And She's In!

I did it. It has taken eight weeks but I have at last crossed a major hurdle in my battle to overcome my fear of All That May Kill Me In The Water. I fully immersed myself in the ocean and I have the photo to prove it. Okay, so you can’t really tell that it’s me in the picture – you can blame The Husband for that – but you’ll have to take my word for it. The figure almost completely submerged in the Indian Ocean is indeed me, and I’m even smiling! Honestly, I am, I zoomed in and saw a definite grin. I don’t think it matters that as soon as the photo had been taken I jumped up and hot-footed it up the beach to the safety of my towel. Nor do I think that we should pay too much attention to the fact that I am only lying in three feet of water. Okay, maybe two feet. No, what is important is that I did it at all. I lowered myself into the tumbling waves and put myself at the mercy of anything that might be lurking below, wanting to bite or sting me. I pushed aside my fears and let whatever might happen, happen. And of course nothing did. Although to be fair, I didn’t stick around long enough to find out. It may not be much, but it was a first step. And you know what? I actually enjoyed myself, even if it was only for ten seconds. The water was deliciously cool and there’s nothing like swimming (or just bobbing) in the great open ocean, the sky huge and blue and cloudless above you and the horizon stretching out into the far distance, where the sky meets the water in a collision of cobalt.


I’m slowly building up to the level at which I’m happy to swim out over the rocks and go snorkelling – at the rate I’m currently going that will happen just in time for Christmas. The problem is that in just a month we are off to the Ningaloo Reef, Australia’s largest fringing coral reef and home to the largest fish in the world, the whale shark. I’m going to have to up the ante if I’m going to be ready to swim out from the shore, purposefully seeking out marine life of all sorts. Maybe the only way to do it is to get it all over with in one go, just jump in and force myself to stay out for half an hour or so. Perhaps then I’ll realise that not everything in the ocean is out to get me, that it is perfectly possible to go for a swim and not lose a leg to a shark in the process. Well, either that or I’ll limp back up the beach in agony having been stung by a giant jellyfish. I’m hoping it’s the former, obviously.

Jumping Out Of My Skin

Expat Wife came close to certain death yesterday, or at least a stay in Karratha’s finest hospital. I was driving down the long stretch of road between Dampier and Karratha, flat, scraggy land on either side, when all of a sudden I saw it. A huge, man-sized kangaroo, right in front of me in the middle of the road. My heart leapt out of my chest as I went to slam my foot on the brake, but the giant animal merely looked at me for a second before bounding off, across the red, dusty terrain. As soon as it appeared, it had gone again and I was left wondering if I had just imagined the six foot beast I had come so close to colliding with. But the fear in the pit of my stomach was real enough and I moved on cautiously, scanning the horizon for other giant roos, whilst trying to take deep breaths and slow my thumping heart. It was the first six footer I had seen as well as being the first kangaroo I had seen in the middle of the day – they don’t usually emerge in the full heat and light of the day. In that sense I was unlucky but in every other way I was extremely lucky. Lucky that I hadn’t left a few seconds earlier or was driving that little bit faster. Lucky that the truck behind me wasn’t too close to me and so had time to react and slow down himself. Lucky that it was daylight, so the kangaroo wasn’t stunned by my headlights into standing stock still in the middle of the road. Yup, I was lucky alright but I really don’t want to have to rely on luck - I think it’s time we invested in a bull bar.

A Key Requirement, Part II

You won’t believe this – I couldn’t believe it and I don’t think he could either – but The Husband managed to lock us out of the house again. Now, to do it once is pretty silly but everyone makes mistakes like that at some point. To do it to twice, and not only that but twice in less than two months, is an act of monumental stupidity. Okay, maybe I’m being a bit harsh, but trust me, if you were there you would have been saying the same thing. Last night was the first time since the first incident that I had not asked him whether he had keys. I just assumed that I didn’t have to anymore. He’s a big boy now after all. But as soon as he shut the front door, he whipped round and manically asked, “Haveyougotyourkeys?” The tone of his voice and the terror on his face immediately told me that he wasn’t joking. Still, I asked, “No, why?”, hoping that I was mistaken, that he would laugh and say, “Well, it’s a good thing I have then!” But no laughter escaped from his gaping mouth. He said nothing but held up a set of keys under the dim glow of the outside lamp – they were his work keys and not the house key with the distinctive pink key ring.

Before I continue, I need to clarify something. I can imagine that you may be thinking, hang on a minute, why is it all his fault, why did you not have your keys? Well, I have an answer for that, as I did for him when he said the same thing to me. I prepare our water bottles, I get our towels and our money and the anti-bug spray ready. His only responsibility when we go to Bootcamp is to bring the house and car keys as he has a little bag in which he puts them. He knows that I will not bring my keys; he knows that he needs to bring his.

