – tiny tornadoes - off in the distance as we start up again. The sun glares hot and the sky is a piercing mirror of heat and sweat.
We continue our drive up north and the giant lizards, red dust, and swirls of pink and tropical birds seem to introduce us to this new world. Crossing the “Tropic of Capricorn,” I take a picture of us standing and smiling in the sun. We still have at least two days to go on our odyssey to see Jack.
Kasha Reserve, 1984
Rita Bova and Lorna Corbett Little Bentley, West Australia 1984
Rita Bova Koala bears for sale 1986
WALKABOUT HOTEL
That night we stay at the Walkabout Hotel in Port Hedland. Walkabout is an Aboriginal term that translates into taking a break, sometimes months or years, from one’s responsible job, worries, and just plain living. Americans need more of this idea and Australians revel in it. Walkabout Motel is filled with bikers, stock car racers, and truckers on their way to an Easter Sunday morning competition. The sounds of car engines revving wake us as we rise on East Sunday morning to continue our drive up north.
We are in Port Holland, a seaport town set up for shipping and commerce. Small, it is tucked into the Indian Ocean. Port Hedland’s connection to the turquoise sea contrasts with the scarlet landscape all around us. Driving and more driving onward, we are now joined in our conversations by Luke, Viv’s 18-year old son. Luke is a handsome, earth, and bright-eyed young man who has traveled through Australia and England as an actor in a drama called “The Dreamers.” “The Dreamers” is a tragic play b Aboriginal playwright Jade Davis and it chronicles the degradation of an Aboriginal family in Perth contrasted to their majestic origins at the beginning of time.
Luke Fuller (background) and Michael Fuller, 1983
HOLY SATURDAY, APRIL 21, 1984
We stop at a campsite in Dampier, a miniscule town in West Australia. He we ran into several blokes who could be in the movies. Walter, a leathery Yank from Chicago told me that he escaped from prison in the U.S., moved to Australia, and married some poor, unsuspecting Aussie Sheila. He was wild and I guess I believed him. Another was an Irishman from Belfast who told me that it’s as bad in Belfast as everyone says it is. They are prospecting for gold and, by their own admission, very horny. We ran to the car, lucky that Luke was with us.
Vivienne and I decided to continue driving into the dark night after our brief encounter with the blokes. The night itself looked like a UFO was about to emerge at any time. It was the deepest and darkest evening I had ever seen. The stars were as bright as bits of glass on a black, varnished backdrop.
We stopped at a roadhouse tavern to try and get some grub. Whim Creek Motel, the roof of which was blown off by cyclone Chloe, was a long, brittle, broken-down building. The food was surprisingly tasty and earthy. Vivienne and I split an Aussie burger, the insides of which contained almost everything edible known to the burger-loving world; pickles, sunny-side-up egg, beets, lettuce, tomato, onion, and even Vegemite (a pungent, brown, salty paste loved by the Australians, though no one knows why). I made the mistake of asking for a drink with ice. Everyone laughed. Ice is truly a delicacy in the outback, where droughts are the usual way of life.
We drove all night. The lure of the sunny beaches and exotic men ad women were awaiting us. Jack, Vivienne’s lover, lived in Broome and her driving seemed to go faster as we approached this pearl diving playground.
EASTER SUNDAY, APRIL 22, 1984
I fell asleep in the back of the car and awoke as Luke saw a giant brown snake crossing the road in front of our car. It was a King Brown, a nasty, poisonous snake whose bite will kill you in fifteen minutes. It was early morning and the sky was bright, rose color. The translucent light was pure and penetrating. “It’s going to be hot,” Viv said. I was beginning to understand what she meant.
The heat here is not like the dense, heavy kind in the Midwest, but a dry, sauna-like atmosphere that seems to be everywhere. Immediately my eyes crinkled up and become slit-like. We shed as much clothing as possible.
We drive to the middle of Broome, a shanty-like place with dusty streets fringed by an eighty-mile beach of sparkling turquoise water and white beaches and sharks. I asked Vivienne where Jack’s house is and she laughed as she stopped the car to ask an old ad withered Aboriginal woman passing by. It was obvious that everyone knew everyone in the area. I found out later that Jack knew we were coming even before we got to his place.
We drove to Jack’s and were greeted by an already drunk Jack and Stan, a gaunt Thursday islander whose main claim to fame is that he spent his time in Aussie prisons for some crime no one wants to talk about. He, too, is boozed up, and I find that is the main Broome activity as we are greeted heartily and strangely.
I insist on going down to Cable Beach, the famed eighty miles of beach that stretches as far as I ever hoped to see. It is filled with marauding teenagers in various stages of dress, also boozing and partying to the sounds of the Beach Boys. Again, I marvel at the fact that it’s Easter Sunday, remembering back to the days when we wore light pink dresses and sweet flowered hats to church on that day. Underneath the frolicking, the exotic beauty, the pleasure seeking seems a sinking, shaky, wobbling world where snakes and spiders and bikers seem only the most obvious dangers.
Cable Beach, Broome, West Australia 1984
Rita Bova, Easter 1984, West Australia
Rita Bova, Easter Caravan
Playing didjeridoo
Percy Hanson, Viv’s brother-in law, wedding 1994
OUTBACK DINNER
Vivienne miraculously pulls together dinner for us using just a skillet for a stir-fry meal, along with Kangaroo Tail Soup she had brought from the market in town. After seeing these gentle creatures hopping along as we drove at night made me leery about eating them. Viv confessed that she, too, no longer ate kangaroo but substituted ox tail for this dish.
That night after the meal, we talked by the campfire next to the almost-built house Jack had financed from his winning lottery money. By Broome standards, it is a palace since it will have air conditioning, several lovely rooms, a garden, and n attic with a skylight to the stars. Because the house hasn’t been finished yet, the air conditioning isn’t working and the heat is intense, omnipresent, and overwhelming. Like a giant sauna, the dry heat penetrates everyone and everything. I decided to sleep under the stars and Southern Cross that sparkled about us. Viv tried to talk me out of it because it is not any cooler outside, but I insisted.
Later I found out that what she was really worried about were the snakes, not to mention the additional worry of Stan, who I found out later was a convicted rapist!
EVENING WITH LUKE UNDER THE STARS
Luke gallantly offered to sleep outside with me with our cots next to each other. Luke and I have a dramatic bond with one another; me responding to his youthful sensuality and him to my perceived exotic sophistication.
Luke’s motives weren’t exactly noble as I later realized when the two of us cuddled and kissed together under the shining and romantic southern hemisphere sky. Only 18, Luke had a lot more sexual experience than most people I knew, including myself. Fortunately the obnoxious mosquitoes, huge and very hungry, swarmed around us and interrupted what could have been a night of lust rather than romance. The constant buzzing and torturous mosquito biting prompted me to end our make out session and return to the blazing heat inside rather than stay in the night’s passionate heat outside. Besides, betraying my friendship with Vivienne, Luke’s mother, was the last action I ever intended to do.
Luke Fuller in “The Dreamers,” 1983
MORE SNAKES!
The next morning glowed with the coral and blue skies and I awoke to a gasping heat all around me. Everyone except Viv and me were flat out asleep after drinking almost all night. The dream-time metaphor and prehistoric myth became more and more real in the mysterious, romantic, and subtly treacherous place. As Viv and I investigated the property around Jack’s emerging home, the land seemed barren, red-eyed, and silent – just as the people inside. As we walked back, Viv pointed out a small circle under the cot I had attempted to sleep on the night before. A snake was under my bed that night; a tiny and poisonous Dugite that had attempted to find cool shelter that evening. That night had been filled with real and symbolic snakes all around me!
MEDITATING ON THE BEACH
Skirting the town of Broome was the eight-mile beach called Cable Beach. Cable Beach’s beauty was bright, pure, brilliantly blue and shone like sapphires in the sun. Vivienne and I meditated and prayed together as we walked along the beach that seemed to go on forever. After our truly spiritual experience, I suggested that the two of us swim in the turquoise tide gleaming in the sun. Luxuriating in Cable Beach’s waters, I noticed that Viv held a huge knife in her hand as we swam.
“What’s that for?” I ask. “For the electric eels and sharks which swim in these waters,” she responded. Then Viv calmly says, “Rita, we’d better o back to the beach because I see some fish jumping out of the water over there. Something is chasing them. Probably a shark.”
Viv and I were out of the water in about twenty seconds! Sharks! Snakes! Eels! And alcoholics and rapists too!
Back at Jack’s house, the rest of the group emerged as Boyd and Lynne, two of Jack’s friends, arrive. Already the town of Broome knew I was a guest here and Boyd and Lynne have come to meet the American film director and producer (me). It is Anzac Day, a day when the Aussies and New Zealanders remember their comrades killed in various world wars. Boyd, a craggy and flinty-eyed Aucker, was wounded in World War II, and I wished him a happy nzac Day. Luke laughed since Anzac Day is a day of mourning and is supposed to be somber and reflective, not happy.
Anzac Day, Australia 1987
Lorna Corbett Little, Rita Bova, Mary Ann Oestreich, Vivienne Corbett Sahanna
As we spent the morning in the shade under a sun becoming redder and redder, Viv suggested going to town and seeing the main street before the afternoon’s unbearable heat ser in. Walking from Jack’s house, we came upon Boyd and Lynne’s house dug deep in the ground, a shanty earth house. Covered with vines and leaves, I almost walked into it. It is a cavern with lots of junk and darkness hidden from the street. Luke called it “a typical bushie house,” and I am amazed at its open yet secretive existence. Boyd has a bush-smart personality and is his own man, like it or not. Much like Viv’s Jack, Boyd lives a life of being on the edge. Lynne, his wife, is a tiny, frail woman who seems lost, clinging to Boyd’s craggy, rock-like character. Twenty years younger, Lynne is a child-woman, fragile and almost dried up from the sun.
We walked into the dusty town that looked like the set of a western television show. Heading for the pub, the only place in town that is air conditioned, we decided to have lunch and rest for awhile. Both Jack and Lynne limit their lunches to beer and more beer. Lynne, too, is an alcoholic and she is the town “bike” whenever she gets drunk, which is usually every day. Boyd’s fierceness comes from trying to protect Lynne from other men and from herself.
While we eat lunch in the pub, the town’s people who wanted to know all about me surrounded us. I was flattered and a bit overwhelmed. Jack generally chased them off. Viv and Boyd asked me to talk with Lynne about her drinking problem. Somehow i was to convince her to stop drinking and being promiscuous. I tried very gently to talk to her about her alcoholism and the general walk of life. She was in denial, saying her night out are just a good time. No one takes them very seriously, she said in a weary tone of voice. I told her that I had attended a few Alcoholics Anonymous meetings in the States. Although I am not an alcoholic, I found the meetings and the people there very comforting back when I was experiencing so much turmoil in my life. Apparently Broome did have an AA meeting, but Lynne wouldn’t go because everyone there would think she was an alcoholic. I found this amazing because everyone already knew she was an alcoholic. I sensed a deep despair and sadness emanating from this tiny woman.
