Farewells and Memories

Leaving parties have been had, farewells said. Some people we’ll see back in Reading, others perhaps if we return to Oz, and a few hopefully not ever again. What? I’m just being honest – there’s always a few! Our last weekend was a fitting tribute to our time in hot and sunny Karratha. A morning’s sunbathe in the garden, fish and chips by the mighty Indian Ocean in Point Samson, an afternoon’s scamper on the beach with a borrowed dog (the friends we went with were dogsitting for a couple of their friends – we didn’t ask to frolic with a random stranger’s pet pooch), a poolside evening drinks party thrown by the company, and then on the Sunday a fabulous BBQ party by the pool with a load of friends – you can’t get more Aussie than that. A few snags, a couple of tinnies and a float in the pool, mate. That’s the life. Well, I had chicken and vegetable skewers, a homemade burger and a few g&ts but I felt pretty Australian all the same!


So will we be back? Probably not to Karratha (although a lot of people say that and somehow find themselves back here again and again – money makes people fickle!) but perhaps to Perth, or maybe Queensland. Having said that, Karratha has a way of drawing you in, it’s a funny old place like that. For all its drawbacks – its remoteness, the high cost of living, the lack of entertainment facilities, the flies and extreme heat in the summer – it can surprise you in wonderful ways, ways that sometimes make you gasp. Like when we returned from the pool party on Sunday evening. The night was inky black, the lamplights dim and none of our house lights were on, giving the stars centre stage. And they were magnificent. With no high rises and little light pollution, we could see every single star, every constellation, and we could make out the Milky Way. They seemed to go on forever, blazing across the sky with their fierce light. I had to drag myself inside. I will make sure that I don’t only remember the bad, but the good too. The huge skies, the empty white sand beaches, the tremendous amount of wildlife in both sea and on land, the warm, dry weather, the lifelong friends we've made. Karratha, we won't forget you. 

Attack of the Lizards

We have a lizard problem. At first they were cute, unexpectedly popping their little heads up through the drain in the floor and the sink and scurrying out from underneath doors (although that did occasionally freak me out too – the little ones’ legs are so tiny that they look like snakes slithering across the floor when they move quickly). Now, they have multiplied and have started leaving little presents all over the house for us. And yes, when I say presents I do mean poo. It’s disgusting and they have started to do it everywhere.


Previously, bizarrely, they managed to confine their toilet habits to the bathroom (although unfortunately not in the actual toilet – they weren’t that well-trained) – it was still gross but at least it was just one room and the toilet was within close reach for me to chuck the tiny pellet poos after I’d picked them up with toilet paper. That has now changed as they have advanced to pooing anywhere the mood takes them, which so far has been on the bathroom, kitchen and living room floors and on the wall in the spare room.

I don’t think that it is coincidental that the increase in poo and widening of the areas in which they poo has occurred at the same time that they seem to have bred. Suddenly I am seeing several baby lizards darting around the house that definitely were not here before. And they really do get absolutely everywhere. I am pretty sure that it is only a matter of time before I open the microwave to find one jumping out at me.

It is definitely time for us to leave.

Space Age

It’s all suddenly seeming very real now. Ravi has been driven off into the sunset leaving a gaping space in our driveway. We have given our massive TV to a friend so there is now a TV-shaped space in the front room. And now the movers have been and taken our life for the past 27 months with them on the back of a lorry which has left rather a lot of space everywhere. It truly feels like we’re in limbo, just waiting for the next phase of our lives to begin. Nothing here is ours now, we’re imposters in someone else’s house. This isn’t where we belong anymore and I finally feel totally, completely ready to go. I want to go back to our little Victorian terrace, our very own house containing our very own things in it. Well, possibly minus one very nice distressed white wooden framed mirror bought from Chatuchak Market in Bangkok and stupidly not added to the pile for the movers to take. I love that mirror and I will be devastated if they don’t let us somehow get it to their warehouse before the rest of our worldly goods are trucked down in a road train to Perth and eventually loaded into a plane bound for London. I have a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach – this has not been a good outcome to a day of loss, of feeling torn between two countries, two lives. My mission is now to save the mirror at all costs!  

Bon Voyage, Ravi!

Parting is such sweet sorrow



Monday was a very sad day as we bade a fond (and slightly tearful) farewell to our trusty steed, Ravi. Our Toyota Rav4 took us on many adventures and never once let us down and it was hard for me to say goodbye. The Husband didn’t have much trouble – he filled out the forms and handed over the keys like some monetary transaction. Ok, yes, strictly it was a monetary transaction but Ravi meant much more to me than that. He transported us safely through the harsh Pilbara wilds to far-flung beaches and remote national parks and he enabled us to see things we never would have got the chance to otherwise. And he took me to the shops each week which isn’t quite as exciting but very important nonetheless.

Ravi took us through the remote outback...

To a camp in isolated Karijini National Park...

On a road trip to Exmouth...

Past trains that went on for miles...

To look-out points over the Indian Ocean...

To the middle of nowhere.

We went all the way down to Exmouth and the Ningaloo Reef twice, across to the remote Karijini National Park, along the Rio Tinto Railway Road of Death, to Millstream and Chichester National Parks, and to beaches that could only be reached via unsealed tracks. Although he was a silver car, more often than not he wore an orange/red/brown tinge from the iron ore-rich dirt and dust that is ever-present in the Pilbara. We had great fun in Ravi and I really do feel quite emotional that we have now parted ways for good. At least he has gone to a good home – a loving family with a teenager that will drive him to work every day. The Husband related a few of the expeditions we had made in Ravi and expressed the hope that she too would have similar adventures in him. She gave him an embarrassed smile and shrugged before quickly getting into the car. Perhaps Ravi will be confined to driving around the town from now on but I suppose he is getting old now so maybe it’s for the best. We can be cheered knowing that we gave him one last adventure in his twilight years.

