Five in a car

Arriving back in England was the thing I’d been waiting for, for two and a half years. But when it finally happened, it wasn’t at all what I’d hoped for. At ten years old I walked back into the school I’d left when I was eight. Nothing had changed, but for me, everything had changed.

February 1989. Myself, my parents and my two younger brothers, flew away, through the grey, drizzle filled clouds of London and into the dazzling sunshine and sweltering heat of the Australian summer.

The air smelt different here, sweet, and dry. Our first few weeks were spent acclimatising, in a caravan, on a holiday park.

I met a girl in the pool there one day and for the hour that I knew her she taught me how to speak a language I thought I already knew - Crisps where ‘chips’, chips were ‘hot chips’, the toilet was ‘the dunny’, trousers were ‘pants’, and pants were ‘undies’.

Eventually we moved into a house on a tree-lined street, in a suburb of Sydney.

My new school had a strict uniform policy, right down to the colour of your ‘undies’ (pale blue). I wondered if, and how, this rule was enforced.

The day would begin with students standing in class lines before a raised platform from which the headteacher would shout “Attention!” - backs straight, feet together, arms by our sides, before allowing us to stand “At ease” – feet apart, hands behind our backs. At break times we bought ice-lollies (ice-blocks) from the tuck shop and sat under the shade of the gum trees, their sweet, minty aroma was fresh and comforting, yet unlike any trees I’d known back home.

Saturdays were T ball and barbecues (barbies), the kids, with bright pink or in the pool and ate hotdogs.

Some weekends my brothers and I would be dragged away from kids morning TV shows to go on bush walks in the Blue mountains, I can still hear my mum saying, “One day you’ll be glad you did.” She was so right. Under a canopy of ancient trees, reaching for the sky, we chatted as we walked, stopping to paddle in cool streams or to peer over the edge of a cascading waterfall.

Uncle Tom, Auntie Jean and my grown-up cousin, Kate, lived on the Gold Coast, inland from Byron Bay, the twelve hour road trip with no air-con was arduous but absolutely worth it. They’d built their large wooden house themselves after moving over in the seventies. It was never completely finished. A ladder instead of stairs and a chemical toilet at the back which required a walk along a plank to reach. I think they’d just decided it was good enough. It was.

The house sat alone, far from anything or anyone. Here, we were wild things. Unbrushed hair, mosquito biten skin, dirty toenails and scabby knees. Here, we could scream and run and explore. We collected insects in jars and went on a hunt with a jar of salt, our mission, to wipe out the leaches which plagued our ankles.

At night our beds where mattresses on the veranda, a mosquito net full of holes between us and the stars, We fell asleep to the sound of guitars as the grown-ups laughed and sang over the electric hum of the cicadas, the smell of the marijuana infusing the night air.

In the mornings Jean, would march in, wearing nothing but her wild red hair, and ask, “Who wants to come for a swim in the creek?” We’d fly down to the small wooden bridge, our bare feet hardly touching the dusty ground, pull off our clothes, and jump in, always wary of the catfish.

The nearest village was Nimbin. It was nestled in the expanse of Hinterland wilderness. A village born of a music festival in the seventies that never ended. The main road was painted with colourful symbols and patterns. Lunch was at ‘The Rainbow café’. The street was home to 'The Hemp Museum’, as well as a small grocery shop, a pub with a large veranda at the back overlooking the vast forests, and numerous little shops selling crystals, silver jewellery, and colourful clothing. Unofficial vendors on the street, colourful, weather-beaten characters with long hair sold 'herbs'.

Here, it seemed that believing in magic wasn’t just for children, overheard conversations about spirits, goddesses or the power of the moon intrigued me. My bare feet felt sore on the hot pavement, but I didn’t let it show. I watched Kate enviously, as she walked effortlessly on her hard soles, her ankle bracelets jingling with every step. At twenty-something, with her mother's red hair, she looked so elegant in her long velvet skirt, and necklaces with large crystal pendants hanging over her cropped blouse. I loved Nimbin, and was always at home at Tom and Jean's house.

Christmas came and instead of a big roast dinner we opted for a barbeque on the beach. The eighties made way for the nineties, and though we were settled, a voice whispered 'Don't let your roots grow too deep.'

The months rolled on, school, shopping in the mall, days out at the beach and playing with our friends in the street. And then, one day, just like that, it was over. We packed up, said goodbye, and flew away, again.

The house we rented in Wellington was the most beautiful house I’d ever seen. Set back from the street, a path through manicured flower beds led to the grand front door which was surrounded by ornamental wooden cladding, painted in cream and red. Inside was spacious, and furnished in a style that my parents would never have chosen. I befriended the gardener, William. He was from China, and working to fund his studies in New Zealand. He was so kind and always made time to talk to me. He gave me maths puzzles and, when he’d finished in the garden, would sit with me and help me work them out.

I had a crush on a boy who lived down the street, Sacha. Sometimes we’d hang out at the park. Sitting on the climbing frame, he’d tell me jokes that I didn’t get, but I would laugh anyway. I now understand that his jokes were brutally racist.