ROEBUCK BEACH
Walking home, I stopped by Roebuck Beach and pondered the universe. Yesterday was Easter Sunday, but today I seemed to be in a surfing movie. On the beach I met several Aussie people who were traveling across the continent, moving from beach to beach. They had been doing this for at least six months. “How do you live?” I asked them, since they seemed completely carefree, or in Aussie lingo, they “have no worries, mate.” They were having their dole (welfare) checks forwarded to them at post offices from beach to beach. Again, I was amazed. Sailboats appeared seemingly from out of nowhere gliding across the still, translucent water. Above was a perfect cloudless sky and all along the beach tanned and toned bodies were drinking non-stop.
The Fitzgeralds, Curl Curl Beach, January 1984
I was enchanted by the beach scene, not noticing that the afternoon was so rapidly advancing. Suddenly everyone was gone and night fell immediately. One minute it was light, the next dark. No twilight at all, it seemed. Next there was the “Golden Staircase to the Moon,” a beautiful and mesmerizing natural sight where the ocean seems to climb up steps to the moon.
I then realized that I was in complete darkness and I heard a rustling behind me on the ground. “A snake?” I wondered, terrified. Fortunately, Viv and Jack had retrieved the car and had driven to the car park above Roebuck Beach. They turned on the lights, giving me enough light to climb the steps to the car park. I turned again to see the golden moon glowing a path to the sky and I hurried to meet my dear friends.
TRIP TO BEAGLE BAY
Tuesday was yet another incredible day. Again, rising early, I walked to the beach and saw lavender morning glories cascading down the beach slopes. Today we are driving with Jack to Beagle Bay where he was raised on an Aboriginal reserve by an order of German Catholic religious brothers. We drove for two hours in Jack’s Land Rover through the bush over unpaved red clay roads to a small settlement dominated by a Catholic church called Our Lady of Peace. Jack, an orphan, was born to an Aboriginal lady and an Afghani camel driver some time in the 1920s. The Australian government brought over Afghani camel drivers after World War I so that the drivers could carry goods over the tough outback terrain. Apparently these drivers did more than ferry goods during their time in Broome, West Australia.
JACK, A SURVIVOR
As the harsh, arid, and stark beauty of this land, Jack had a fierceness and strength that emerged when he wasn’t drinking. A success story for this orphanage/ reserve, he was the only person to achieve a technical degree and work at a complex tradesman job during his younger years. I enjoyed talking politics with Jack, an avid reader of political publications and American media, such as “Time” magazine. And, I found out later that he protected me from Stan, the Thursday Island rapist, who had been eying me since my arrival.
Jack Sahanna, Basil Maher, Vivienne Corbett Sahanna
Bobby & Jason Maher
Arriving at Beagle Bay, we were swamped by shabby Aboriginal people, some who were Jack’s relatives, thrilled to see Jack, knowing he had just won the lottery. Wide-eyed and beautiful while at the same time disoriented and zombie-like, they trailed us as we went over to the magnificent Our Lady of Peace church, which was white, shining and beacon-like, emerging from the harsh environment like a pearl from the Indian Ocean.
THE MOTHER OF PEARL ALTAR
Walking into the church, we were met by the cool darkness contrasting with the scorching heat and sun outside. The glowing altar was created with mother of pearl seashells and gleamed in the cavernous environment. I was moved and awestruck as we prayed for the many souls who survive and have survived on this land. Brother William came and clasped Jack’s hand, welcoming him home.
Brother William, a warm and learned man, is a priest who came to Broome after World War II as a German prisoner of war. Captured by the Yanks in Berlin at the crisis point of the war and the liberation of Europe from the Nazis, Brother William’s face was a worn map of wisdom and suffering. He told me that he was grateful that he was captured by us Yanks because, if he had been captured by the Russians, he could still be a prisoner of war in a gulag today. He was given the choice of being sent to South America or Australia as a missionary. Thus he came to be here in Broome. A gentle and aged man, he spoke in a poignant and soft voice. I was again transported in thought to the many layers of experience in this arid an mysterious land, full of beauty and suffering.
THE TRIP BACK
Driving back, we stopped at a bottle shop where drive-through beer and wine are available. Jack drinks nearly 25 beers daily and he had a special refrigerator set up to house his liquor. He would growl at anyone who even came near his stash. While at his home, I saw several men taking crates of grog (beer) to a semi-truck to the ceiling with booze. “Guess you’re stocking up for the year,” I said to these beefy blokes who work on the oil derricks in the Indian Ocean. “Oh, no,” they said. “This is only for the weekend party.”
We continued to drive back to Jack’s house in Broome. In the distance I saw lightening flashes in the darkening sky. The immense heat created these flashes of electricity. Back at jack’s I prepared to leave the next day on a bus back to Perth and the remainder of the semester. Jack, Stan, Luke and others I didn’t know stayed up all night drinking.
21 grandchilderen at the wedding of Vivienne Corbett Fuller & Jack Sahanna
August 8, 1994
BACK TO PERTH
The next day I was in a fog since I couldn’t sleep well with the heat, drinking, and arguing all around me the night before. I also felt a deep sadness because Viv was staying and I didn’t know when I would be able to see her again. My bus to Perth would be a two-day trip and, upon arrival, I would have to rush to class since I was getting back later than I had planned. Luke and
Stanley took me to the bus. On the way we stopped at a Japanese cemetery where the pearl diving industry started in this area. Boyd surprised us and met us at the station. Boyd had packed me a lunch and gave me $20 for the trip. Viv told me that Boyd is a descendant of William the Conqueror and I can see his gallantry under the scarred exterior. Stan said that he would call me when he gets to Perth, and I pray that I am not there when he does.
On the road again, the driver traveled through miles of dark, empty and shadowy bush lands. Exhausted, I fell asleep for a few hours. I was almost dizzy from the heat and non-stop partying. Waking, I saw red, dusty roads and a mining camp with several flat, air-conditioned barracks where Aussie men live while on their isolated jobs. I could see the prison atmosphere exhibited in these dark and desolate buildings.
ON THE BUS
The bus trips are in themselves an adventure. The mood always seems convivial since the trips last several days at a time. I met Joan, from New York, a spunky young lady who saved for five years for this Aussie trip. Lillian, a spry grandmother from Leeds, England, was here after staying with her son at the mining camp, which was scorching hot and isolated. She appeared disoriented, felt ill, and I tried to help her get comfortable and sleep. The bus seemed to cruise through the bush, passing wide-porched homes with hidden gardens behind them. I saw baby kangaroos hopping from under the bushes in the sudden darkness. Spooky, misty, and shadowy, the bus’ hypnotic road trip was suddenly broken when it broke down in the middle of nowhere. I was told I was in a caravan when off in the distance I saw a massive telecommunications earth station antenna dish that was as large as an office building or downtown apartment. The Earth Station Dish relays television programs throughout Brown’s range, the expanse between Perth and Broome. I wondered if it was also a satellite for spy tracking. It sure looked formidable and obtrusive. We all sat there warm, worried and worn out.
Bus Ride
ARRIVAL AT WAIT
Two hours later, we were again on our way to Perth. Before arriving, we stopped at a way station just outside the city to try and have some semblance of civilized living. After a cool shower and a change of clothes, I felt more comfortable but still in a daze from lack of sleep and the piercing heat and sunlight. Arriving in the middle of the day, I ran to class since I was already late. Darren was there, waiting for me and wanting to know how my trip went. Tomorrow would be May Say, the international day of the Chinese Communist Party, with a parade in the downtown streets with banners and signs. We agreed to go together and I found myself looking forward to spending the time with him. At Rotary House, I collapsed and slept for twelve hours. I felt as if I hadn’t slept for days. I awoke in the very early morning hours to find stacks of mail and packages waiting for me.
CHAPTER 7
TOO MUCH TWO SOON
Back at Rotary House, I find letters from Jordan, who is traveling worldwide for Canadian Industry. One was posted from Sweden and another from Germany and I wondered if he actually ever saw his wife. I also received letters from my former fiancé, John, now a mathematics professor at a college in Virginia. I’d also been very much in love with him; breaking up with him because he never wanted children tortured me. John was now involved with an associate mathematics professor and still didn’t want what I had wanted so passionately. I also received an upbeat and warm note from a former student, now a friend, teaching at Columbus Technical Institute.
My friend Joey, a Viet Nam vet, was an older student who’d lived a colorful life after leaving the service. He traveled the world and had lived in Europe and Africa for ten years before returning home. I found myself looking longingly at his accompanying picture because the sexual sparks had flown between us while I was in Columbus. Ours was truly a deep simpatico and pure friendship, but I did feel attracted to him as well.
Melbourne Art Museum, December 1983
MORE TIME TO TRAVEL
Thinking about my past and my future, my present world was starting to crumble around me. I needed more time to finish my projects, accept the fact that I was leaving, and to find more money as well. I decided to go to Derek Holcomb, my original advisor, to get a job at the WAIT Media Centre.
TAKING ON ANOTHER MISSION
Holcomb seemed pleased that I came to him with my request for a position at the college. Calling me Dr. Bova, he expected a more academic individual, but he did find a temporary screenwriting job at the Media Centre, which would last until August. Holcomb and his wife were off to Indonesia – did they ever stay at home? – for a Pacific Rim Festival. They asked if I’d house sit while they were gone. I said, “Yes, of course.”
Holcomb, a little embarrassed that we had had little contact since I had arrived in August, nine months earlier, wanted to add some polish to my stay. I was thrilled to have a little solitude from the Rotary Dorm and a little romance since Darren and I planned a love nest weekend in the Holcomb’s absence.
MORE THAN RABBIT STEW
While at the Holcomb’s home, I decided to have a classical French/Aussie dinner with Darren, complete with Rabbit Stew, wine, garlic, and shallots. I’d heard that rabbit, which I had never had in the USA, was comparable to chicken and had a wild and exotic taste. So, off I went to the butcher shop and purchased my first and only rabbit pieces for the Rabbit-A-Vin Stew.
Cooking the stew was a chore that I never anticipated. Besides trying to marinate and sauté the rabbit, I found the rabbit to be tough, stringy, and unpalatable, no matter how long I boiled it with the shallots, wine, and extra garlic.
