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Feb 21

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The country without colour

The other day my friend Roza showed me one of her newspaper articles. It retells her horrific experiences of surviving the war in Iraq when she was only eight years old.

It’s a fascinating story that sends shivers down my spine. At the same time when Roza and her family where struggling to stay alive I was growing up completely protected and oblivious to the war only a few thousand kilometres away. In fact, I didn’t even know there was a war – of a very different nature – happening right where I was.

Let’s travel back in time. We’re going back 24 years in the past to a small German town watching a primary school teacher at work educating her students in geography. At the front of the room the teacher has put a gigantic map on display.

The shape of the German state is outlined with a big red border, the eleven little states in it each have a different colour and a red dot inside each marks the location of the individual state capital.

Diligently the teacher goes through all of the eleven names and capitals. She is satisfied with the student’s responses. Most know all of the names, she’s doing a good job.

Peculiarly one section of the shape on the map is retained in grey. Although it seems to be part of the country – the big red line includes it – there is also a finer border separating the colourful from the grey states. Only one pink spot sits inside the grey and the students all know this is Berlin. The other grey spots have no names.

One little hand is lifted, there is a question.

“Yes?”

“What are those grey states on the map?” a little boy asks. He is pointing at the obvious part of the map that looks like the colour monster has bitten a chunk out of Germany.

“Do they not have any colour there?”

The teacher bites her lip and looks around the classroom. Silence is an unexpected response from her. The students feel there is something wrong; a secret that she is not sharing. They stare at her in anticipation.

“Well, you will have to go home and ask your parents,” the teacher says. Disappointment replaces tension. Without awaiting further comments the teacher skips to the next part of her lesson. Only the scent of mystery lingers in the class room.

Did many of the students remember to ask their parents about the map at home? Perhaps they did. Maybe I did, but I can’t remember my mum’s answer. It probably was a convoluted reply that left no or little excitement about the strange map.

I’m not surprised because how was I to understand the intricacies of German ‘domestic policies’ that occurred before the end of the cold war? I imagine me going in my head “so, there are two German countries almost sounding the same – the German Democratic Republic and the Federal Republic of Germany – but one of them isn’t actually all that democratic and the other doesn’t recognise the first’s existence…and what is a democracy anyway?”

I don’t recall when I found out why my primary school teacher gave such an evasive answer, but I know today that it was official policy in the 80′s that dictated teachers to say nothing.

A few years later I remember seeing people on TV climbing overjoyed on top of crumbling walls. David Hasselhoff was there singing about freedom in a black leather jacket that had little light bulbs flashing. I didn’t know why (and still have no answer to this).  There were fireworks, tears of joy and a spirit of change.

Feb 21

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Wohooo! Prizes!!!

The wonderful Emma has nominated me for two (two, thank you!!!) Awards:

Kreative Blogger Award & One Lovely Blog Award

Part A of this honour entitles me to bestow the same pleasure on to my favourite blogs, so please check out:

Part B entails me sharing a few details about myself:

  • The first 21 years of my life I didn’t speak English. (I did speak though. A lot)
  • My best friend says that I have “a very low threshold  to bs”. True
  • I prefer sparkling water over sparkling wine, red wine over white wine, beer over cider, but only on hot days
  • I could never get a tatoo. I love editing too much and could never cope with the permanency of ink on my skin
  • When I travel I feel the most at home
  • As a youngster people mistook me for a boy regularly because of my short hair
  • Above mistake isn’t possible anymore despite my short hair
  • If you’ve made it this far through my boring list you deserve to know that I got engaged recently. I have told hardly anyone because I can barely fathom my own luck

Feb 16

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Travelling with joy – part 2

It wasn’t too long after lift-off from Sydney that Milan my 18 months old bundle of joy finally fell asleep hugging his “blankie”. Despite his head laying on my lap and his legs extending onto my mother’s lap my mother and I managed to get some eyes shut too, but not for long.

It must’ve been about four hours later when Milan started tossing and turning and my efforts of trying to get him comfortable failed. Frustrated my little angel turned into a monster. He screamed the loudest, lungful, highest pitch scream I’ve ever heard. I am positive every single person on that airplane turned towards us at that point. Yes, they were all giving us dirty looks for waking them up.