Neon Garden



I felt like Ariel from The Little Mermaid this weekend. I discovered an extensive underwater world complete with different sized buildings, popular haunts for catching up with friends and places to chow down. The coral gardens beneath the water in Coral Bay are truly spectacular. Coral of every different shape, size and colour pack the seabed and rise up like a watery urban jungle. There are massive footstool-shaped coral that tower right to the surface of the water and offer a perfect resting spot for fish to congregate and mingle. There are luminous yellow ‘bushes’, with hundreds of miniature branches that prove to be haute cuisine for marine life – they go crazy for the stuff. There are huge rose-like coral, complete with delicate petals like the intricate vegetable carving Asian chefs are famous for. Electric blue, deep purple, dazzling white, fluorescent yellow, soft green, striking orange – the colours were so intense they popped, begging to be gazed at admiringly. And I did. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.


And best of all? You can swim out to it from the beach. No taking an hour’s boat trip with dozens of other people, then bumping into them as you all snorkel over the same area of reef for twenty minutes before being ordered back onto the boat. In fact, we were the only ones that had swum out to that part of the reef – other snorkelers had stayed near the shore, swimming over the less spectacular coral. I felt privy to a special underwater world that many never get to see. A little mermaid swimming amongst a city of neon colours and architectural sculptures. And only once or twice feeling panicky when sure that a shoal of massive bluebone was following me, intent on cornering me and biting away at my flesh like a pack of piranhas. I definitely shouldn’t have watched Piranha 3 so recently. Despite my fear of being nibbled to death, it was a truly awesome experience. Coral Bay, one day I will be back.

The Death of an Expat Wife

Expat Wife will soon cease to exist. Before you start to panic and recommend the suicide prevention hotline, I must clarify that statement. I am not about to depart this mortal world, merely my status as Expat Wife, for the Husband and I are set to return to the UK after 2 years and 3 months living in the hinterland. It is slowly sinking in but I still can’t quite believe that in just a few weeks we will be returning home. Home. It’s a funny concept. I suppose it is ‘home’ – we own a house there, most of our family and friends live there, we are, after all, British. It says so in our passports. Well, OK, mine also says New Zealand but I can’t really claim to be a Kiwi seeing as I’ve only been there once when I was 4. However, ‘home’ for the last couple of years has been Pattaya and Karratha. Yes, we might have complained about certain aspects of our time in Thailand and Australia but at the end of the day, home is what you make of it. It would be sad if we really felt that we have been thousands of miles from home all this time, just biding away our time until we can return.

I’m going to get all philosophical now but one thing I have learnt through being an Expat Wife is that you have to live in the here and now. It sounds like a cliché but when applied to the life of an expat, especially a temporary expat, it is the only way to avoid constantly missing what you’ve left behind, something I’ve seen happen to too many people. To do that, you have to set up home wherever you are. Photos and other personal items help but it’s more about living in the present – accepting the country, the accommodation and the situation you are in and making the most of it, not constantly thinking about when next you’ll be back home, not wishing away the days, the months, the years. Because that’s exactly the problem – before you know it you’ll have been away for a few years and have been miserable the entire time. That’s years of your life that you’ll have lost to frustration, anger and melancholy.

I have also personally learnt that we could make a home for ourselves anywhere because - wait for the cheesy, vomit-inducing moment – home is wherever the other is. As long as we are together we’ll be alright. So, we’re going back to England for now but who knows where home will be in the future. I’m sure that Expat Wife won’t be gone for long.      

Beach Recycling

As we have seen recently, Mother Nature is a pretty awesome force. Sometimes she can devastate, as with the floods, cyclones, bush fires, earthquakes and tornadoes in the Antipodes. Sometimes she can majorly disrupt countries across the globe, as with the snowstorms in northern Europe and the US and the volcano in Iceland. But sometimes nature can actually be beneficial, improving an area with its brute force.


We went to one of our favourite beaches on Sunday. It is a lovely, sheltered, sandy cove bordered by rocks at each end and not once have we had to share it with anyone, other than the resident dog who likes to dig up crabs. Its downside is that low tide reveals a swathe of rocks that makes swimming difficult. If you time it right and are there at high tide, there is a nice stretch of water without a single rock but of course high tide doesn’t always occur at a time that you necessarily want to be at the beach. Fancy a swim at 4am? First navigate the dirt track in the dark, then watch out for the sharks, then go to see a shrink as you are clearly not quite right in the head. So, on the days that high tide didn’t coincide with beach-going hours, we had to content ourselves with a mere paddle or lying flat out in the inch of seawater before the start of the rocks. Not unpleasant but not quite the refreshing swim that you so often need when baking under a roasting-hot sun.

However, the beach we arrived at on Sunday had been transformed since last we were there. At first we couldn’t quite put our finger on what it was but when we were in the water, having a lovely swim, we realised. There were far, far less rocks. It was a long way off high tide and yet there were only a smattering of rocks on a huge expanse of flat sand. It was The Husband that clicked what must have happened. When the rains from the most recent cyclone created a surge at high tide, it must have brought with it so much sand that the rocks had been covered. It was only with that realisation that we saw that the beach was definitely higher. The extra sand had raised the beach by a foot or so, creating a feet-friendly sandy beach with hardly any rocks. Amazing. Isn’t nature great? Well, until the next disaster she is anyway.

Tornadoes, Cyclones and Earthquakes - Just Another Day Down Under

Everyone knows that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned so the Antipodeans must have somehow seriously disparaged Mother Nature. Yesterday afternoon Karratha was preparing to shelter from Cyclone Carlos – businesses shut early and everyone was on their way home to secure their homes and prepare to bunk down for a day or so. Little did we know that the weather was about to unleash its worst before Carlos was even close. As we were taping up windows and moving the wheelie bin and outdoor furniture into the shed, four freak tornadoes were ripping through residential streets and the shopping centre and sending the tops of palm trees and shopping trolleys into the public swimming pool. Houses lost their roofs, which went flying into nearby gardens, trees were torn from the ground, ending up smashing their way through people’s windows. At least one woman was hospitalised when her front window was hit by debris and smashed into smithereens around her. Boats and caravans were picked up and sent flying through the air as if they were toys.