I found out later that rabbit means bunnies, not the adult version, if one wanted to have a tender and sweet romantic dinner. Even Darren couldn’t eat the Rabbit-A-Vin, so we stayed in, drank wine, watched the stars, and eventually retired to Derek’s bedroom for more satisfying activities - much to the Holcomb’s dismay, I find out when they return the next week!
WAIT faculty blokes at the Faculty Club
DATING DOWN UNDER
Darren and I continued to spend a lot of time together. I was finishing up “The Glory Box” and starting to panic because my visa was up in mid-June. Besides not having the video edited and finished, I also became very worried and anxious about returning to the United States. I had come to love the ways of the Aussie west and wanted to spend much more time enjoying the people and the area. I was also falling in love with Darren, who was chivalrous and sensitive; though not as daring or charismatic as my previous male companions. Darren and I spent several evenings at the apartment he shared with several other WAIT students. Winter was upon Perth and I was surprised at just how clammy and cold the Aussie homes could become. Unlike American homes, Aussie homes didn’t have central heating because winter generally was short and mild. Even so, the nights became quite chilly and snuggling up with a romantic fellow was a true delight.
I’M NOT IN LOVE, OH NO!
Darren and I had an intellectual bond and now a physical one as well. Thin, wiry, and gaunt-looking, Darren looked like a ranch hand or a coal miner. I felt robust, younger, and seemed to overwhelm him with my zest for life and love. Neither of us was the other’s romantic ideal. Darren, deeply in love with his ex-wife, liked wispy, rail, retiring types and I was still drawn to the rebels and forbidden men. Still, our relationship became very endearing for both of us. I enjoyed having the companionship of an older man more seasoned in Aussie life.
TRYING TO FIT “IN”
Back in Perth, though, I was feeling lonely and separated from the vibrant life I’d had while in Columbus. Even though I’d come to love Australia and its people, being an older, unmarried woman there was like having an extra arm. I was a curiosity and intriguing, but not date-worthy. I was homesick, but I no longer wanted to live in Columbus, either! One younger American woman in my film class found an Aussie to marry and she was ecstatic. I didn’t appreciate her terming me as the “oldest student” in the class, since I wasn’t. Darren was the oldest and looked very much older as well!
Darren and I continued our working relationship on our projects, but we also started to spend private time together as well. We now traveled to downtown Perth for the May Day celebration. Unlike the USA, May is the beginning of winter for Australia, and the day seemed a little glum as well. Although winter in Perth meant rain in the mornings followed by bright, blue skies for the rest of the day, Perth was overcast yet still quite warm that May 1, 1984. For the Chinese in Australia, May Day was a celebration of Communist China and bright red flags contrasted with the rather flat skies during the parade.
ASIAN LIFE DOWN UNDER
Because Australia is the entry point to the Orient and a close neighbor to Indonesia, the majority of international students in the Rotary House where I lived were Asian or Indonesian. In fact, I was the only European/American student there. Living with international students is an education in itself. While in Sydney, I had lived with all Chinese students who set up a communal dining service at the dorm where all the students contributed money for food. The Chinese students shopped and cooked for all of us. I offered to cook at least one night a week, but they absolutely refused. I was relegated to clean up and after I tasted their wonderful dishes, I totally agreed with them.
STEAMED FISH
At Rotary House, the majority of the international students were Indonesian. Living with several young women on my floor, I came to appreciate their work ethic, cultural beliefs, and personal relationships, not to mention the wonderful food! Seemingly, all the international students worked at least one job and most of them two, while studying at the Institute of Technology. I, too, worked several jobs – as a tutor, lecturer, and would in time be a technical write for the Media Centre there.
International Students from Indonesia at Rotary House, 1984
Because the grades were posted for all the universities there, the international students also seemed to dominate in academic achievement. Romantic relationships also seemed quite exclusive. I only knew one young woman from Singapore, Alice, who dated an Aussie man. Alice was the talk of the dorm and most of the other international students avoided her. I was amazed at what seemed to be a very intolerant attitude because Alice was a warm and loving person. Tony, her boyfriend, was a gallant and giving individual. Romance seemed to bloom all over Rotary House that semester, and I was included. Watching the courtship rituals, I was also caught up in trying to find that certain someone too. Sadly, Alice’s romance with Tony seemed doomed because her family would never accept him.
AUSSIE-INDONESIAN FOOD
Our dorm home housed many Indonesian students since Bali is closer to Perth than it is to Sydney. Ironically, my sister Barbara had married an Indonesian man after being a coed at Cornell University and I have a niece and nephew who are Indonesian-Americans. After posting their pictures in my room, I was surprised at the Indonesian students who remarked how “American” they looked. Indonesian food starred in many of our shared potluck meals.
Wonderful, spicy, and legume-based, Indonesian food hosts a very peanut-sauced cuisine. Unfortunately for me, I am allergic to peanuts. Alice, among the others, served me a separate satay dish with a pineapple rather than peanut sauce.
SATAY
Satay is a lovely grilled meat with a spicy, turmeric, peanut gravy with slivers of onion, cucumber, and ketupat. Meats and seafood such as beef, mutton, pork, shrimp, fish, and even snake, are grilled on bamboo skewers over a charcoal fire. Spicy peanut satay is brushed on as the vegetables and meat cook and is served with it afterwards.
GADO GADO
Another exotic Indonesian dish is Gado Gado, a classic salad made with green beans potatoes, carrots, cabbage, bean sprouts, and a lively peanut sauce. Again, I was able to substitute a pineapple-curry sauce for my Gado-Gado, but the traditional recipe is below. Gado-Gado is a light dinner salad that is a gift to the senses. It is garnished with sliced, boiled eggs. Wonderful as a spring or summer dinner, Gado Gado is especially tasty with fresh vegetables.
Secretaries at West Australia Institute of Technology
University of West Australia, 1983
Geoff Gibbs, Principal of Perth Performing Arts Night School and Wife
Rita Bova, Mary Anne Oestreich
1986
A GERMAN SUBSTITUTE MOTHER
Mothers’ Day arrived in Perth and I was deeply missing my own mother back in Toledo. I often went to the shopping plaza across the street from my dorm and had seen an aged, white-haired, stooped lady who always dressed in long, black, old-fashioned dresses. She walked very carefully with a cane, always alone, and had the aura of tragedy about her. I was curious about her and her past and decided to invite her to lunch for Mothers’ Day that Sunday. Gertrude Lavery was her name and she was genuinely thrilled by my invitation.
GERTRUDE
Gertrude and I became fast friends, outsiders in a sunny and always bright land. She was formerly from East Berlin and had immigrated to England after World War II. Never married, she described the horror and devastation in Germany during and after the war. Her only family was a sister, a principal in a German high school, with whom she had no contact during the Communist rule of East Berlin. Intelligent and weary, Gertrude was a stark contrast to the ebullient society all around us. Australia, a haven for most, became a remote prison for Gertrude, as it had been for the early white European settlers.
BACK TO WORK
Gertrude was seriously interested in my work and she helped boost my spirits when my projects were faltering. I still had the editing and sharpening of “The Glory Box” to do. I still had the final lectures and papers to grade for the film class. Now I also had scripts for the Media Centre to complete. I was becoming more anxious by the day and soon developed a raging case of insomnia. My mind was overwhelmed with projects as well as the Rotary and my heart was burdened by the recognition that I soon would be leaving, probably never to return.
“THE GLORY BOX” FINALE
Darren helped me book the editing suites at WAIT for “The Glory Box” finale. No easy feat to edit, I find out, since there were two suites and about 75 students who wanted them. I had finally finished shooting the script after piecing tighter the majority of it from the Easter mall weekend.
I had decided that I had enough material and could stop hounding Jennie Smith for her part, which seemed destined never to happen. I had received an energetic “Good on you, Mate” from my advisor, John Fiske. I had come to admire him deeply for his intelligence and commitment. I had, in fact confided to him that he had forced me to learn and understand my Australian experience, rather than having just a Down Under vacation.
Darren, an experienced video editor, guided me as I finished the final cut of the documentary. I was not completely satisfied with the final editing because I didn’t have the chance to do a rough cut rather than a finished product because of the scarcity of time in the editing studios. Still, “The Glory Box” did communicate what I had intuited for so long: Australian women were bullied in their male-dominated world.
Gallipoli Head Marker, Perth 1983
Marie, Rita Bova
After an intense editing day, Darren and I retired to his apartment to celebrate the ending of my video documentary. Romance was also in the air as we snuggled together in the cool night, feeling closer to one another and to our works of art.
TOPSY TURVY PROPOSAL
That night Darren and I spent our first evening together worrying about my visa. After several days of almost no sleep and raging insomnia, I felt so comforted being with Darren and feeing his arms around me that day. We cooked an Aussie student dinner and spent the evening drinking wine in front of the fireplace.
After the fire died down and our warm hugging and kissing moved to Darren’s bedroom, we lay under the massive blankets in his Down Under bed. Emotionally overwhelmed by the loss I felt in leaving Perth, I began to cry. Darren put his arms around me and said the he loved our friendship. He also said that if I wanted, we could marry (then divorce later) if I wanted to stay in Australia permanently. Not quite the marriage proposal I had dreamed about, I felt both touched and frightened about a marriage of convenience that seemed it could also be a marriage of volatility and bitterness.
Following my heart as always, I thanked him for his sweet offer and said I couldn’t marry anyone who didn’t love me passionately. I was still quite glum at the passing days and the sorry prospect of returning to my suffocating world in the USA. Still, I did have a lukewarm Aussie proposal to cherish as part of my beloved memories.
Darren Williams, Swan River, Perth 1984
THE QUEEN’S BIRTHDAY, JUNE 11
With “Glory” just about done and a new technical screenwriting job, I was in good shape temporarily. Now I needed to extend my visa a couple of months to be able to go to New Zealand for a month. I was determined to experience everything I could. As a child I had had a pen pal from New Zealand. I wondered what this cousin of Australia was like. Many Aussies considered Kiwis as Americans consider Canadians: sweet but naïve, even wimpy.
I wanted to find out for myself about these country cousins down under. Parades, flowers, and temporarily grey skies introduced the Queen’s birthday. It was amazing to see how colonial the commonwealth countries were. Prince Charles had married Lady Diana in 1981 and the royals hadn’t been tarnished yet by the scandals of the late 1980s and early 1990s. Diana was especially beloved and daycare centers all across the continent were named for her.
ROSES OF MY OWN
Coming back from the parade and working on my new screen writing position at the Media Centre, I found lovely red roses waiting for me. My friend, Joey, with whom I had been corresponding, had sent them with a loving note, “Congratulations on your new writing job. Love and miss you deeply.” I was thrilled and longing for my Yankee boyfriends who could appreciate my zest for life. They even found me sexy!!!!