We were dressed in our fitness gear, ready to go to Bootcamp, but clearly that would not be happening anymore. I was so angry that I said just a few choice words to let him know how I felt, then told him that I was going for a run and that I expected the house to be open when I returned. Well, I have never run so fast or so far without stopping as I did last night. I tell you what, rage makes for an excellent work-out! And I did feel much better, and much calmer, when I returned. Instead of taking it out on him (which might have felt good but would have got us nowhere), I pounded it out on the pavement. Neither The Husband, nor the car, was there when I ran breathlessly back up the driveway, so I assumed he had gone to use someone’s phone or ask for someone’s help. I decided to do some resistance exercises out the back so I walked round the side of the house and across the darkened garden, stomping my feet and making as much noise as possible to scare off any snakes that might be lurking in the grass. I continued my work-out on the veranda, softly lit by the moon and a light that had been left on in the hallway, and was very proud of myself for only getting scared once or twice when a gust of wind shook the fence and sent the branches of the trees tapping at the roof of the house. I had come a long way since the first ‘incident’.

I was doing some sit-ups when I saw, through the glass patio doors, a figure rush through into the bedroom. I scrambled to my feet, heart thumping in my chest and banged on the door, hoping to scare away the intruder. When the body emerged from the bedroom door, however, it turned out to be The Husband, who had been let in by a woman from work who possessed spare keys to all the company houses. The Husband had interrupted her in the middle of a barbecue, from where she had to drive all the way back to the office to pick up the key and then drive all the way back to open the door for a very sheepish and apologetic man.
He assures me that he has learnt his lesson now but then you would have thought that he might have done so after the first lock-out. Hopefully, the memory of his embarrassment at making a total stranger leave her dinner to fetch him a key will prevent him from ever leaving the house without the correct keys again. We shall see.

It's Tennis, Just Not As We Know It

For the first time since our membership at The Royal Cliff Sports & Fitness Club ran out, three months ago, The Husband and I dusted off our tennis racquets, popped open the vacuum-pumped ball-saver, and hit the tennis courts. It wasn’t quite the experience we were used to at The Royal Cliff. Instead of walking up bougainvillea-lined steps to an immaculate club house set amongst tall, shady trees, we entered a security-barred cement box via a dimly lit path. Instead of a beaming woman opening the door to the reception for us, looking like our arrival had just made her day, we were presented with an indifferent youth behind a screen who liked like she would rather be anywhere else but there. Instead of seven well-maintained hard courts, there were four synthetic courts that had definitely seen better days. And of course there was no uniformed man bringing us a pitcher of iced water, glasses and towels on a tray.

What both experiences had though, was warm, dry weather and you can’t hope for better than that – it’s certainly more than you get for most of the year in England. I remember turning up for evening matches or training and finding it difficult to hold the racquet as my hands were numb with cold, and sitting under cover of clubhouse after clubhouse, waiting for the rain to cease. It may have been difficult to see the lines on the court at times last night, so covered with sand were they, but at least we were warm and dry. And, despite the rather more basic facilities, we had great fun - it was exhilarating to be pounding a ball back and forth again. Best of all perhaps, was that we played with someone else, meaning no arguments, no tantrums, no swearing. With someone else on court, we had to reign in our emotions and move on from any bad shots hit or balls missed. Which also meant that we were able to concentrate on simply enjoying the game! A Buckley tennis game without heated words exchanged at least once was previously unheard of. Perhaps now we can enjoy a civilised game – or would that be boring?

Flying Nowhere

Internal flights in Australia are bloody expensive. It costs less to fly from Perth to Bali than it does from Perth to Sydney. The main problem is that there just isn’t enough competition – there are only three or four airlines that fly domestically in Australia. This is a country so vast that, unless you’re an OAP or a backpacker with the time to amble from place to place in a caravan, car or clapped-out VW van, there is simply no option but to fly from city to city, so I can’t understand why there aren’t more domestic airlines. Unlike in the UK where it is possible to travel by train, bus or car to pretty much anywhere without it taking too long, thereby forcing the airlines to drive down their prices in order to encourage people to fly, the airlines here know that most travel will necessitate a flight and they take advantage of that.


Flying from outback Karratha, where the majority of the population is working on one of the mining or oil and gas projects and either has their flights paid for by the company or earns enough so that it doesn’t matter, it is even more expensive. The airlines know they can charge more so they do. I tried to book flights to Perth for a weekend of restaurants, bars, shopping and culture (just a little fix to keep me going!) but it was going to cost me AU$1300 return for the both of us – a whopping £740 just for a short weekend away, and that’s without a hotel, eating out and all the other expenses such a weekend would incur!

Before coming here I comforted myself with thoughts of a dose of civilisation once a month or so, knowing that Perth was only a two hour flight away. Those dreams have now been dashed on the rocks of airline greed. I will simply have to do the second best thing - get dressed up, pour myself several martinis, watch back-to-back episodes of Sex and the City, and dream of heels, cocktails and tables with starched white tablecloths.