So I grabbed the little one and took him to the very back of the airplane to calm him down. Hoping to put him back to sleep I was singing songs and telling him stories. He eventually did stop crying, but he was still embarrassingly loud. Milan decided it was playtime and all he wanted to do was to explore this very strange place; running up and down the aisle, playing with the airplane door and attempting to go up the stair to the staff only and kitchen areas.

I was able to trick him to return to our seats but of course he wasn’t going to sit still or just lay-down and sleep. Instead he was standing up checking out people sitting behind us and tapping on the others’ heads sitting in the row in front of us. To add more to the embarrassment he’d scream when I sat him down.

Since he didn’t want to sleep I thought his toys could come in handy. However, little Milan was not interested in these very familiar objects, but he gladly discovered the little T.V right in front of him. He fiddled with the remote control for a little while then turned the lights on and off then discovered the button to call for flight attendants.

To make him give up the remote control I called for a nappy change and took him to the bathroom. Since it was a different bathroom to the one at home he wanted to explore that as well, of course. Once that battle was over it was time for his early morning bottle and Milan finally fell asleep in my arms. Only it was shortly before landing in Bangkok. We did manage to get a few minutes of sleep though.

The one hour transit in Bangkok was another nightmare. After getting so comfortable on the plane we had to pack everything again and take it with us.  So off the plane we got with all our bags close to snapping our backs yet again. I was already telling my mother “what have I gotten myself into?”  We weren’t even half way there yet.

The next leg to Dubai was somehow smoother. My mother and I took turns entertaining Milan and going on walks and feeding him. He also managed to get some more sleep.

Landing in Dubai we were happy to be at least a little closer to our destination and nervous that we had to collect our luggage. We had 9 hours to get our luggage, go through immigration and security and make our way from terminal 3 to terminal 1.

Terminal 3 was exclusive to Emirates Airlines and a shiny sparkling place. Still, we made our way to terminal 1, where we thought our next flight would be.

Here we asked around and found out we were actually at the wrong place, but we weren’t panicking as we still had quite a lot of hours to spend. So we used the free time to exchange some money and ordered food. We also freshened up and changed as the weather here was already very humid even in the early hours of the morning. We let Milan run free and wild taking turns in chasing him while one of us stayed with the luggage.

After spending about three hours we wanted to catch a taxi to go to terminal 2, where our flight was leaving from. The weather outside was quite humid and hot by now. We were surprised how far this terminal was away. It took at least 20 minutes to get there.

Arriving at terminal 2 we slowly but surely came to a shocking realisation. The terminals were clearly segregating people, destination and countries according to their socio-economic standards. Terminal 1 was a completely different world from terminal 2 let alone to the exclusive and luxurious terminal 3 we had initially landed at.

At this very aged terminal 2, we travelled alongside people from not so well off Asian and Africans countries including Iraq and Kurdistan. But to add our shock passengers were also treated differently here. Staff working at this terminal was very commonly yelling and insulting passengers if they entered the wrong queue, and were very openly making fun of the travellers’ dress and appearance.

Both my mother and I speak Arabic well and we could understand everything that was said. Even though most were kind towards us not everyone received the same treatment. There was one instance in which a couple of immigration officers were making fun of a woman of African appearance. As one of the officers checked her passport he told his colleague “this one turns out to be holding a Canadian passport damn it” as if it was something she wasn’t worthy of. We were absolutely appalled.

As we waited at the gate we met a Kurdish family from Melbourne who shared our shocked about the treatment of travellers. Soon the waiting area was filling up by Kurdish speaking passengers and this made us feel closer to home than we had anticipated. Thanks to Milan we were soon speaking to everyone as he was running around and attracting everyone’s attention.

We boarded a very old and small passenger plane, which seemed fully booked out. We got a little worried as this plane looked very shaky. This time the air pressure really affected Milan’s ears. Before we knew it he was being passed around like a parcel between fellow travellers wanting to comfort Milan. I was a bit worried at first, but the warmth and friendliness of the Kurdish people around us was overwhelming.