The freak tornadoes came from nowhere and people caught outside rushed to find somewhere, anywhere to shelter. It lasted mere minutes but caused devastation and those hit were left with the knowledge that their damaged roofs would be under the force of cyclone-strength winds and rain over the next 24 hours. I still don’t know how the home of our friends has fared as we are on red alert meaning we can’t leave the house, and the mobile phone networks are down. Luckily, they were still on their way back home when it happened so they were unharmed but they now have holes in their roof, leaving their furniture and treasured possessions without cover. We lost TV signal early on and so had had absolutely no idea that any of this had happened until they phoned us, despite the fact we live only a mile or so from the epicentre of the destruction. We’re just praying that come tomorrow morning further disaster hasn’t been metered out by Cyclone Carlos.

We of course then woke this morning to the news of Christchurch’s deadly earthquake a mere five months after the destruction caused by September’s earthquake in the city. Although this one was of a lower magnitude, it is already very clear that it will be far more disastrous. At least 65 are dead, hundreds more are still trapped, buildings have been decimated, and the iconic cathedral is crumbling. Seriously Mother Nature, give us a break.

Swamped

It’s amazing what passes for entertainment out in the sticks. On Sunday morning the Husband and I and a couple of friends drove down to Mairee Pool, a swimming spot on a river roughly thirty minutes south of Karratha. With the recent persistent rains we thought the river might be raging and be quite a spectacular sight. We piled into the work ute, drove down to the raised parking area, slathered on the sun cream and picked our way down the mud. I suppose that should have been our first indication that this wasn’t going to be as pleasant an outing as we’d hoped. There was mud everywhere, some baked hard in the sun, some still sticky, sloppy and wet. It gave off a strange, rather unpleasant smell, which only intensified as we neared the banks of the river.


When we reached the water, it was clear that none of was going to venture in it for a swim and it was not going to yield photo opportunities or awe-inspiring views. The water level was raised but it was calm, swamp-calm, and was the colour of a swamp too - brown with a yellowish foam at the edges where it was gently lapping the bank. Not quite the excitingly turbulent river that we expected, nor the crystal-clear pool that we had visited in October. However, we seemed to be the only ones who felt that way. Two families were already floating languidly on lilos and splashing about in the river and as we were leaving, another group of Aussies were piling out of their ute, ready to jump into the water with gusto. We none of us could understand their fervour for a stinky, muddy, brown expanse of stagnant water, especially when there are so many pristine beaches nearby. Was it really that they just wanted something different to do, or did they know something we didn’t? Perhaps the malodorous water contains some sort of health-promoting minerals or beauty-enhancing beneficial algae. Or perhaps they have just lived in Karratha too long.

Rain, Rain, Go Away

We are now into our third day of rain. Of hammering, driving, ceaseless rain and inky black days. This is the longest it has continuously rained since we first arrived in Karratha, almost a year ago. Of course, we haven’t been here in February before so for all we knew this could have been a normal occurrence. Except the data published online told us all we needed to know. The Pilbara received more rain in January alone than it normally does in an entire year, and the sky has thrown down bucket loads more of the wet stuff since then.


It’s odd, seeing roads swamped with rain, the ground struggling to drink more water than it’s normally given all year, the sky dark rather than blindingly sunny. It’s rather nice though, the unexpected, a break from the norm. I love warm, sunny weather but it does the soul good to have a bit of a change now and again, to break the monotony. No matter how much one loves the sunshine, one can get bored of it appearing day after day after day. Plus, it’s far easier to work knowing that I’m not missing a lovely day outside, I don’t feel that pull to shut down the computer, pull the reclining chair out and go and bask in the warmth of the day.

However, I do feel that it is now time for the rain to go away and the sun to put his hat back on. It’s been a nice change but I’m ready for blue skies and sunshine again, for sunlight pouring through the windows rather than artificial light shining down from the ceiling, especially as the weekend is approaching. It’s starting to feel like England, except without the chilly damp that comes with prolonged rain over there. The creeks are already raging, the ground can’t take much more saturation. Schools are shut, some roads are closed, widespread flooding seems imminent. But, alas, it seems we are not to be relieved – a cyclone has formed off the coast a few hundred kilometres south of us and further heavy rain is expected. Oh well, at least the flies have scarpered for a bit.

Kamikaze Crickets

The crickets and grasshoppers are out in force. Whether running over the local oval or walking through a newly grassy gorge on the Burrup Peninsula, you are currently likely to get hit on various parts of your bodies by kamikaze jumping insects. These aren’t tiny bugs either, they are giant, gangly insects which can cause quite a blow if you happen to get in the way of one throwing its body at full force into the air. Which they seem to do a lot. They are actually very timid creatures and walking through undergrowth of any description causes a tidal wave of crickets to leap out in front you as they attempt to escape from the giant humans.


Unfortunately, these crickets are also not the brightest sparks in the animal kingdom and seem perpetually surprised when they jump directly in front of the giants only to find them still bearing down on them. They also in their panicked state manage to jump straight into fences, windows, walls, trees, and other obstacles, rebounding off them with equal speed. This is quite a spectacle but becomes decidedly less entertaining when said mammoth crickets fly straight into your jugular, as happened to me yesterday as I was running. Despite spluttering, choking and straining for air, I soldiered on, determined not to let a pesky cricket ruin my good intentions to exercise but I am afraid I no longer feel sorry for them when they face-plant our windows .

Harney Fever

What do you think the biggest news story in Australia is right now? The devastating floods and aftermath of Cyclone Yasi in Queensland? The most recent Aussie soldier to die in Afghanistan? The first day of Parliament? No, no and no. The most talked about topic on the news - in newspapers, on talk-back radio, talk shows and morning TV, and all over Twitter, the blogoshpere and social news sites – is Liz Hurley and Australian cricketer Shane Warne hooking up. Yes, Harney (pronounced ‘horny’ – yes, I’m afraid so) has made front page headlines since the pair were caught smooching a couple of months ago while Warney was in London. They have since carried out their tryst in the very public domain of Twitter, for all who actually care (and it seems that a lot of people do) to see their relationship blossom.