Following this great discovery, I also was able to extend my student visa for three months. HURRAH!
SCRIPT WRITING AND WORRYING
I was awakened the next morning by a kookaburra warbling in the distance. I hadn’t slept well. I was too worried that I wouldn’t get on with my media job and would look foolish. I needn’t have worried. Technical writing had been one of my specialties in the USA and the Aussies didn’t expect or demand much. The “work” day at the Centre was almost a vacation in itself. We arrived at 9 a.m. and immediately had tea and biscuits (bikkies).
Then we worked for two hours, me trying to write scripts from unfinished manuscripts, the rest doing I don’t know what. At 11 a.m. it was break time with more chatting, tea, and meandering around the office. At Noon, we went to the faculty club for lunch, where the meal mainly consisted of beer with more beer with a few sausage rolls, prawns, and vegetable samosas.
Back at the office, I desperately tried to finish writing and typing my manuscript. At 2 p.m. another tea time was in the offing. I was surprised at my liking white tea. Because I had virtually nothing to eat at Rotary House, I was able to spend very little money on food and still have a full stomach. I even lost weight. At 4 p.m. we left. Work was over for the day! I felt compelled to try and finish my assignments, but I needn’t have worried. No one expected me to ever finish anything. Nevertheless, I enjoyed being around media artists and producers and saw this experience as part of my learning process.
Traveling the Outback, 1984
Child & Kangaroo
A HIDDEN AGENDA
With my visa extended and having more money to spend, I was now able to travel to New Zealand on my way back to the USA. I tried to talk Darren into going to New Zealand with me, but he didn’t have the time or money. Luckily, I received a letter from a dear friend who suggested that he come to Australia and accompany me to the USA. Terry Flagg, an engineer I had taught with in Columbus, now lived in Seattle. We were close friends from teaching together and had dated for a while in Columbus. I knew Terry still cared for me, but the chemistry wasn’t right between us. Because Terry maintained that he only wanted to see Australia and New Zealand with me, I agreed that traveling back to the USA with him would be wonderful. I knew he had a hidden agenda, but I, too, still longed to find a solid romance.
A STARRY NIGHT IN THE MYTHIC FOREST
Meanwhile, I had to start collecting my belongings and moving out of the Rotary House since I was no longer a student. Judy and Malcolm, close Aussie mates who had looked after me during my devastating night with asthma, invited me to stay on in the loft attached to their home, which was situated in Glen Forest.
Judy was as one of WAIT’s nurses and Malcolm was a true-blue Aussie from the outback. Together, they had purchased this forested, almost mythical, land outside of Perth under the stars.
Judy hailed from Scotland. She was an orphan who had struck out for the hinterlands in the outback after seeing an ad for nurses years earlier. She met Malcolm, a rugged two-fisted yet quite gentle Aussie, who acted as a drover, handyman, Malcolm-of-all-trades, and technician, and they married.
Judy and Malcolm had spent their honeymoon on the Queen Elizabeth II working as a maid and bus boy for the cruise. Warm, giving, and loving and completely unpretentious, Judy and Malcolm seemed like guardian angels from a Valhalla while still being a homespun family.
JUDY & MALCOLM PAXMAN
MARY ANNE OESTRIECH, RITA BOVA
PERTH, 1986
Although leaving Rotary House was a wrenching experience, being in my close friends’ loft in the forest helped bridge the sorrow I felt at leaving. During the nights those few days I spent at the Paxman home, I slept under a shining panorama of stars that glowed through the skylight above me. The forest’s quiet and my friends’ generosity cushioned the sadness of parting from Perth.
Judy and Malcolm entertained with an Aussie barbecue my last night, complete with char-broiled steaks and oysters, Judy’s own passion fruit flummery, grilled fresh fruits, vegetables, and of course, native beers and wines. The atmosphere was joyous, yet bittersweet; how I had come to love my wonderful friends, now like family, Down Under!
BARBIE-STYLE DOWN UNDER
Carpetbag Oyster-Stuffed Steak on the Barbie
Passion fruit Flummery
Lots and lots of Swan Lager Beer
CARPET BAG OYSTER STUFFED STEAK ON THE BARBIE
A thick steak is stuffed with fresh oysters, wrapped in bacon, and grilled on the barbie. It is not for the faint-hearted. Carpetbag steak is enhanced by the West Australian Waygu cattle, which were fed cabernet-soaked grain during the last 60 days before slaughter. The choice grains enrich the lavish marbling of the steak and give an exotic and wild flavor.
SAYING GOOD-BYE TO THE ROTARY
The last few weeks in July became very painful. Although I had tried for a Distance Education position at WAIT, I had no firm offers to consider and realized my time in Perth was ending. My Rotary family also wanted to treat me with parties, dinners, and meetings. I had grown to treasure my Rotary family very much and each parting was agony.
Bright, beautiful, and blue-skied, my last Rotary meeting in July was like a spring day in Columbus. Outwardly, the winter was fresh and inviting, but inwardly that day was filled with pain and sadness. I gave my final Rotary speech that I wrote with Aussie poems and jokes rather than going over the last year that they already knew. I had decided to leave them laughing, but I was forced to wear sunglasses since I broke down in ear while saying goodbye. I thanked my beautiful Rotary friends for the best year of my life.
My Aussie poems and jokes did take the emphasis off my parting. Writing humor for another culture is very difficult and, fortunately, I had rehearsed with several of my friends at the dormitory beforehand. Here is a sample of the before and after jokes that I wrote. “What is an Australian Tragedy?” My answer was, “Three days of rain in a row.” When I practiced that joke in front of my Aussie roommates, they looked puzzled and definitely didn’t even smile. I asked them why that wasn’t funny.
Jenny said, “What’s in a row?” I didn’t realize that phrase was an American idiom. Darren suggested the answer be, “A warm tinnie.” A warm tinnie means a warm beer and again the subtle differences in our cultures became more clear to me.
My parting from my North Perth Rotary Club was the beginning of many, many farewells. Each time my heart was breaking a little more.
Perth, West Australia, July 1984
North Perth Rotary Club President, Joe Atlas & Rita Bova, 1984
DARREN AND I TRAVEL TO COTTSLOE BEACH FOR OUR GOODBYE
Darren had come to my last day with my Rotary friends and he helped me home to a late night dinner together. Our last night we just stayed up and talked all night about how much we had grown. Because we had no future plans, I was able to get beyond the aching of my heart. We traveled to Cottsloe Beach the next morning and I waded in the turquoise water with the blazing sun around me for one last time. Again, my eyes filled with tears.
TERRY AND I TRAVEL NORTH
The following day, I was leaving with my American friend Terry for South Australia and from there, the Outback. Jennie, Vivienne, Lorna, Eva, Karen, and many more treasured Aussie friends again saw me off at the airport to say, “Goodbye.” My only hope for returning was the distant possibility of teaching as a distance educator at the Institute. My interview before I left seemed like a courtesy, rather than a real possibility. Still, I clung to that thought as I kissed my friends one more time.
Seeing Terry again was a shock since I had grown so used to the Aussie way of life and their speech patterns. We had opposite ideas of traveling together. I planned on staying at hostels while we traveled, but he was more comfortable staying at motels. He seemed to be hoping for a romance between us, but I just couldn’t think of him in that context. Fortunately, both of us were able to stay at our respective travel destinations, so the pressure became much less. It also allowed me a little time to accept that I was really leaving.
Terry Flagg, New Zealand 1984
CHAPTER 8
TRAVELING BY TRAIN WHILE ENJOYING THE RUGGED OUTBACK
Greek-Aussie Chris Madayris; Richard, Gwenda, Mary & Andrew Bates;
Mary Anne Oestriech
1986
KOOKABURRAS, TARONGA PARK ZOO 1984
CHAPTER 8
TRAVELING BY TRAIN WHILE ENJOYING THE RUGGED OUTBACK
Seeing Australia in this leisurely and refined way was a true delight. Meeting folks from across the continent added poignancy to the trip. Aussies seem to love gambling and so the entertainment car was filled with boisterous, fun-loving, poker-playing raconteurs who thrived on this devil-may-care trip. I felt more and more estranged from my Yankee roots and more in tune with the ranchers, merchants, housewives, and travelers moving through the Aussie heartland.
Rail service through Oz has the magic and mystique of the old time train travel seen on the posh Cary Grant/Ingrid Bergman movies from the fashionable 1940s. Dining cars, cafes, and sleepers as well as gambling, card-playing cars were the order of the day to while away the passing hours. The vibrant orange and red-hued earth almost blinds the passengers with sun-filled panoramas. The intense heat outside contrasted with the cool, rollicking good times onboard. Terry and I savored the Ghan’s elegant dining experience with its white tablecloths, red roses, and elegant servers while we viewed the magnificent outback. Feeling pampered, we chose first-class with its elegant wines and dinners on hand for its luxuriating passengers. One grand dinner was Beef Nambour, accompanied by Australian red wines from the Hunter Valley.
Beef Nambour is named for a town at Queensland’s Sunshine Coast. It boasts both fresh pineapple and fresh ginger in its savory sauce.
ALICE SPRINGS
Soon Terry and I arrived in Alice Springs, the heart of this red-earthed center of Australia. Seemingly a new frontier, Alice Springs contrasted to the refined train trip in its old west appearance and feeling. Still wrangling with Terry, I decided to stay at a hostel while he picked a motel to bunk in while in Alice Springs on our way to Ayers’ Rock, the mysterious, jutting formation soaring out of the country’s flat lands.
The hostel boasted of travelers from around the world and was an event al of its own. Staying in a youth hostel meant sleeping in a large room with many other women in bunk beds. One couldn’t sleep past 9 a.m. and the hostel was closed during the day. Although price was its original attraction for me, hostels have wild and woolly travelers from everywhere and I found myself touring with these adventurous people.
SEEING ALICE SPRINGS
Alice Springs in 1984 seemed like a movie set for a western TV show such as “Gun Smoke.” Dusty, frayed at the edges, almost primitive, the town didn’t seem like anyone could possibly live there. The people too were mute, dried up with the sun with aged faces and no interest at all in tourists. In the middle of this simplistic and unadorned place emerged a Kentucky Fried Chicken drive-thru restaurant. Its red and white commercial building contrasted sharply to the 19th century feel of the surrounding town. Even here, American commercialism with its plastic and artificial façade emerged like a discarded pop can laying in the raw, pristine bush lands.