The four-hour flight from Dubai to Sulaymaniya was coming to an end and we landed at 8pm local time and 7 degrees Celsius – quite a difference to the climate in Sydney and Dubai.

We were here; this was it, finally arriving home. It felt like there was a familiar smell in the very cold air.

The following days and weeks were full of emotional reunions with family and old friends. We did many road-trips to other areas and cities in Kurdistan including our home town of Kirkuk (the orphan abandoned city, which I won’t talk about here as it is a whole other story).

Unfortunately Milan started suffering from diarrhoea, which meant he was using up a lot of nappies, nappy rash cream and body wash very fast. He was eating almost everything that was offered to him for the first time in his life. He was sharing and wanting everything his little cousins were eating. During the whole time I was unable to find let alone control the cause of his diarrhoea. As a result he started getting a severe nappy rash.

So we ran out of nappies, nappy cream, and wipes by week three. I was recommended many different brands of baby products that were available. Surprisingly the range was huge; you could find many international brands in most super and mini markets. Huggies seemed to be the only product that wasn’t available though. I tried all brands yet nothing was really helping. We did make it through the month and a half of travelling though.

I think you can never be prepared enough when travelling with young children. Part of it is to go with your gut instincts and hope for the best. With my experience of travelling with Milan here is a checklist of:

Things I don’t regret having packed (plenty of)

  • Baby formula. I had packed the right amount so that on the day we left I had about half a can left, just enough for the trip back.
  • Gifts for all of my family and friends.
  • “Blankie”, Milan’s favourite blanket.

Things I packed (way) too much of

  • Baby food. They were also very heavy because of the glass jars.
  • Clothes, shoes, and make-up for myself which I could have done without.
  • Toys that everyone had recommended to take on-board. They were no use what-so-ever because there were so many interesting things for an 18 months old to explore.

Things I wish I’d packed more of

  • Huggies, they seemed to be the only brand of diapers that could have prevented Milan’s nappy rash.
  • Nappy rash cream that worked for Milan as it wasn’t available in shops.

Feb 9

Message from a Perthling

If people living in New York are New Yorkers, residents of Paris equal Parisians than surely now that we call Perth home I can refer to myself to as Perthling, right?

I admit becoming a Perthling feels strange. I miss the travels. Besides I frankly admit that I still have plenty to learn about this city.

For example, a few days ago we found an offer for a second-hand outdoor seating. It looked simply too good to refuse. Little did we know what an epic journey we’d have to travel to get to the place. It wasn’t just at the other end of town, but way way out of town.

Even if we hadn’t liked the seating we would have bought it anyway. The thought of returning empty handed was too bleak and we simply had to make the long long journey worthwhile.

Transporting the outdoor seating home turned out to be not so easy either. Yes, our van looks big, but the furniture didn’t want to fit in and Thorsten (wise as he is) had brought our roof racks.

Well, the roof racks weren’t actually on the roof. We had dismantled them a few months ago to fit under our current car port. This meant Thorsten had to attach them first and then performed a bit more of his packing magic and tied everything down…

I shall keep you posted on how our transition of turning into Perthlings  continues!

Feb 2

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Travelling with joy – part 1

Today’s guest post by Roza Germian tells all about her backbreaking adventures of travelling to Kurdistan with Milan, her then 18 months old son and explains why some good travel advice may not work for everyone every time.

After reading “What to take and what to leave – a guide for packing your suitcase (or car)” I was sure I definitely couldn’t travel like this, not in a million years, particularly with my two little children (four years and 11 months old now). It also brought back memories of my 2009 trip to Kurdistan in northern Iraq. I planned a two and a half months trip to visit family there only accompanied by my dear mother and my, then 18 months old bundle of joy, Milan.

We planned to fly from Sydney directly to Kurdistan. This was the first time we could go directly by airplanes as our previous visits were before the fall of Saddam’s regime. Previously we could only fly to Turkey and then spend endless hours going by car and waiting at least six hours at the border trying to cross into Iraqi Kurdistan.