The story has now exploded again as Hurley has flown over to Australia to stay with Warney and the paps have been tracking the couple’s every move. Which in truth hasn’t been at all difficult seeing as they haven’t actually left his house. That in turn has of course kept everyone speculating just what they’ve been getting up to in there. Yes, seriously. Every morning since she arrived breakfast news has been crossing over to a journalist who is camped outside his house, just for her to say that they still haven’t emerged yet but that a mattress has been delivered and some workmen turned up the day before for a couple of hours. And I thought the English press was bad! Why does everyone care so much??

And that’s when I realised why I was so surprised at the media attention this fling was getting. In England this would be par for the course but the Aussie press aren’t like the English. They don’t really have tabloids, not to the same extent anyway. They don’t have a problem with celebs getting hounded. Like in most things in life, they are a lot more relaxed about it all. So why this big hoo-ha over what doesn’t really seem to be that big a story? OK, as one of Australia’s cricket legends he’s pretty big news here but she’s just an ex-model turned businesswoman who dated Hugh Grant last century. She seems to hold this spell over Australia, as if her glamour and admittedly very good looks have bewitched the Australian people and, by dating an Aussie, they have somehow been sprinkled with fairy dust too.

I’m sure that the press in the UK aren’t covering the story to this degree – or perhaps at all. In the name of research, I went on to the Daily Mail site, that bastion of trashy news (though with a couple of actual news titbits thrown in so that middle-class housewives can pretend that they’re only interested in the serious news stories) to see whether they have reported on ‘Harney’. And it seems I was wrong – they have made the Daily Mail, albeit only in a short piece. I just don’t get it.

Discovering a Hidden Gem



Living in Karratha can often be fairly monotonous. In a town centred on work and containing little diversion other than the great outdoors which, all too often, it is too hot to enjoy, rarely do you get the opportunity to do something different. It is always nice to be surprised, and occasionally the remote outback town does just that. Hearing that the recent heavy rains had created an impromptu waterfall on the Burrup Peninsula, we drove out there on Sunday to take a peek. Parking up by the road, we hiked up to the rocky outcrop and began to climb the boulders. I kept imagining snakes slithering out from between the rocks, fangs bared and ready to bite me, or perhaps a giant spiders web, the sunlight rendering it invisible as I walk straight into it and watch helplessly as an eight-legged monster slowly crawls across my face. Luckily, we saw no snakes and although I did in fact walk into a web (and screamed only for an understandable length of time given the circumstances and my already deeply entrenched fears), the spider appeared not to be at home.





However, what we did find made it all worthwhile. Water cascading down the rocks, collecting in pools and then falling again. Dragonflies mating mid-flight, just above the surface of the water. A lizard basking in the sun whilst clinging vertically to a rock. Virtual meadows of grass and wildflowers that have sprung up almost overnight thanks to the wet ground. And, best of all, Aboriginal rock art dotting rocks everywhere you looked. A warrior, a lizard, a giant turtle, a row of people holding hands, a kangaroo, all decorated the rocks, probably thousands of years old. Who’d have thought that just minutes from the road is a whole other world, tucked away from sight. It just goes to show that Karratha does have its secrets and can surprise you every now and again. You just might have to put up with the interminable flies and potential death by spider or snake bite.

The Price of Fame

I really don’t get the whole obsession with celebrity. If I saw my favourite movie star or singer walking down the street, yeah my heart might skip a beat, my tummy turn into knots and my legs go all wobbly – well, Jake Gyllenhaall would probably induce those reactions anyway – but I would not queue up for hours in the rain and cold to catch a glimpse of them. I would not ask for their autograph – I have never understand what’s so exciting about someone’s signature scrawled on a piece of paper. I would not scream like a toddler or break down into uncontrollable tears. I would probably widen my eyes in shock, inhale deeply but then carry on as if I didn’t care who they were or hadn’t notice them at all. Perhaps I have some sort of complex or maybe I’m just proud but I hate the idea of people thinking they’re better than me just because they’re famous. I hate the thought of myself going all gooey and being looked at as ‘just another annoying fan’.


On the flip side, I don’t understand why anyone would want to be famous. Who would want to be followed everywhere by maniacal paparazzi photographers trying to earn the big bucks by snapping you in some compromising position? Who would want to be hounded everywhere they went by the media, fans, and wannabes? Who would to have to wear a disguise to go on a normal day out, or to have to make sure their hair and make-up was perfect to pop down to the shops for a pint of milk? Who would want to wonder if the person they’re dating is really into them or just into the celebrity status? Who would want to worry about stalkers? I just don’t get it. Yes, I would love the money and the invitations to swanky parties but I would not want to be recognised everywhere I went. Which is why when I received an email from a PR agency promoting a new ‘experience’ called ‘Dayfame’, I shook my head in disbelief, although sadly not surprise.

For the princely fee of upwards of £160 you can be followed around all evening by a group of 50 paps who will shout at you, get in your way and shove cameras in your face. What part of that is fun exactly? There’s a certain irony in the fact that true celebrities pay people to ward off the paparazzi whilst Tina down the road forks out two weeks worth of grocery money to draw them to her. Give her a couple of weeks of being hounded by the paps and she’ll soon wish they’d leave her alone. However, what’s possibly even sadder are the extras, including ‘stunning company’. For an extra wad of cash you can step out of your limo and into a club on the arms of a couple of attractive men or women. So, it’s basically an escort service too.

Dayfame is a sad reflection of society’s complete and utter obsession with celebrity, where a fun night out isn’t with your friends or your family but with a load of camera-wielding middle-aged men and two strangers who probably can’t string together two interesting sentences. How tragic.

Queenslanders Face Further Terror

It seems that all I blog about these days is the weather but it’s been one hell of a few months weather-wise over here. Devastating floods, blazing bush fires, battering cyclones, and now a super-cyclone that the Bureau of Meteorology has predicted will be “more life-threatening than any storm in recent generations.” Worst of all, this cyclone will hit flood-ravaged Queensland, still trying to clean up and rebuild following the tragic flooding and storm surges that inundated the state a few weeks ago. 2011 has so far been a pretty crappy year for poor Queenslanders and it seems things will only get worse.