School was like apocalypse. No uniform, no one wore shoes, no one followed rules. On my first day, our teacher had left in tears by 11am, not to return that day. As some boys began pulling corrugated plastic of the roof outside, the headteacher, Mr Chipper, cautiously crept in, meekly requesting the students to “Come on, calm down please.” To which he was met with shouts of “Fuck off!”- Which he did.

If you were lucky, he’d ask you to go to local shop to buy his cigarettes for him, because he’d always give you extra for sweets.

Lunch was the same every day, from a small wooden building we would gather to collect a meat pie and an apple turnover.

My second week there and the entire school went on a 4 day trip (God knows why the powers that be decided this was a good idea, but it happened.) I didn’t want to go so when I turned up, naively expecting the school to have made arrangements for students not on the trip, I found the doors unlocked with no one there but three kids from other classes. We found ways to amuse ourselves, filling the butler sinks in the classrooms with a mix of paint, glue and toilet roll, and forming balls which we threw at the ceilings, windows and walls. We played elastics outside, or knuckle bones. We climbed in the play area and tried to light fires in the bins.

By the end of the week, school was back to ‘normal’. No one ever mentioned the paint bombed walls, I’m sure they just assumed it had been like that before.

The weeks spent with my family, exploring the islands, my head out of the open car window, the air whipping my hair around my face, as I watched the landscape go by, those are some of my happiest memories. It seemed the only permanence in our lives was each other. Always on the move, to destinations unknown, but always together, the five of us, singing along to the same cassettes over and over, we knew the words by heart.

Steve Miller band ‘Wide River’

“Wide river,

Carry me back home,

To the place I love,

That I call my own.

And we can run like a river to the setting sun,

Run like a river that has never been won,

Run like a river that will always be free.”

I was the river, on my way home, but home had become the people in this car, on our way to the setting sun. Always moving, always free.

Picnics of warm, squashed sandwiches, bananas and kiwi fruit on the side of empty roads, Mount Cook looming behind us like an ancient giant.

We climbed up rocks on deserted beaches as the sun set in a endless sky. We bathed in natural hot pools which smelled of sulphur, saw the geysers shooting boiling water from the rocks in Rotorua and we watched the magnificent gannets nesting high on the rugged cliffs. Nature was big, and alive, and intimidating. I felt like I was in the presence of someone old and wise who commanded respect.

We visited a cluster of tiny islands east of New Zealand which make up Vanuatu. Empty beaches of the softest white sand and the bluest water with coconuts growing on the trees under bright, clear skies. At points along dirt roads fresh fruit was left out for sale next to honesty boxes. Warm, sweet papaya, ripe mangos and fresh cut coconut pieces. In the town polished shells and handmade jewellery were laid out for sale on sheets of plastic on the ground. Lush forests of cool air gave a break from the heat, and it was here that we met Caloris, a joyful man who was keen for us to watch him dive from a huge waterfall into the pool in front of us. He kindly invited us to his home and proudly showed us the crabs he’d caught to eat, they were in small pens in his garden. I felt sorry for the crabs, but I didn’t say.

We took a boat across to Hideaway Island where we tried Kava, a drink made from the roots of a tree. I made friends with a little girl there and, in the evening, we shared a buffet of fish and vegetables.

Vanuatu was postcard paradise.

Our year in New Zealand had come to an end. Stopping off in L.A. on the way back to England was like a sensory assault. Everything was big and loud and man-made. The sky seemed so far away, tall buildings crowded it out as though it was unwanted. We visited Disney World and Universal studios, ate pancakes and syrup at Dennys while colouring in Jetsons themed paper place mats, and took in the glamour of Rodeo Drive.

And then we were back. Back to our street, our house. But it felt stagnant, and claustrophobic. My family dispersed. We were no longer five in a car, heading towards the sunset. My dad went back to the grey commute to London each day, my mum started a teaching course, which left her stressed and overwhelmed, my brothers fitted right into school and played happily with their old friends. And me, three months from my eleventh birthday, I went back to my old school for the final month before my class moved on to secondary school. I tried to get involved but I didn’t fit in and I really, I didn't want to. I was full of memories no one shared. I yearned for wild places, and the next adventure. I missed the forests, and the sea, and the freedom. This was not my home anymore, I felt homesick for a place that was nowhere and everywhere. And I missed my family.

I made some friends, and we hung out that summer, we went to McDonalds, we rode our bikes and roller skated in the street. Then, when September rolled around, the days got shorter, and I, dressed in a shirt, tie, pleated skirt and a too-big blazer, heaved my backpack onto my shoulders and walked to the bus stop for my first day at secondary school. I felt like I was entering a prison, my sentence, 5 years, minimum. My childhood would die in this place.

But, these experiences, these transient friendships I’d known during those brief, impressionable years left a mark on me. They taught me lessons which continue to shape my life choices today.

Be different-normal is only normal where you are now. Deviate from the path and run fearlessly into the unknown, that is where you'll find yourself.