So we were very excited of how this time travelling was going to be much more convenient, hence I decided it was ok to travel with my toddler… However, I must admit I was quite nervous at the same time. So I did a bit of research about travelling with a young child. Every article I read and everyone I asked shared one piece of advice. They all said “take your favourite toys onboard with you”, which I remember very well as the flight was what I was dreading the most. I wasn’t sure how I was going to entertain this kid for so many hours sitting upright in such a confined space. Hence, I packed quite few toys to take on board.

Since Milan was still drinking formula milk, that was another must to take along, and I packed plenty of supplies (six cans to be precise!). Little Milan also has sensitive skin, was still in nappies and teething. This meant that I had to take one and a half months supply of special moisturizer, treatment cream for eczema breakouts, special body wash, shampoo, nappies (had to be Huggies), teething relief, pain and fever relief medication as well as the bottle steriliser and at least four pairs of pacifiers.

Back then Milan was already the fussiest kid I had ever seen when it comes to eating. Reality was we were travelling to a third world country. I was reminded by this fact when I told my GP where we were planning to go and she brought up the longest list of life threatening diseases that I was recommended to get vaccinated against if I had to travel to that part of the world (which I only laughed at, and just made sure the little one’s vaccinations were up-to-date).  So yes, I packed HEAPS of baby food jars that Milan could still eat in worse case scenarios; this totalled the baby food bag to 26kg which was six kilograms over the weight limit per passenger. I still had all his clothes and nappies to pack, plus my luggage, plenty of gifts and souvenirs for family and friends back home.

To make things even more complicated we left mid-March and were going to stay until about the first week of May. This meant the weather would still be quite cold in that part of the world and warm up towards the end of our stay. So I had to pack coats and boots as well as some lighter clothes and shoes for spring. I ended packing an even larger suitcase for our cloths, gifts, nappies, shoes and toiletries.

The bad news was the second suitcase was also over the weight limit (of course)! I kept taking out more and more of my own cloths, so that I only had two pairs of jeans, instead of four, two coats, instead of three and so forth. But the weight was still over the limit. I decided to stuff some of Milan’s clothes and about half of the nappies in a nappy bag that we could take on-board, now we only had about 2.5kg too much which we hoped to get away with…

Finally came the time when we were ready to leave to the airport with our two suitcases to check-in.  To take on-board I had my large hand bag which had all documents, travel size skin-care and my make-up kit. I had the biggest nappy bag imaginable, and another little bag that had toys, “blankie”, a couple of dummies and eight sterilised formula bottles, with four of them already filled with pre-boiled water, a can of formula and a few jars of baby food.

My mother on the other hand, had a suitcase to check-in, one mini suitcase to take on-board her handbag (of course) and most importantly her memory-foam pillow (aka VIP pillow) – for those who have never seen, tried or owned one of those things they are a little heavier than your regular pillow.

At the check-in counter, we were to find out that we had about six kilograms over the weight limit. And the very grumpy person at the counter was not going to allow any exceptions. This was a DISASTER!!! Left with no other choice we had to step aside, unpack, and take out things out of the suitcase. More of my clothes and shoes had to go out (luckily my husband was there to take them home). When re-weighed, we still had just over 2kg too much. No, there was no way I was taking out anything else. This was ok as long as we paid $150 per extra kilogram. Well, at least this worry was over; finally we got rid of our heavy luggage for the time being.

After saying goodbye to our loved ones too, and going through customs, we could not wait until the time when we could just take our seats on the plane. The little one was now very tired already; it was way past his bedtime, and he did not want to walk any more, and definitely had no patience to stand quietly in the endless queues before getting on-board. When I picked him up he was wriggling so much that he just slipped out of my arms. I tried to keep him entertained for a little while, playing little games and singing him songs, but it wasn’t long before he had enough of that too. When on his own two little feet and “off my spine”, he was running around everywhere between people and up and down the queue.

Did I mention I was also carrying a humongous “nappy bag”; a hand-bag that felt like it was full of bricks! I also had the other bag with all the toys and all other stuff in it… Now imagine chasing a toddler up and down a moving queue.