With wind gusts at the core of cyclone Yasi already reaching 295km/h, the prediction is that by the time it reaches land the winds will exceed 300km/h. Unfortunately, a number of factors coinciding will result in the effects of the cyclone being even more devastating than they might otherwise have been. Yasi will be at its strongest around about the time it reaches landfall, resulting in these terrifyingly powerful winds and it will also coincide with a high tide, meaning 7 metre high storm surges can be expected. People are panicking, they are crying, they are fearing for their lives, and not without reason. The Bureau has described the cyclone as “a serious threat to life and property.”

This is not scaremongering by the media, these quotes have not come from sensational newspaper headlines. These words have come from official organisations – the State Premier, the Bureau of Meteorology, the State Emergency Response Unit. Even Major General Mick Slater, who heads the state’s Flood Recovery Taskforce, earlier said that Yasi is “potentially so dangerous you can’t risk leaving preparations to the last minute.” Anna Bligh, Queensland’s Premier, has described Yasi as “terrifying” and a “monster”.

When you consider that the cyclone will travel over 400km inland, at which point it will still be Category 3 rated, it is not overly dramatic to use such strong adjectives. It has been upgraded to Category 5, the most severe category, since the early hours of the morning, making Yasi the first Category 5 cyclone to hit Queensland since 1918. The information being relayed to us constantly throughout the day seems to get more frightening by the minute. The cyclone has already taken out one of the Bureau’s monitoring stations and will batter the state for at least 20 hours. Possibly the most staggering fact I heard today, one that really gives you an idea of the incredible strength of this cyclone, is that Yasi has enough energy to power the entire world for a year.

All the people of Queensland can do is prepare, bunker down and pray. With the State Disaster Deputy Commissioner Ian Stewart warning that people who have chosen to stay at home must brace themselves for the possibility that “the roofs of the houses may lift off,” there will be a terrifying 24 hours ahead. The world is praying with them.

Things that go Boom in the Night

It came out of nowhere. Yesterday was a typical Pilbara day – scorchingly hot, bright blue skies with not a cloud to be seen, a little humid maybe but with all the rain we’ve had recently that’s not unusual. The washing took under an hour to dry and I had to wear sunglasses to take it down from the line. Business as usual then. So when I tiptoed into our darkened bedroom, trying not to wake The Husband who had gone to bed an hour earlier, I was rather surprised to hear a distant rumbling that sounded very similar to thunder. Presuming it to be a car backfiring or traffic on the main road, I dismissed it and proceeded to get ready for bed. And that was when the room lit up. It was like someone was standing directly outside our window taking pictures with a huge flash. And then it happened again. And again. And again. Bemused, I drew back the blinds to see what looked like WWIII. The sky was illuminated with constant flashes of light, as if we were being bombed. I was now officially scared. Were the ports being attacked? Millions of dollars worth of iron ore and salt are shipped out of those nearby ports, an incredibly valuable facility for processing gas is currently being built a mere 20km away, and we’re over 1,000km from the nearest city. If you think about it, we’re sitting ducks. Then I heard the boom again – was that the sound of falling bombs?


By this point I had woken The Husband up with my cries of angst but he apparently did not share my fears. “For goodness sake, come to bed and shut up,” he moaned. Charming. There I was, terrified that we were about to be blasted to smithereens by foreign despots, and he’s annoyed about being woken up. “But look, look,” I cried, pointing to the sky. “It’s just a storm,” he said, grouchily, as he buried his face in his pillow. Oh. Right. Well it was a pretty scary storm. The thunder roared again, and then again, and then the rain started to hammer down and the wind all of a sudden picked up and began to rip around the house. The flashes of lightning were so bright, it hurt to look at them and I could feel them burning my eyeballs even through tightly closed lids. Of course, it didn’t help that The Husband, who by now had taken interest in the storm in the way an excitable 10 year old would, had insisted that we keep the blinds open so that we could watch it.

This was more terrifying than the cyclone, especially as it came without warning. How I managed to fell asleep I do not know – the lightning like 100 paparazzi photographers all simultaneously taking pictures with flashing cameras combined with the roar of the wind, rain and thunder was not especially conducive to sleep but somehow I drifted off. And when I woke this morning, the sky was bright, the sun warm and only a few fluffy clouds remained. It was as if the storm had never happened.

The Grass is Greener

The Husband didn’t go back to work at all yesterday. Apparently the site, which was 20km closer to the cyclone, was rather a mess and needed to be straightened up before the bulk of the workers returned. It didn’t help that the sky refused to cease tipping bucket-loads of rain over Karratha and the Burrup Peninsula (where the plant is being built) until the early evening. That of course meant that he was pottering around the house all day, his restlessness causing me to be similarly on edge, so I abandoned work at lunch and watched some tennis with him. As soon as I stopped working he relaxed – it was like he felt guilty for not working when I was – so I spent the afternoon with him, watching tennis and doing a few jobs.


By late afternoon the rain was still falling but the sky had brightened somewhat so we ventured out in the car to buy supplies for the weekend. What we saw on that drive to the shops was a different Karratha. It was a Karratha with fast-flowing creeks, rivers where there had just the day before been only dry, sun-baked earth. It was a Karratha with grass, dressed in a colour other than red or brown. It was actually quite beautiful. It’s ironic really – in England a grey, rainy, gusty day would bring feelings of gloom, of a depressing predictability; “another cold, wet, dull day.” In Karratha a day like that becomes exciting – instead of monotonous blue sky, searing heat and sunshine we get blustery conditions that cool down the usually sauna-like air, rain that provides much-needed moisture to the parched ground and a dark sky that is a welcome relief from the blindingly bright sunlight. Plus, it felt rather cosy being holed up inside in the cool, dry house as the weather raged on outside. Usually I’m wishing I was out in the sunshine, making the most of the beautiful weather (an English habit that will probably never die, however long I live in a warm, sunny climate) so it comes as quite a relief to be content with being inside!