While in Alice Springs, I also toured some of the original homelands of the ancient, Aboriginal tribes who lived in Central Australia. Taken in the 1930s, the pictures of the haunted faces of these tribal people spoke volumes about the suffering they had endured. Several photos showed the native people drunk and passed out on the streets of Alice Springs. Apparently, these unsophisticated peoples believed that drinking to excess showed that the person was rich enough to afford the costly whiskey. Again, the tragic abuse of the globe’s tribal peoples made me feel such sadness and mourning.
TRIP TO AYERS’ ROCK (ULURU)
The next day I rode on a six-hour bus trip to Ayers’ Rock while my friend Terry took a plane to meet me there. My six-hour trip crossed the heart of Central Australia with the red earth becoming scarlet, the heat overwhelming, and the land stretching out empty and barren. Stunted bushes and hedges, teeming with anthills, marked our trip with a cloudless sky of deep blue following us as we traveled on.
Meditating on the bus, I mused over my experiences while traveling and feeling the vast loneliness of the region. Suddenly the red granite, mysterious Ayers’ Rock rose out of the land like an extraterrestrial space ship. The Aboriginal name for Ayers’ Rock is Uluru and it truly has a sacred and spiritual aura. My fellow travelers and I went to a rough and ready campsite set up the youth hostel. Tents, sleeping bags, and earthy accommodations, including cooking over an open fire, await us as I plan to climb Ayers’ Rock the next morning.
Sadly, I am told that a new Hilton hotel is planned for the region. It’s posh accommodations and comfortable rooms are for the expected tourist trade. They hope to attract 90,000 tourists a year. I am grateful that I can experience this natural and seemingly other worldly phenomena before it is destroyed by commercialism.
Terry, too, has arrived, but is again at a small motel nearby. He intends to photograph the area while I climb the sacred site the next day.
CLIMBING AYERS’ ROCK (ULURU)
Awakening to a misty dawn, I start out to climb the rock with another young woman, a Canadian. We arrive at the site and it is daunting. There are no footholds or steps for at least 50 feet. Then there is an iron, chain link rope with wide steps leading to Uluru’s higher parts. Clare decides against the climb after seeing the barren and forbidding plateau and prehistoric molded hills looking down on us. I, however, decided to go ahead, thinking that I can turn back if it becomes too rough.
For the climb, I brought my Super 8 film camera so I could film my climb as I went. Uluru’s surface seemed moon-red, harsh, granite like. It was smooth with no traction or grounding. Fortunately, I wore my Ugg boots. These are Aussie moccasins with smooth surfaces that could cling to the rock as I climbed. Until early in the twentieth century, the Pitjanjara tribe carried out fertility rituals in the sacred caves around the base of the monolith. I felt a real connection to an ancient world of tribal mythology and creation as I climbed this stratified red sphinx.
GETTING TO THE TOP
Crouching, crawling, and going slowly, I edge my way along the rock’s gritty surfaces. Filming as I go, I feel a sense of elation and drive as I come closer and closer to the top. The panorama of fresh air, endless plateaus of sandy brown-red vistas, and a mystical and broad blue sky open like a desert flower as I climb. About two hours later, I emerge at the top, a solitary climber at the summit of Australia’s soul where a sundial awaited me. A glorious Mother Sun above, I feel a sense of eternity and spirit.
MOVING BACK AND BEYOND
After I emerged from the Ayers’ Rock climb, Terry and I take yet another train back to Adelaide on our way to Sydney, New Zealand, and eventually, home. Three weeks remained until life in Columbus, Ohio, and I was determined to spend all of it enjoying life down under. The train trip was a mere three days to Adelaide, where we stopped and I showed Terry South Australia’s lovely green hills, solitary gum trees, and glorious flowers.
Melbourne was our next stop and it was rainy and cold. Winter in Melbourne appeared to be unlike winter in Perth. It was much more like Columbus, Ohio, where days of overcast skies, continual rain, and gloominess persist. In Perth, winter meant rain in the mornings followed by cool but sunny afternoons with brilliant blue skies.
While in Melbourne, I call the West Australia Institute of Technology to check on a position I had applied for while there, Director of Distance Education. I am unable to reach anyone by phone and it is slowly sinking in that they never intended to hire me for this position anyway. Like the gloomy weather outside, I feel lost, depressed, and wary of what I will return to when I reach Columbus, Ohio, in just a few weeks.
Melbourne seems to be the center of European ethnic life in Australia with a beautiful Greek-Australian culture and cuisine at its heart. Even with the overcast weather, the bright smiles and faces of the Aussie Greeks light up the downtown area by the Spencer train station. Touring the many gardens and art museums in Melbourne, Terry and I enjoy this suddenly European part of the world down under. Stopping for a Greek dinner, we feast on souvlaki, baklava, and wild rice with mushrooms, as well as diples (fried dough) with sweet coffee for breakfast.
Here is a Greek pastry we sampled as Terry and I toured the streets of Melbourne, Australia.
Although my time in Oz is rapidly ending, I will enjoy the beautiful diversity, refinement, and food!
SYDNEY AGAIN
Tired, restless, and moving by train to Sydney, we spend the night traveling onto Sydney and from there to New Zealand. I am meeting with my loving friends, Gwenda and Richard Bates while Terry flies to Queensland and the barrier reef. As the days grow closer to my departure, I can think only of spending time with my Aussie friends. I had no idea if I would ever see them again. We arrive in the cool morning hours in Sydney. It is winter here this August, and the grey skies and misty rain match my gloomy mood. I bid Terry farewell and part of me wanted to go with him to the reef. I decided instead to spend my last days saying goodbye to my adopted home down under.
SEEING SYDNEY’S WONDERS ONE MORE TIME
So, the next week was filled with Taronga Park Zoo, the King’s Pack, the Blue Mountains, and Manley Beach. Goodbye parties with exotic foods and rich wines intermixed with the sites and friends galore. Sydney seemed to glow that week with a fresh and golden sunlight much of the time and a mist twilight rain the other few days. Winter seemed more like a mixture of spring with a hint of summer than any winter I had ever experienced.
Mary Anne Oestriech
1986
TARONGA PARK ZOO
Sydney’s Taronga Park Zoo has an enchanting quality of its own. Perhaps it is due to the expansive location, size and exotic animals. When I was a child I seemed to be the only person I knew who didn’t like going to the zoo. Seeing wild animals and beasts from tropical lands caged in steel and concrete, depressed and forlorn, was saddening. Later when I read Against Zoos by H. L. Meinken in college, I realized I wasn’t the only one who found animals trapped in cages alienating.
Taronga Park Zoo, like much of Australia, seemed to be the opposite of the dingy and dreary old-fashioned zoos I had known. Besides the exotic animals such as the platypus, family dingoes, kookaburras, and koala bears, the zoo and its inhabitants also boasted almost perfect natural environments. Seeing the platypus family swimming and cozying together was truly delightful. Taronga also hosts a simian island in the middle of the park where monkeys, orangutans, and chimps leaped and played. Seeing their vibrancy in the now sunshine-filled skies made my spirits a little higher that day.
KING’S CROSS AND MORE
King’s Cross is the Aussie equivalent of Las Vegas and Amsterdam combined. Filled with colorful nightlife, exotic clubs, and show performers of both genders, King’s Cross is all-night action, excitement and neon naughtiness. Gwenda and Richard Bates accompanied me to King’s Cross Centre during my last weeks in Sydney. While there, we were entertained at a cabaret with glossy bi-sexual dancers and feathered cross-gender can-cans lines. Walking in Kings Cross, we encounter the ladies and gentlemen of the night coaxing visitors to sample their trade. The world's oldest profession is legal in Australia and King’s Cross is its center in Sydney.
Sydney’s nightlife ranges from classical music and lays at the Opera House to the raucous, often raw, entertainment of King’s Cross. Fortunately, we had taken the subway to the area and we sampled Aussie beers, ales, and wines the entire evening. Ebullient with the joy of the evening and the flowing grog, I seized the day and night that evening in naughty but nice King’s Cross.
LUNCHEON HANGOVER IN CHINA TOWN
The following day I awoke with a giant hangover and a piercing headache as well to a bright, sun-filled morning. Even so, Gwenda and I decide to do some souvenir shopping before I had to wing my way to New Zealand and finally back to the USA. After I purchased countless Koala pins, key chains, miniature koalas, kangaroos, wallabies, joeys, and shark t-shirts, we stop and savor the delights of a China Town restaurant in Sydney. Yum Cha is the name of this wonderful cavalcade of Asian dishes such as dim sums, barbecued pork buns, shrimp dumplings, spring rolls, Mongolian Hot Pot with lamb and fresh, savory vegetable dishes. Trolleys with these delicacies as well as desserts such as egg tarts, lychees, sweet, stick rice, and almond cookies circled the seated diners like schools of fish just waiting to jump on one’s table. I could feel the pounds coming back because Yum Cha is addictive and one wants to try all of the wondrous items on each cart as it tempts the waiting diners.
Yum Cha literally means to drink tea and dim sum means to touch the heart. Gwenda and I feasted on our lunches during that lovely stop over. The tea drinking of beloved friends, the touching of hearts and souls with this almost ritualized lunch experience made that day even more memorable for me. Yum Cha and dim sum soothes my heart and my head.
Following, I have included some recipes for Har Gew Shrimp Dumplings, Sui Mai Dumplings with Pork and Shrimp, which were generously donated by my Chinese student Pui-Hei (Billy) Fok, who hailed from Hong Kong. When I return to Sydney these days, Gwenda and I always re-create this lunch together…it is stupendous!
OFF TO THE BLUE MOUNTAINS
The last day I spent in Sydney was a perfectly blue-skied day and the Bates family and I traveled to the Blue Mountains and the Katoomba Skyway. Largely untouched and unique, the blue colored Mountains stretch along prehistoric landforms with sandstone cliffs and subterranean caves. A tranquil bush lands outside of Sydney, the Blue Mountains shone with lush green eucalyptus trees and exotic wildflowers. Stark, preternatural cliffs and valleys contrasted to the greenery throughout the area. Here, the “real” wildlife such as rainbow lorikeets, the sleepy koala bears, the cocky kookaburra, and the white cockatoo, live and thrive in uncaged harmony.
Winter was becoming spring and nature was celebrating the transition. Gwenda, the Bates’ sons, Andrew and Stephen, and I played golf at the mountainous public golf course while viewing the majestic plateaus beneath us. They actually played golf; I just hacked at the ball while taking in the beautiful scenery. Laughing, Gwenda said, “You are the worst golfer I have ever seen!” She was right. Nonetheless, the day was glorious and the surroundings uplifting and even spiritual.