My mum, who already had her own carry-on luggage, a hand-bag, her VIP pillow and also suffers from a bad back. I tried my hardest not to let her help me with my bags or carry Milan, but she ended up doing both as there came moments when I thought my back was definitely going to break and I was on the edge of collapsing. It surely felt like we were never going to make it to our seats, but we were still able to laugh at ourselves in disbelieve. The even funnier part was walking between the narrow isles on the plane and taking our seats with all our hand luggage and Milan in arms.

AT LAST!!! I got Milan into his PJs gave him a bottle and wasn’t going to worry about brushing his teeth that night, and hoped he was tired enough to just fall asleep. But yet again, it wasn’t going to be that rosy! There was too much going on that was much more interesting than closing his eyes. How was he supposed to sleep in this very strange place far from his bedroom and cot?! It wasn’t until after lift-off, when the lights went out that he was finally K.O.

Part two to follow

Jan 29

The turquoise water
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Sharing a rat’s nest – part 2*

(Part 1)

The yabby must have felt the noose and was starting a little dance to the left and right.  David followed the creature knowing that only his need for oxygen would shorten this battle. He backed it into a shallow side of a crack and placed one hand in their path while gently nudging it over with the loop. Then he grabbed it as it run right into his waiting hand. David pushed himself of the ground needing to get up now quickly to catch his breath.

The yabby was not impressed to be pulled out of his cave and splashed around on the surface. David held the lobster tight thankful for his thick gloves and pushed it through the slots of the lid into the mash bag. “A nice catch,” David thought looking at the yabby’s size. He’d be allowed to catch five more, but he’d probably only have the strength for two or three more dives today.

With his bag full David had returning to shore satisfied and tired. He’d found four more yabbies, but could only get three of them noosed and had to let go of the last one. The pain in his lungs had forced him to turn around and have a rest at the beach. The crustacean’s claws were scratching on the inside of the bucket. David had filled it with a bit of water and tied it back onto his penny-rack.

With the midday sun burning down it was time to find some shade. Mostly brushwood and thornbushes were covering the island that provided no shelter from the sun at all. There was one place, apart from the little settlement where the ferries landed, where David knew he’d find cover and have his lunch. That’s where he headed next. Squeaking up the hills past the lighthouse David was looking forward to the quick descend on the other side that would give him a cool breeze.

Here at the bottom of the lighthouse were a few remaining trees. David climbed off his bike and carefully leaned it against one of the trees; his cargo was too precious to let the bike tip. Sitting down he was already awaited by three little hungry fellows that hopped towards him. These little marsupials, called quokka, were native to the island and David knew they were expecting him to drop one or two crumbs of his sandwich.

Another group was stopping to find shelter under the trees.  They looked terribly overheated and struggled to climb off their bicycles. It wasn’t until one of them almost stumbled over one of the quokkas that they noticed the creatures. “Oh what’s that! It looks like a giant rat,” one of them said. Eyes turned to David who was eating his sandwich and had tried to ignore the quokkas and tourists alike. “They’re called quokka,” David said. “When a Dutch fleet landed here during the seventeenth century and found these marsupials the Dutch also mistook them for rats,” David said shooing a curious quokka away that was sniffing out his sandwich. “The Dutch then gave this island the name ‘rat’s nest’ and obviously people cottoned onto it and still call this place Rottnest Island.” David’s explanation was taken in with nodding and approval, but he had enough of sharing the shade and continued his trip back to the ferry.

He passed the salt lakes that were the last reminder of the island’s agrarian history where once salt was harvested and shipped to the mainland. Back at the settlement’s shops were now filled with tourists trying to find a place to rest and eat. On the way home on the ferry, with his bucket of yabbies between his legs and his hands folded in his lap, David already imagined how he’d cook the brown creatures at home, peel off their buck tails and dunk them into a nice tartar sauce.

*this story is a figment of my imagination

For your own visit of Rottnest Island:

Jan 27

View onto the sea
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Sharing a rat’s nest – part 1*

The early morning sun was already hot. At a quarter to seven on a Saturday David was impressed with the length of the queue to the ticket counter at the marina. “Ah yes,” he thought, “it’s January, which means school holidays are still on.” It explained the crowd wanting to get on to the boat.  Waiting people chattered excited about their journey.