It’s true what they say, the grass is always greener on the other side....

Blown Away

Well, it finally happened. After countless false warnings, a category 3 cyclone whipped along the coastline, passing very close to Karratha. The first we knew that it might be a big one was Tuesday evening – it hit Broome, just over 800km north of Karratha, but at that point was only a tropical low, windy and rainy but nothing stronger than a gale in the UK. The following morning brought with it a blue alert and then a yellow and The Husband was sent home at 1pm after ensuring all was tied down and secured on site. After all that excitement came rather an anti-climax of an afternoon. It rained on and off but not heavily and as we went to bed that night we both wondered what the fuss was about.


However, at 2am we were rudely awoken by the deafening howl of the wind, the thunderous clatter of heavy rain pounding the roof and being blown in sheets against the windows. This was what they were preparing us for, and it is all the more frightening when it begins in the middle of the night. All was dark and we couldn’t see the extent of the rain and the wind, only hear it and imagine the damage it might be causing. Our back fence is rusting away at its foundations and, despite informing the agents about it months ago, nothing has been done about it. “We’re still getting quotes,” was the response every time we queried them about it. It has already sagged quite significantly in the direction of the house and I had visions of it being torn from the ground and hurtling towards the glass patio doors. I also had an irrational fear that we might be hit by a tsunami, a fear for which when expressed I was laughed at. Apparently it’s not possible here but in my opinion the weather can never be relied upon to do what’s expected and anything can happen. Just ask the residents of Toowoomba, the small Queensland town that was destroyed by a freakish inland tsunami. I had trouble falling back to sleep, not only because of the wall of noise that was battering the house but because, deep down, I was pretty scared.

We woke to relative calm – none of the ear-splitting howling and drumming rain of 2am. Expecting to be going to work, The Husband got up but soon received a text telling him that we were still on red alert. He wasn’t going anywhere so promptly fell back into bed for another couple of hours kip. It seemed odd at 7.30am that he still couldn’t go anywhere as there was no rain, no wind and it was cloudy but fairly bright. Not that he was going to complain about not having to don his flouro work gear and steel-capped boots and trudge off to site. So of course he proceeded to get in my way, TV blaring, as I tried to work.

Half an hour later we realised why we were still on red alert. The room darkened within seconds to such an extent that we had to switch on the lights. It was like someone was pulling a black cloak over the sky. Then the wind kicked up, furiously shaking our fence which was desperately straining to remain in the ground, and making the trees perform a voodoo dance. Last to make an entrance was the rain but it was saving itself for the grandest entrance of all, ensuring it got full attention. It hammered down on the tin roof, thrashed against the windows, and started a pond in the already saturated garden. A tiny bird sheltered from the elements on the patio, under the roof, sitting with its head pulled in and its feathers ruffed up to try and make itself as small as possible as the cyclone unleashed its fury around it.

It is now 10am and the sky has brightened, the rain stopped and the wind no more than a gusty coastal breeze. The Husband is pacing up and down, unable to simply relax and enjoy the fact that he is not at work. He’s calling the company emergency information line every five minutes, checking whether the status has changed and he should be preparing to go to work. If I didn’t have to work I’d be crashed out on the sofa with a good book or watching the Australian Open, not wandering about the house, looking out the windows, sighing and distracting my wife who is trying to create masterpieces! Now more than ever I am praying that the cyclone moves on so that work can resume as normal.

Sunshine and Champers at the Australian Open



Two down, two to go, but the French and US Opens can wait because we had such a fabulous time at the Australian Open. As predicted, it is quite different to Wimbledon. There’s none of the pomp and ceremony, it is far less formal, and yes, there are definitely more Aussies! I love Wimbledon for all its formalities – I think they add to the excitement, to the feeling that you are at and witnessing something special. You really feel like you’re on hallowed ground when you walk through the gates at the Wimbledon Lawn Tennis Club. That doesn’t mean, however, that I disliked the Australian Open because of its lack of ceremony. It’s just a very different Grand Slam, and it was the perfect Aussie event.


Just like Australians themselves, it was relaxed, fun, and full of colour, both literally and in its character. People everywhere were dressed in their national colours, draped with flags, faces painted. There was more noise and less decorum but that made it fun and very Australian, especially after a glass of bubbly sipped whilst sitting out under the sun in Garden Square, where dozens of people were camped out on deckchairs watching the action on a big screen. Australians certainly know how to have fun, and we had plenty of it in and around the Rod Laver Arena.

Where Graffiti is Art and Greek is the Second Language

I have a strange feeling of déjà vu. I’m sitting on an airplane, netbook on the tiny tray table in front of me, typing my blog. This time however, I am on my way to Karratha, flying steadily away from Melbourne. Below me lies mile after mile of nothingness. Just red land, occasionally rising to form a small hillock, but otherwise a vast tract of the same sun-baked, water-deprived Mars-like land. Quite a contrast to the hustle and bustle, the libraries and museums, theatres and galleries, boutiques and purveyors of fine foods, bars and restaurants, of Melbourne.


Ah, Melbourne, how I love thee. A surprise awaits the visitor around every corner. An Art Deco apartment building from which one could almost see Hercule Poirot gazing out stands proud next to its modern equivalent, a soaring tower of glass. The Yorkshire cottage James Cook grew up in, shipped to Melbourne in pieces and reassembled in its finest park, complete with an English cottage garden. Graffiti so beautiful it could be described as nothing less than art, discovered down unassuming cobbled lanes. The old and the new nestle comfortably beside one another. Grand Victorian buildings rub shoulders with 21st century glass- and steel-clad multi-stories, resulting in an eclectic mix of architectural styles all jostling for space along the streets.

And that one word sums Melbourne up nicely – eclectic. It has the feeling of being a very inclusive type of place – Greeks, Italians, Brits, Chinese, Japanese, Middle Easterners, have all settled there (Melbourne is home to the largest number of Greeks outside Athens), artists, actors and writers flourish, and a Bohemian vibe can be felt throughout the city and its suburbs. Its architecture, its food and its culture all reflect a continually changing city, one which has the ability to constantly surprise. I loved it and I didn’t even get close to Ramsey Street – it turns out there is definitely more to Melbourne than Harold and Lou!