THE JAMISON VALLEY AND THE “THREE SISTERS”
Skirting the golf green, the Jamison Valley was the home to the Three Sisters, craggy mountainous peaks considered a sacred Aboriginal site. The Three Sisters exist as part of “The Dream Time,” mythology describing natural landforms and newly created beings/animals who emerged from the uncreated and eternal earth.
These mythical beings, which acted like humans but resembled creatures or plants, were part of the vast sky/earth universe. Here, the Three Sisters mountainous landforms are visual evidence of the mythical women whose spirit children still reside in these wonder filled, topographical markings, Unlike western mythology, the Aboriginal sun is seen as a woman and the moon as a man, since the mother sun is always part of the natural order, while the father moon waxes and wanes. Again, I felt transported to an unspoiled and fresh world filled with beauty and infinity, but also foreboding of the turbulent times to come.
Margaret River, West Australia 1983
“The Dreamers”
Jack Davis, author; Lynette Nankle
Vivienne Corbett Fuller; son Michael Fuller 1984
Play: “The Dreamers”
THE KATOOMBA SKYWAY
The Katoomba Skyway is the oldest roller coaster in the world. Riding it gives one the chance to view the entire majesty of the Jamison Valley. Filming with my Super-8 camera, I again enjoy both the experience and the memory of this carefree, sunny, and lovely mountainous valley. After a day of golfing, talking, and enjoying this tranquil bush lands, Gwenda patiently drives me to Manley Beach for one last swim in the Asia blue Pacific Ocean. My heart is breaking, for I can’t say goodbye to my loving Aussie friends and to this turquoise sky and surf.
Shortly before I leave Sydney, I call the Distance Education Department at WAIT and inquire if they have made a decision about its director. Since I am unable to get any official from the human resources department on the phone, I am more and more convinced that this “job” was a fantasy, not a reality, for me.
While I was at the Bates’ home, I received a letter from Jordan forwarded from Perth’s Rotary House. Jordan is now in South America, but hints that he hopes to see me when I return to Columbus. Between my loneliness and aching heart for him and my spirit, which has, I thought, put him in my past, I am torn. I jam the letter in to my bag and we leave for Sydney’s airport.
Jason Maher & Bobby Lee Maher
Children of Basil & Sandra Maher
Anne Yarran, Mary Anne Oestreich, Rita Bova, Lorna Corbett Little
King’s Park Restaurant, Perth, West Australia
July 1986
CHAPTER 9
LEAVING FOR NEW ZEALAND
AUCKLAND!
New Zealand is considered the country cousin of Australia and it’s easy to see why when one has been to both places. New Zealand’s population is much smaller and the areas more rural and more quaint and English. The day is beautiful but cool and sunny when we arrive. Terry and I find a tiny but cheap hotel facing the harbor and ocean. We have no choice since the expensive hotels were completely booked. Besides, I have very little money at this point. In a small, cozy but decrepit room, I end up sleepless since I have an asthma attack from the damp and mold. The only heat is what is called an electric fire, a space heater that almost literally fries parts of the room while the other part is cold and clammy. My backtracking to Columbus, Ohio has already taken a rather dismal turn.
The next morning, Terry and I rented a car and drove through the very green, rolling, sweet hills of Auckland’s countryside. Already, Thursday was transforming from the bleakness of the Wednesday evening into a blue-skied, peaceful, and fresh day. Sheep were grazing everywhere we look and cliffs with pine trees are in their backdrop. We are on our way to Picton and Rotorua, coastal towns featuring Maori homelands and soothing hot springs. The intense big city Sydney life transforms to a serene and unaffected country world with less flash and more gentleness.
Countryside outside Auckland, New Zealand, 1984
Terry again decided to stay at a motel, but I went ahead and stayed at a private, but much cheaper, hostel. The private hostel is more like a rooming house with travelers from all around the world. Breakfast is the only meal served with white tea, bikkies (shredded wheat), orange juice, and some hardboiled eggs.
Because I was a special guest (not many Americans stayed in hostels in those days), the lovely innkeeper, Kaye, made a special breakfast the next morning: Kiwi Pineapple French Toast. Fruit, luscious and inviting and fresh and flavorful seemed to be everywhere in that glorious country and this easy breakfast was part of the fruit-filled repast everywhere. It is yummy, fast, and economical as well.
Close to the sea, looking out from the windows, I feel like a heroine from a Victorian novel, observing people bicycling past under a chilly but brilliant blue sky. Without Terry around, I was able to spend several hours chatting with the other guests, one of whom was a wild and woolly Aussie who had fought in Viet Nam. Andy, wild-eyed, hung over, disheveled and earthy, was the only Australian I ever knew who was a fellow Viet Nam veteran. Like my own generation back in the USA, Andy enchanted me with his spirited style, but he was troubled and distressed over the war. Andy became besotted with me, especially when he discovered that I had graduated from screen writing school in Perth and had produced my own independent documentary. Asking me to come to his room, Andy pulls out a 400-page manuscript detailing his painful experiences in Viet Nam. He begs me to read his script and give him some guidance. I tell him that I will spend time that evening doing just that. I earnestly hoped that I could help him get out his poignant and sorrowful story.
ROTORUA
Terry arrived and we headed out to Rotorua and the indigenous culture and hot springs. Rotorua offers both New Zealand loveliness and Polynesian grace. Located on the ocean, the Polynesian pools offer mineral waters where tired travelers can luxuriate and soothe their weary muscles. Besides the beauty of the turquoise blue ocean and the healing waters, the Maori native culture is highlighted and honored. Along with the soothing mineral waters, the Rotorua gardens also display a beautiful mural of the Polynesian migration from Hawaii. Later, the award winning film, “Whale Rider,” was produced at the Rotorua grounds and featured the Maori homelands. New Zealand and it culture and people seem more at peace with themselves compared to their Aussie cousins.
OHINEMUTU
Later, Terry and I travel north of Rotorua to a suburb called Ohinemutu. Here, Maori carvings of exquisite religious symbols blend with Christianity at Faith’s Anglican Church. Even the statue of Christ is robed in Kiwi feathers of forest color and beauty.
I wonder where most of these indigenous people went and how they live now. Thinking of my Noongar friends in Australia, I pray that the Maori ancients somehow survived the invasion by European settlers. Compared to the Whaka Maori reserve, the “Little Village just beyond it to the north exemplifies the European village of the nineteenth century. The mythic beauty of a communal and legendary world has charismatic glow compared to the austere, colonial, and stratified European society beside it.
WHAKA RESERVE
Unlike Australia and America, New Zealand tries to preserve the ancient skills of the Maori people. The Whaka Reserve, just on the edge of Rotorua, offers a workshop for interested and aspiring young people to learn and master the native Maori crafts such as traditional woven mats, beaded bodices, feathered cloaks, and indigenous paintings, markings, and music.
A KIWI WONDER
Stopping for lunch, we again feast on salads, exotic fruits, and some “hangi” traditional delicacies. There are salsas with pumpkin, watercress, tamarillos (tree tomatoes), along with smoked eel, prawns with mangoes, and Maori bread followed by Pacific fruits and creamy cheeses. Later, we would add some fine New Zealand wines and champagnes to our dining experiences.
MENU: A KIWI LUNCHEON
Back at my rooming house that night, I bid farewell to Terry as we prepare for a final day adventuring in the New Zealand countryside. Seeing Andy, the Aussie Viet Nam vet, I am touched that he apparently has been waiting the whole day for me to return. Handing me his 400-page manuscript about his personal and horrific Viet Nam experiences, I am saddened by his obvious suffering. Doing a cursory look at his writing, I realize that it’s a rambling, almost coherent, reflection of this experience. It also reveals a profound message and deeply felt thoughts, and I tell him so.
Terry Flagg, Andy Baird & friends from Keri Keri
South Island NZ 1984
A SURPRISE AHEAD!
Andy and I then spend almost the whole night conversing about his experiences in Viet Nam and the Land Down Under. We discuss at length the American involvement in Viet Nam, the coldness of modern life, and our colliding worlds in general. Our soul-filled evening was even more profound when Andy then asked me to marry him. He said that he loves my spirit and thinks that we could have a true and meaningful life together. Startled because I’d only met him a day and a half ago, I gently turn him down. Undaunted, Andy says he will meet me in Auckland in two days and will ask me again. I am overwhelmed and a little afraid; yes, mesmerized by this glamorous, wild-eyed Aussie.
SAILING AROUND THE ISLANDS
The next day, bleary-eyed, I met Terry and we spent a peaceful morning sailing around the Bay of Islands. Taking the ferry to the shore and boarding the schooner, we bask in the freshness of the impossibly blue Pacific Ocean. Windy because it’s winter here, the sea is choppy but the skies are clear and bright. On the shores, we see green caves, wooded cliffs, pine trees, rolling lands, and even sheep grazing. Pure, unaffected, and delightful, this sailing ocean voyage seems to heal our turbulent spirits.
Bay of Islands Trip
North Island, NZ , August 1984
OFF TO AN ICED CHAMPAGNE TOUR
Determined to see and do everything we can, Terry and I drive into the countryside for a wine trip featuring a crisp, luscious iced champagne. Terry’s generosity and caring has allowed me space, comfort, and respite. Realizing what a great and loving friend he is, I sincerely want to be enchanted by him. Somehow, however, I just couldn’t convince myself to be attracted to him and I felt very small and superficial because of it.
The afternoon has turned rainy and cold, and the dismal skies seemed to reflect my now brooding self. Tomorrow Terry flies to Seattle to go back to work and I am taking him to the airport. Because I am staying a few more days, I will meet him in Seattle on my jaunt to Columbus and my former life.
TOMORROW IS ANOTHER DAY
For now, we are luxuriating in the beauty and sweetness of an iced champagne lunch and tour. Arriving at the Selack Winery, we see the sun peek through as our guide. The owner, who emigrated from Yugoslavia, shows us a personal tour of his glorious winery. Explaining the true way to cultivate champagne requiring a lengthy and refined process, Mr. Selack is passionate about his craft and wine. Afterward, we dine on a luncheon featuring New Zealand cheeses, crisps (crackers), fruits, and a smooth, sweet, glowing champagne. Drinking the champagne, I feel like I am in a rich, sophisticated and velvet-like vehicle, cruising a lush world of beauty.
Rita Bova & Unknown Guide, New Zealand 1984
A WIDE, WIDE WORLD OF SPARKLING WINE
Bubbles surface around the globe
New Zealand Sparkling Wine: A temperate climate, combined with the planting of the classical Champagne varieties Chardonnay, Pinot Noir and Pinot Meunier, plus the use of the latest winemaking technology have enabled New Zealand to produce outstanding sparkling wine wines, now acclaimed throughout the world. Local winemakers may have adapted traditional winemaking methods, but they produce wine styles unique to New Zealand with subtle fruit flavours that express the character of an array of vineyard sites.