Boys And Their Toys

I enjoyed the perfect Aussie day on Saturday, despite the fact The Husband was working and therefore sadly couldn’t join us. I breakfasted al fresco on our veranda, lunched on fish and chips (or, to be completely accurate, Firby Fish Bites – yes, I chose from the kids menu and got ridiculed for it but I obviously made the right decision as I couldn’t even finish the kiddy portion – it’s no wonder more and more Australians are becoming obese) and beer by the sea, then drove to a vast, empty beach and spent the afternoon catching some rays and playing a fierce game of French cricket. For the boys, however, none of the above came close to beating the real thrill of the day - making a detour to look at a huge dumper truck. I kid you not. Okay, I’ll admit that it was a fairly impressive vehicle. The bright yellow truck towered above us - it was like a gigantic version of a toy truck you’d play with in the sandpit, with wheels that you could climb in and a seat you have to use a ladder to clamber up to. It was quite interesting for about a minute, then I was ready to go. Unfortunately for me though, the boys were enthralled with this monster toy and stood gazing up at it with eyes as round as saucers, like kids first thing on Christmas day. They walked round it a few times, examined all the knobs and bolts and screws in minute detail and took turns posing beside it for the camera. “This is the best thing I’ve done in Karratha!” exclaimed one of them breathlessly, still looking up at the truck in awe. I know there isn’t much to do in Karratha but seriously?! I think the beach tops an old truck. Of course, these were all engineers and they do tend to get geeky about these sorts of things, but I think this weird obsession with gadgets and contraptions is fundamentally a male thing. Take the following day for example – I’m sitting around a table in the sunshine by the pool, glass of wine in hand, gazing up at the palm trees, attempting to chat about travel, but the conversation turns again and again to bikes. No matter how hard I tried to steer away from that boring topic, it keeps coming back to different models of bike, different accessories for the bike, different ways to get a bike delivered to Karratha. I didn’t think it was possible to talk about bikes for more than, say, ten minutes, but apparently it is. For much longer. At least I had a pair of big dark shades on so nobody could tell when I was drifting off or staring at the sky. And thank God for wine.

Content in Karratha

A lot of people complain about Karratha. Their mouths permanently downturned, acid on their tongues, they moan that there is nothing to do here, that it is a desolate town of red dirt with nowhere decent to shop, nowhere nice to eat, and nothing to distract them from the monotony of their existence but beer. I understand that it must be hard for the guys that come out here on their own and are put in a camp with just a small room and perhaps a basic kitchenette to call their own. Of course, they do get paid handsomely for the sacrifices they make to work here and are often on pretty generous leave cycles (I think even I could put up with long hours and a small living space if I was working two weeks on, one week off as are some of the contractors here). Ironically though, it is the frequent leave that contributes to their general feeling of loneliness and unhappiness. How could anyone ever feel settled if every few weeks they’re off somewhere else? You’d be constantly thinking about your next holiday, your mind would always be in another country, and not in Karratha. I’m not for a moment suggesting that these leave cycles should be changed – if I lived in a box and ate every meal in a canteen I’d need frequent escape too, and there’s no way you could ever feel settled in those circumstances – but it all contributes to the feeling of unhappy transience many workers here feel. I think the reason that The Husband and I are actually quite happy here (apart from the obvious fact that we are together) is that, living in a house with a garden and a having a bit of essential personal space, we feel more settled than others. We're trying to make a life for ourselves here, even if it is only for a year or so. 


And that is presumably why the following is happening. The State Government’s fervent desire to develop the Pilbara, the treasure chest of the country, has prompted a long-overdue facelift for Karratha, in its bid to transform the town into a major regional city. This will include building affordable housing, more shops and services and putting a bit of sparkle into the town, with the idea that this will encourage couples and families to move here together and not just for a year or two but to settle here permanently. I’m not sure how many people actually want to settle in as remote a destination as Karratha, but I suppose some people like the open emptiness, the ability to drive out and be on your own within minutes. What no-one likes is the cost of living in Karratha – everything from food, to clothes, to housing is eye-wateringly expensive and that leaves a sour taste in everyone’s mouths. Whether that will ever change remains to be seen (I doubt it will – the high salaries here spark higher costs of living) but if the government really can transform Karratha into somewhere people actually want to live, maybe more people will be able to stop scowling and enjoy what the area does have to offer. Beaches, crystal-clear water teaming with marine life, wonderful weather, two world-class national parks offering spectacular hiking, fishing in the rivers and out on the open sea. Coming from England, just the ability to have an outdoor lifestyle is wonderful and, despite what all the moaners may say, that is something all us Brits will miss when we leave. Try smiling - remember, unhapiness begets unhapiness.