Melbourne-Bound

I’m typing this on the plane on the way to Melbourne, a city I haven’t visited since I was 14. Unfortunately, work has yet again forced The Husband to stay in Karratha (it really does get in the way far too often) so I am making this trip alone but I shall not be all on my lonesome – I will be joining The Parents at the hotel. The main reason for this little sojourn is to catch some of the Australian Open, a Grand Slam I am yet to watch other than on the small screen. In fact, this is only the second year in which I have even watched it on the telly as usually it is on in the middle of the night, what with Australia being the other side of the world to England. And I am not quite sad enough to stay up through the night to watch a ball being batted to and fro across a net. However, going to watch it live is a completely different ball game (pun absolutely intended) and I am really quite excited about it.


The only Grand Slam I have ever been to is Wimbledon and I just adore going – the rare sunny weather, the excitement like electricity crackling in the air, the Pimms, the strawberries and cream, the pomp and ceremony of it all. I have no doubt that the Aussie Open will be rather different – more relaxed probably, less formal, more Australians I expect – but it’s the differences that I’m looking forward to. I want to see what other Grand Slams are like, how another country approaches such an important event. Eventually I would like to visit all 4 Grand Slams but 2 will do for now. You see now why I had to go even if The Husband was chained to his desk, for when was I going to get the chance to get to go to the Australian Open again? It’s a long, long way from Reading.

So anyway, here I am on my way to a city I haven’t visited in 14 years – half my life ago in fact. I expect it has changed a bit since then and will in any case seem very different to me now, seen through the eyes of a 28 year-old married woman rather than a 14 year-old schoolgirl. It was actually a school trip that took me there all those years ago, a drama trip on which I remember more about the boy with the floppy hair and the dimpled smile that I developed a massive crush on than the city itself. So I am also incredibly excited about wandering down Melbourne’s famous Laneways, gazing up at the buildings in Federation Square and immersing myself in a bit of culture. I did the trip to Ramsey Street last time - the other thing, along with Dimples that stands out most in my mind. Yes, there is much for me to see this time round – there is definitely more to Melbourne than cute boys and Neighbours. At least I hope there is.

My Worst Nightmare

There has been some scary stuff in the news recently, much of it to do with natural disasters, but a report in the papers and on the local news yesterday brought my fears of another sort of natural terror to the surface once more. Snakes. Sneaky, slithery, venomous snakes in a story that will probably give me nightmares for days because it is just that – my own personal nightmare, something that I have lain in bed at night being terrified at the prospect of.


The true story involves a 7 year-old boy safely tucked up in his bed at night. At least, both he and his parents assumed he was safe, as you do when you’re in your own bed in your own room in the family home. Softly sleeping, in a world of little boy dreams of racing cars and super heroes and swimming in a sea of Lego, he was awoken by his own screams and a searing pain in his foot. His screams only intensified as he looked over at his arm, which felt tight and heavier than usual. Wrapped several times around his left arm was a Dugite, a highly venomous Australian species of Brown snake capable of inflicting a potentially fatal bite. I can’t even imagine the fright of waking up to find a snake clinging to your arm, especially as the boy then watched in horror as it bit his finger!

The Dugite had apparently entered the boy’s bedroom through a small hole in the wall, presumably in search of food and water, slithered up his bed and bitten him on his toe and then again on his foot, before wrapping itself around his arm. His piercing screams woke his mother, who ran into his room to see the snake still clinging to his arm despite the poor boy’s frenzied attempts to fling it from his body. She managed to calm him somewhat and hold him still as the snake released its grip and began to slither off. I suppose the snake was just as frightened as the boy, hence its rigid grip, not that that would have been much consolation to him. An ambulance was called and by the time he reached hospital, his whole body had paralysed. Four doses of antivenom later and he was on the road to recovery although, unsurprisingly, he is too scared to sleep in his bedroom.

This story is truly my worst nightmare and I have vowed to rake the fallen leaves as soon as possible and check for any holes in the walls. As the mother said, “You think you’re kids are safe when you put them to bed. You don’t expect them to wake with a snake around their arm.” Indeed you do not.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

The disastrous floods in Queensland have brought out the very best and the very worst in people. The good news is that the best by far outweighs the worst. Most Queenslanders took to the streets over the weekend to help out family businesses and homes that are coated in mud, quite literally mucking in to help friends, family and often total strangers. Many of the stories in The Weekend Australian were heart-warming. One involved a 14 year-old girl spending all her hard-earned pocket-money on sausages to help her mum provide a free sausage sizzle for all the workers. Why? “We’re Australians,” she said, “we help each other.” Other stories are emerging of incredible bravery, including the truckie who risked his own life to pull a mother and daughter from their car as it was being carried away by the inland tsunami in the Lockyer Valley. Many of course were also heart-breaking. The 21 month year-old girl who was ripped out of her mother’s arms as a torrent of water smashed through a brick wall and a large glass window and tore through their kitchen. Baby Jessica is missing, presumed dead.


Then there are the stories that are heart-breaking for a different reason, because they represent the depths of depravity some will sink to, even in times of crisis. Reports of people using boats to loot businesses still under water, scams involving others falsely claiming to be collecting for the State of Emergency Service for Queensland flood relief. How people can be so cruel, so heartless at a time when everyone most needs to pull together and help each other out of disaster is utterly beyond me, and the majority of Australians. Hopefully they will be caught – and, despite the Australian way of not being a dobber, looters are being reported by a disgusted public – and sentenced harshly. The Police Commissioner, Bob Atkinson, announced last week that the maximum penalty for looting is doubled to 10 years in times of natural disaster, and that will certainly be upheld.