Origins of Sparkling Wine in New Zealand: In 1900 Pinot Noir and Pinot Meunier were in evidence in Hawkes Bay and were most likely used in the production of sparkling wine. However, the first commercial releases from wineries in Auckland and Hawkes Bay were not recorded until 1970. Sparkling wine is Auckland’s rich and weighty contribution to the globe’s “Champagnes.”
Taken from http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id
The “sparkling wine” was sparkling and the Champagne spectacular.
AUCKLAND AGAIN
After our day of true comfort, Terry and I drive back to Auckland. Now we are staying at Marie’s. Marie is a lovely young lady I met at Surfer’s Paradise in Oz. Marie has generously allowed us to stay with her for our last days Down Under. Marie is a student at the University of Auckland and is of Lebanese descent. Her parents immigrated to New Zeeland during the 1950s and she is a dark, curly-haired, tiny, smiling waif who has a charming grace about her. Unlike Sydney or Melbourne, Auckland doesn’t seem to have many European ethnics here and Marie sands out as a unique individual.
Marie Farry at Auckland Harbor, 1984
GOING OUT AND STAYING IN
Terry, Marie, and I venture out to some Auckland bars near the university. Dark, rollicking bars filled with keen, talkative students, I feel like I am in my milieu discussing politics and philosophy. Terry admits that he doesn’t vote because he doesn’t want to be registered. In 1984, Ronald Reagan was the Republican contender against peace-loving Minnesotan Walter Mondale. I am aghast at Terry’s passivity and tell him so. Then, as now, I could be quite self-righteous, but I admit I lost a little respect for him that blustery August night of New Zealand’s winter.
BACK TO SEATTLE
Marie and I escort Terry to the airport and to his plane back to Seattle. I am to meet with him there the following week, but he must get back to Monday’s workweek in the USA. I sigh, thinking of the constant working I will now face upon my return to America. Marie and I spend a few moments shopping in New Zealand for souvenirs, socks, and gloves. Back at her apartment we are staying in and drinking wine and eating raw mussels while outside it is pouring rain. While at the apartment, Andy calls and later comes over for a few hours and we again talk passionately about life and love.
ANOTHER RAW NIGHT
In from the pouring rain, Andy appears as wet as a wild, furry animal caught in a thunderstorm. Bearing wine, flowers, French brad, and Kiwi cheeses, he enchants Marie with his tales of Viet Nam and of his life in Queensland. Andy is as swashbuckling as ever and as slightly askew as well. Leaving us discreetly alone, Marie retires to her room and studies.
LET’S MARRY OR AT LEAST SLEEP TOGETHER!
Andy drops to one knee and again asks me to marry him. Startled, I am shocked into the modern world and our colliding lifestyles. I tell him that we should write to each other over the few weeks. I would then be coming back in the next two months to take a Distance Education position at my former college, WAIT (or so I thought at the time). Slightly relieved (I think), Andy agrees that writing each other would be personal and romantic. He then says, “Why don’t I spend the night and we can get to know each other better?” I translated that to, “Let’s we sleep together anyway?”
Marie has kindly let me sleep on their couch and I don’t want to offend her or her roommates. Because I am still unsure of the relationship between Andy and myself, I say, “No.” We then go over his screenplay and writing. Andy is desperate desire to tell his story is powerful and telling. I am amazed at his sensitivity, even though his manuscript is disorganized and overwhelming. Leaving my side, Andy finally rushes out into the gale like Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights. I then wonder if I am making a mistake in not marrying him then and there in Auckland, New Zealand.
Rita Bova & Marie Farry, Auckland 1984
BACK TO THE USA!
After another damp and clammy night on the couch, I gather my belongings together to catch the plan back to Los Angeles, California. Blurry-eyed, Marie and I both feel haggard, hung over, and depressed, spending my last afternoon and night in Auckland, seeing the sights. The plane leaves at midnight, so Marie and I travel one more time to experience the deep blue Pacific and the serene beaches there. Watching the rolling navy blue sea, I say a silent prayer that I would see my Kiwi friends and Aussie mates once again in the future.
I LEAVE – ALMOST!
Boarding the plane for Los Angeles, I feel the night closing in on me as I embark on an 18-hour trip home. Or, at least I think I am leaving. While on the plane, waiting to depart, a voice comes over the intercom. “Please re-enter the terminal because the plane cannot leave Auckland at this time. The baggage handlers have struck the plane with the cart, breaking one of its seals.”
In a daze, all of us disembark and walk as in a fog to the terminal. Dark, empty, and cold, the terminal is closed for the evening. There is no food, support, or even warmth to be had. I lay down on the floor, trying to sleep and not to worry. The passengers have to wait until the other plane returns from Hawaii. There are only two lanes available in the New Zealand fleet. All I can think of is if the airline employees are unable to drive a luggage cart correctly, how competent will they be flying an 18-hour flight to Los Angles? I may HAVE to stay here whether I want to or not!
With Marie Farry in an Auckland Bar, August 1984
CHAPTER 10
OFF INTO THE WILD GREY YONDER
Finally, all of us troop onto Air New Zealand for the 18-hour flight home. The weather is hot, muggy, and overcast. I hear strains of “Things Go Better With Coke” as I disembark in Los Angeles, where I am staying for a week with my Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Harry. Frazzled, I meet them at the baggage claim area. They have only been out to the airport three times looking for and waiting for me to arrive. Feeling sick, I am also overwhelmed by the rushing people, the blatant noise, the sticky and oppressive smog, and the wailing sirens of police chasing an illegal alien. At my aunt’s house I literally collapse, feeling sick in body and soul. I look frightful and feel worse.
MALIBU MADNESS
My Aunt Dorothy is warm and loving, quite unlike my mother who, burdened by eight children, was often distant and chilly. Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Harry show off their California home, a bungalow by the side of a racing freeway, now worth literally around $200,000.
I am trying to be grateful and diplomatic, but as I arrive, I hear over the news that there have been several murders in the heart of Los Angeles. There on the television is a fresh-faced blonde interviewing an hysterical and distraught mother of a victim. Self-destructive, almost possessed, the Californian’s dream has become a terrible nightmare.
With Aunt Dorothy & Uncle Harray Connor, Son-in-Law & Granddaughter
SEEING THE SIGHTS THROUGH BLOODSHOT EYES
Depressed, jetlagged, and tired, I make a valiant effort to be gracious to my loving Aunt Dorothy. She and Uncle Harry take me driving through the smog-laced streets to a lavish brunch by the California seacoast. Even with the smog and tight air, I see the green hills trembling to a still, glittering sea and feel the warmth of an eternal sun.
BRUNCH IN MALIBU BEACH, CALIFORNIA
Brunch in California still has that fresh, blue ocean, beach experience, even has-been actors and other not quite familiar faces lurking at the breakfast bar. While at the restaurant, Aunt Dorothy sees Bob Barker and nearly goes into a swoon at the sight of his leathery, tanned, and stretched face. Uncle Harry glows with that smile that says, “We have movie stars at our breakfasts.”
I feel sad that I am feeling so cynical about the whole “California Dreaming” experience, nevertheless the brunch has some golden moments of its own with sliced papaya in white grape juice along with fresh avocado and red peppers mixed into the vegetarian enchiladas for breakfast. The homegrown tomatoes, zucchini, and onions and the crunchy, freshly baked tortilla chips melted with fresh cheese and homemade salsa were delights to behold.
MIXED UP NEWS AHEAD
While at their home, I call and speak with my neighbors who had been caring for my house and handling the renters. News about my Columbus home was unsettling. Several letters await me, one from WAIT’s Distant Education Department, one from Jordan, one from Joey, my correspondent now graduated from The Ohio State University. Like the teeming LA freeways, I am in turmoil over much of the news in the letters. The WAIT letter is a rejection of my job application. Jordan’s note says he will be in Columbus after I return and he wants to reconnect. Joey’s letter was a sweet note welcoming me home and asking to get together when I do return.
My renters fled the premises a month before the end of the lease, leaving a broken fence, partially destroyed backyard, and lots of trash and cat hair throughout my house. The last month’s mortgage is unpaid and I will have to come up with two months worth of mortgage payments when I return. The renters also had a huge backyard party/blast the night before they left, with police, fire engines, and fights all through the night. My neighbors were THRILLED of course and that’s how the backyard fence became broken and battered. I sigh, back to reality and it doesn’t seem very pretty.
SEATTLE SOLACE
I still had a short visit with Terry in Seattle before facing the turmoil in Columbus, Ohio. After my week stay with Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Harry in Los Angeles, I arrive in Seattle and at least all my clothes are clean. My aunt had given me a helping hand with money for my Seattle stay sine I was very close to being broke. I feel like a sorry sight and bless my relatives for their love and support.
GOODBYE DINNER WITH MY LOVING AUNT AND UNCLE
My aunt’s goodbye dinner at her bustling home in Los Angeles featured down-to-earth recipes from my mother’s, Catherine Hudson, Illinois farm family. Fried chicken, flavorful baked beans with fresh bacon, combined with a bouncy California salad of grapefruit and avocado made my leaving the family a little less painful. My aunt modernized the authentic corn bread recipe of my grandma Hudson with Fresh green and red bell peppers. My aunt’s devoted care and love as well as the home baked cornbread, fresh fried chicken and the avocado salad made the parting both a little sweeter, but also a painful time as well. I have included both my Aunt Dorothy’s avocado salad and Mexican cornbread recipes along with the recipe for my mother’s scrumptious fried chicken. I could never duplicate that recipe no matter how much I have tried.
Californian Mid-west Dinner at Home
CATHERINE HUDSON BOVA’S FABULOUS FRIED CHICKEN
My mother’s fried chicken is the most succulent and delicious fried chicken I have ever eaten. Sunday nights with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and chicken gravy were a warming start of a new week for the Bova family. Here is her recipe as I remember it – even though I never could accomplish cooking it anywhere near as well as she was able to.
CATHERINE HUDSON BOVA’S CREAMY CHICKEN GRAVY
Chicken gravy added to mashed potatoes adds a real southern flair to this fried chicken recipe.
The lovely and nostalgic dinner was comforting and cozy, but I was still very anxious about my pending return home to my former life. Although my Aunt Dorothy tried to reassure me that life back in the mundane world form which I came would be a bearable adjustment, I was tortured by the prospect. Softening the abrupt adaptation was yet another week visiting my friend Terry in Seattle. The next day I gathered my belongings and self for the brief visit to the Northwest before returning to my bent and broken Columbus cottage. Almost completely broke, I was thrilled when my aunt rescued me with a few dollars to tide me over for a while.