The ‘low-life’ looters, as Atkinson termed them, are but a miniscule percentage of the largely good-hearted, brave, resilient Queenslanders, most of whom are rallying together to help clean up and rebuild a shattered state. I wish therefore to end with words spoken by Premier Anna Bligh, who has shown great strength and leadership throughout the floods; “We’re the people that they breed tough, north of the border. We’re the ones that they knock down, and we get up again.”

Preparing for the Worst... with Beer

As the weekend draws near, Cyclone Vince is heading steadily our way and is due to intensify by Saturday to Category 3 which will redefine it as a ‘severe tropical cyclone’. The Australian Government’s Bureau of Meteorology defines a Category 3 cyclone thus (capital letter are theirs): ‘Some roof and structural damage. Some caravans destroyed. Power failures likely. A Category 3 cyclone’s strongest winds are VERY DESTRUCTIVE winds with typical gusts over open flat land of 165-224 km/h. These winds correspond to the highest winds on the Beaufort scale, Beaufort 12 (Hurricane).’ The Beaufort Scale’s definition of a Beaufort 12 force wind is truly frightening: ‘Over Land – severe and extensive damage; Over water – the air is filled with foam and spray; sea completely white with driving spray; visibility very seriously affected.’


Luckily, the present plotting of the cyclone shows it taking a South-Easterly direction just before it hits land, travelling parallel to the coast back down towards Exmouth. Therefore, as long as it keeps to its current trajectory it shouldn’t actually make contact with land, which is when it is at its most destructive. The winds will be fierce, the rain will lash down, but we should be safe. Of course, a cyclone, like any weather system, is completely unpredictable and could change at any moment. With that in mind, we have started to prepare for the worst. Or at least, that is what I thought we were doing. The Husband offered to go to the shops to fuel up the car and buy necessary provisions – tinned vegetables and other tinned and dried foods, a portable gas-powered stove in case the power is cut, bottled water, that sort of thing. However, what does he come back with? Two loaves of bread, six tins of baked beans (which he knows I don’t particularly like) and a slab of beer. ‘The beer is to help us get through it,’ he said, adding, ‘you’ll be glad of it if we’re stuck inside for days with nothing to do!’ He obviously enjoys my company so much he needs beer to get him through the possibility of a couple of days with me. Then again, maybe he’s right – cyclone party anybody?!

Trying to Find the Good News

I turned on the TV this morning to see that the Brisbane flood level high at 4am this morning was lower than expected, saving many houses. Great news. No more people have been confirmed dead overnight. Excellent news. I then powered up my computer and looked at the BBC news homepage. The top news story is ‘Death Toll Rises in Brazil Floods’. Terrible news. I flick my eyes down to the top UK news and see ‘Heavy Rain Prompts Flood Warnings’. Bad news. Anna Bligh, Queensland State Premier then announced at a press conference on the TV that a 14th body had been found – a 24 year old man had been sucked into a storm drain in Brisbane. Horrendous news.


Just when you think things are getting better, the news turns sour again. The horror in Queensland is still not over and yet it is already being overshadowed on the world stage by another tragedy in another country. Brazil’s floods have so far claimed over 230 lives. The shining light to come out of the Queensland floods is the stories of courage and typical Aussie mateship. When all looks grim, that’s what you’ve got to cling to.

The Fury of Mother Nature

Over the weekend I was shivering, cocooning my entire body under the duvet in attempt to keep warm, wrapping myself up in layers of tops and jumpers, a thick coat, gloves, hat and scarf. On Monday I came back into the house sweating after hanging the washing up to dry. Yup, I’m definitely back in Karratha. It does feel odd that in a matter of a few hours I can go from 10⁰C to 38⁰C – my body really doesn’t know what’s going on. The sky is blue, the sun fierce. It is strange to think that a strong cyclone is headed our way. We are off to the shops this evening to stock up on tinned and dried food, a portable gas stove and bottled water in case we get a direct hit or a near miss, which will effectively imprison us inside our house, possibly without power or running water. All that we can hope is that we do not suffer a direct hit, which can decimate homes and rip trees from their roots.


Watching the tragedy of the Queensland floods unfold brings home just how powerful and relentless Mother Nature can be and that with all the technology we have today, nothing can stop her when she is at her full strength. News of the floods has been broadcast 24/7 on just about every channel here in Australia and it is hard to tear myself away from it. It just seems to be getting worse and worse – with each hour the waters rise further, flooding houses, almost completely submerging shopping centres, leaving an entire stadium under metres of muddy water. Of course, that is all devastating but what is really tragic is the human loss. 12 are now confirmed dead, several of those children, and over 50 are still missing, many feared dead. All the news reporters keep saying is that they know that the death toll will rise. It is odd to think that just a month or 2 ago, Queensland was suffering from a terrible drought, with residents desperate for water. Now they are literally submerged in water but, ironically, are still short of potable H²O as sewage leaks and other nasties contaminate the water system.

What with droughts, floods and snowstorms, Mother Nature certainly seems to be angry about something. I’m just praying she isn’t angry with Karratha.

Monkey Business

A post-fight bite to eat

We live in a country that is home to the top ten deadliest animals in the world and yet it seems only to be when I visit the urban jungle of Hong Kong that I encounter wildlife that leaves me truly fearing for my life. Last Christmas we came across a 20ft-long python having a little nap on the path after a meal of what looked like a cow (see my blog post on the close brush with death for further details) and this year we had a face-off with a bunch of angry, rabid monkeys. We walked up a path in Sai Kung to find half a dozen rather large red faced and bottomed primates seemingly gagging for a fight. It was like walking through the centre of a dodgy area of an English town at 2am in the morning. As soon as I saw them I grabbed The Mother's arm - why I rushed to her I don't know, seeing as she is the weakest and smallest of our little group, but it perhaps it was an instinct to want to be protected by my mother. And when one of the monkeys closest to us actually growled at us, I practically jumped into her arms. I did not fancy being mauled by a wild monkey. We managed to move past them unscathed - physically if not mentally - and when we returned only one was left, completely engrossed in devouring some food discarded by a careless walker. It had unleashed some male agression and was now ready for food - again like a boozed-up man from a rough area in the UK. Who knew Hong Kong could be so dangerous?