The next day was a misty and sunny day in Santa Monica as we drove the labyrinthine freeways to the congested airport. During that time, Los Angeles hosted the Olympics, so the airport was even more teeming and frantic than usual. Nevertheless, I kissed my dear Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Harry a fond farewell and hoped to see them again in the not-too-distant future. Ohio seemed like the hinterlands compared to the Los Angeles frenzy. Flying to Seattle, I relaxed knowing somehow that world of the lovely Pacific Northwest woods and mountains would be a softer place to be. Reaching Seattle, Terry and I enjoyed a welcome home hug and a trip to his home in the vast suburbs of Seattle.
Carol Heinz Gionnini & Baby Nicolas, Los Angeles, August 1984
TWILIGHT ZONE IN SEATTLE
Terry’s apartment was one of those faceless, fifties buildings which are all brick and all look alike. Behind it were fields and woods starting to be developed, but still fresh then with blackberry bushes and wild flowers intermixed with wild grasses. Both of us seem relieved that we are still just friends and the freedom of being together without a personal agenda was refreshing. I still had to face all the impending disasters in Columbus, but spending time in Seattle helped me move beyond the pain of leaving Australia behind.
GATHER YE BLACKBERRIES WHILE YE MAY
Terry and I gathered bountiful blackberries hiding in the back of the apartment complex. Terry combines the full-flavored fresh fruit with vanilla, granola, and yogurt for a sweet desert after lunch. Later, two friends from the University of Washington come by and we all send out for a Seattle-style pizza. This meant a fresh, vegetarian pizza dotted with mushrooms, olives, tomatoes, green peppers, and a light, bouncy mozzarella cheese. This pizza was very satisfying and filling. Accompanying the pizza was a California blush wine that helped take away some of my burdensome jetlag as well as the heavy-hearted longing.
Mount Rainier, Seattle, September 1984
With Terry Flagg on Mt. Rainier
VASHON ISLAND
While in Seattle, Terry and I reconnected with two beautiful, elderly Americans I had met while crossing the Nullabor in what seemed like a lifetime ago. Ruby and Eddie live in a little nook of a home on Vashon Island. All the windows look out to the surrounding water. Ruby, a fabric artist, has her needlework, quilts, and wall hangings festooning their home. The effect is warm and wonderful.
Eddie had been with the United States Navy and they travel together when not at this cottage surrounded by greenery and twinkling beauty. The effect is much like the charming gracefulness of New Zealand and I wonder how they can ever leave it for anywhere else. The four of us take snacks and hike Vashon Island’s fuchsia dotted trails. God’s handiwork is everywhere!
PICNIC ON VASHON ISLAND
OVERCAST SKIES AND CLOSER TO HEAVEN
After the magical day with Eddie and Ruby, Terry and I hike a few trails in Mt. Rainier Park. The sky is filled with large, billowing clouds like chalky angels guiding us in our travels. Mile High pine trees are all around us as we see more of a still shining mountainside. Terry is driving me to the airport afterwards. There I will stay for the evening while awaiting my early morning flight home to Columbus. My friend Joey called when I arrived in Seattle and has wired me money to ease my transition homeward.
Terry Flagg & Rita Bova
Seattle, Washington 1984
HELLO NEW LIFE
Terry and I say our goodbyes at the airport. He has to be at work early in the morning. The constant farewells for me are breaking my heart and having an evening to center myself is critical. Terry has been a companion, guardian, and, most of all, a true friend. A real part of me loves him. I still feel guided, however, to some other destiny, hoping that I am not just fooling myself. While at the airport motel, I find an odd-looking man following me to the hotel’s entrance. Being a young woman on her own in a big American city is spooky. I stop in the lobby and stay there, asking for the clerk to walk me upstairs. We lose the guy and I breathe a real sense of relief.
HELLO COLUMBUS
Finally, I am traveling almost back in time to my past imperfect in Columbus. My cozy little cottage is bent and broken and so are my life and future. I am weary from traveling but apprehensive as to how I’ll cope and what I’ll find. Besides all of this, I hear that Jordan will be in Columbus the weekend I arrive and will be waiting for my call. My life seems in turmoil, as do my mind, heart, and looks.
I try to sleep on the plane, but feel even more exhausted and mixed up when I finally give up. Only knowing that my neighbors, Brian and Katy, and my beloved friend, Patty, will be there to meet me gives more comfort and strength. I gather myself together and decide to face my fate and my future. In a weird way I am relieved to be back facing a familiar, if still scary, life ahead of me.
COLUMBUS THROUGH THE FOG
with joy at seeing them again
September 14, 1984, Columbus Airport
RED ROSES, LAKE ERIE WINE, AND MIDWEST MEMORIES
Red roses, a tasty dinner of prime rib – juicy, rare, and thick as a brick – along with a tasty Lake Erie Wine makes the dark, dismal day seem a little less so after the circling-Columbus-flight. My friends’ joy and love brightened my day and my mood that fall day when I arrived back in Ohio to my former life/world. Yes, I am back in the Midwest of American and I am honored by the love and caring of my sweet friends and family. My heart is comforted by the warmth and loving welcome home. I have included my mother’s recipe for tender prime rib. Even though the prime rib dinner that night was wonderful, I have never been able to find my mother’s beef ambrosia duplicated anywhere outside the USA.
HOMEWARD BOUND
After the warm welcome, I burrow into my home to cope with jetlag, shock, and, surprisingly, the relief at being back in my own world. My home is a shambles due to a wild hot tub party my graduate student tenants conducted before jumping the rent for two months. In the backyard, the fence is broken down as a surfboard by the turbulent sea. The inside was none too impressive either, what with dirt, dust, cat hair, trash, abandoned clothing and books throughout. Somehow my home seemed to mirror my psyche and myself. I feel compelled to put my life back together again. I also found a telegram from Jordan stating that he would be in Columbus for the weekend – three days from now!
PUTTING TOGETHER THE JAGGED PIECES
The countdown continued for my assuming my former life. My college teaching job would start a week from today, September 13, 1984, and I both anticipate and dread my return there. For now, I was jumpy at seeing Jordan again and am terrified about what I will do. I refuse to keep on this track to nowhere, but am so tempted by his sensuality. After putting together my home’s jagged pieces, I begin to pull myself together too. In the mirror I see a thinner, tanned but bedraggled self. I pray I can fit in somehow. I worry that I will never find true love and fulfillment. A liberated woman, I am also a lonely one. I long for a child and for closure.
REAL WORLD
The following two days I spent sleeping and catching up on my new/old reality. Calling my boss, I am chagrined at her iciness and dread having to endure my fellow teacher’s jealousy and estrangement. At least now I felt more like my true self again. Joey shows up at my door with groceries, flowers, and smiles. His thoughtfulness and considerate behavior is even more impressive because he is now living with a fellow student, Janet, near the Ohio State campus. Intuitively, I know that he has fallen in lust and in like with me, but he never pushes me or backs me into an emotional or physical corner. I thank him profusely for his generosity and he admits his love relationship with Janet. We agree that we will remain friends and send a rollicking time talking about the international life. He had lived in Scotland, Africa, and Germany. We toast a new day in Columbus, Ohio, with a small, tasty bottle of cheap champagne. The real world was starting to look brighter and brighter.
JOEY’S CRACKERS AND CHEESE AND SWEET SUPPORT
Joey also brings fresh green grapes, and golden ginger ale. We feast on crackers, cheese, sardines, and savor times both ahead and behind us. His true loving self is sweetness for me and I am starting to feel at home again.
CAUTION: CURVING WEEKEND AHEAD
I begin to pull together my world, my life, and myself. I call Jordan and make plans to meet him for dinner in downtown Columbus the next day. The Saturday is sunny, bright, and very blue-skied. Fall in Columbus, Ohio, is rich and vibrant and often an Indian summer time. 1984 was an autumn of golden richness, blue skies, and powerful change. My heart is in my throat at I think of seeing Jordan again.
SWIMMING AGAINST THE TIDE
Ah. I meet Jordan in the darkened lobby of the traveling businessmen’s hotel and am again struck by his sophisticated yet warm demeanor. He has asked me to bring my swimsuit and we luxuriate in the hot tub and swim like carefree dolphins in the pool. He must be so seasoned in seduction that he knows how to ease into intimacy before the intended prospect catches on. Instead of making me more uninhibited, it reinforces my will to escape this charming cad. After a posh dinner, we walk on the hotel’s clipped and anonymous grounds and he offers to toast our North American homecoming with champagne in his room.
I ask him how his wife is and how he’s coped with being back in chilly Canada. Jordan laughs and says she’s doing well, but he’s been traveling a great deal. He hasn’t been in Canada much. I’ll say! TRANSLATION: “I’m still married and will stay married, but I love having these liaisons around the world.” And again, I wonder how many other women have fallen into his charming, blue-eyed trap. Taking his hand in mine, I say, “Jordan, I care deeply for you, but I have to say no to this kind of life. I’m sure I’ll always love you, but I am leaving now. I wish you all the best forever.”
With that, we kiss goodbye and he escorts me to my car. Not looking back, I drive away and end up in tears, rushing home alone. Dawn is now peeking out of a still and hushed world. As the sky grew bluer, I realize the sky in Australia was midnight blue as well. Encouraged, I go into my home and start my new day, my new life – again.
PRAYER FOR TODAY
I was so truly back and as I lay on my porch looking at the run rising in a shadowy sky, everything seemed like a dream. Along the shattered fence, several morning glories were opening to the sun.
Praying, I asked God to show me the way, and as I prayed, I wrote this poem:
Prayer on a Mild September Day
Asia-blue sky above
More real than real
The sun glows, tickles my face
Morning glories emerge
Into the day’s beauty.
I feel the breath of God
In the air
Stillness
A state of solemnity
And sweetness.
And for a while
The pressures of the world cooperate.
Rita Bova Galusick with Michael Galusick
Columbus, Ohio 1987
EPILOGUE
RETURNING ON A JET PLANE
Turquoise, turquoise, turquoise, and white - again my eyes are filled with the brilliant light and ocean of Australia! Twenty years after I first came to Australia, I am more in love with the land, people, and the sea than ever before. This time I am honoring my beloved Aussie “sister” Lorna Little and her recently published Aboriginal legendary book for children, The Mark of the Wargal. In 2007 I am producing and directing an educational video conference interview with Lorna, who is reading her book to American children back at Columbus State Community College in Columbus, Ohio. Laughing and rushing into the arms of Lorna Little, Vivienne Sahanna, and Jennie Keogh-Johnston, my beloved Aussie “sisters,” I return to Perth again.