With the ticket in his pocket David pushed his bicycle down the pontoon. Another queue had already gathered to get onto the boat. David used the time to check that the long metal rod was securely taped to the bike’s frame and made sure the plastic bucket was still tightly attached to his penny-rack. When the ship’s crew was lifting his bike to the front of the boat, where all of the passengers’ gear like rowing boats and strollers were stored for the journey, David waited to board until he could see his old, rusty bicycle was placed safely with the others.

Now that the boat was almost ready to leave the chatter and giggles rose louder. A group of young girls were sitting a few rows in front of David. He had closed his eyes, his hands were placed in his lap and he listened to the girl’s conversation. With his thumb and middle finger he inspected his palm and followed the wrinkles and folds.

The girls must have been German; he didn’t understand a word they were saying. No doubt the island was a popular tourist destination. David doubted the group would visit the island to find out about the internment camp were German and Austrian suspected enemy aliens were held during World War I. On the other hand the girls could be staying overnight at one of the hostels that once served as prisons for Aboriginal people; perhaps this way they’d learn a little bit about the island’s sad history.

David’s musings were interrupted by the roaring of the ship’s engine. Once it had started the laughter and talk was drowned out by the sound and David felt how the ship picked up speed that pushed him back into the seat. He liked this part of the journey when people finally accepted that it was too noisy to hold a conversation and kept quiet instead.

45 minutes went by quickly. David’s bicycle had already been brought down from the ship’s bow when he had disembarked. He could just swing himself onto his saddle and start the second leg of his journey. With a rhythmic returning squeak of his bike he rode past the cafe, through the settlement, down the street, left at the aerodrome, crossing the train tracks and further down towards the coastline.

He was following this path for a little while. It meandered along the coast up and down the hills and he could see the skyline of the city twinkling across the sea. The water’s turquoise was inviting, but David knew that this wasn’t a good spot. His first stop would be at a little beach he’d reach in another few more minutes.

Other travellers who had just rented their bicycles from the shop were rushing past him yelling excitedly at the sight of the green-blue sea. By the time David got to the place he had wanted to stop people were already splish-splashing around, trying on their snorkelling gear and getting the hang of floating in the water. While he looked down to decide whether this was a worthwhile stop a bus pulled up behind him. More people were spilling out and made their way across the hot sand. David had forgotten the bus that was circling the island dropping off and picking up those travellers that couldn’t ride. These two means of travelling – either bus or bicycle – were the only way of getting around here.

With a sigh of frustration David pushed himself off and squeaked further along the coastal way. At least this hadn’t been his favourite spot he thought while paddling. The other bay he liked and where he was usually successful was on the north-eastern side of the island. He used to be able to get there quickly, but now it’ll take him a little while longer. He was hoping by the time he’d reach the bay the wind had already turned in his favour too.

David was lucky. When he got off his bike and locked it the Fremantle Doctor, the wind coming from the south-west, was already blowing. The bay was now nicely protected with calm and quiet water. This is how he liked it. He took the long rod and bucket off his bike and climbed down the sandy hot path to the beach.

Carefully he placed the items of his backpack in front of him. He wanted to make sure he didn’t forget anything. There was nothing worse to be out there and having to come back for something he’d left at shore – it’s happened a few times already and it had displeased him immensely. A pair of gloves, a weight belt, a mash bag with fitting plastic lid into which David had cut two cross slots, a rope with a weight and a flag attached at either side of it, goggles, fins, snorkel and a knife.

The thick diving top he pulled over his head had a little hood attached. The extra layer of clothing was making David feel even hotter, but he took his time to prepare. For now, he tucked the gloves under the diving belt he had tied around his waist. The thick material of the gloves would only hinder him right now. The knife was attached to a lanyard which he tied around his left arm while wading into the crisp water. He pulled on his fins and put his snorkel gear on. Then he clipped the mash bag and rod to the rope, which he’d anker with the weight safely somewhere nearby. The flag was supposed to indicate passing boats and jet-skies that he was snorkelling here. One couldn’t be careful enough these days.

Preparations were complete. David put on his gloves, pulled his goggles down and started to float in the water checking his weight belt was still giving him enough buoyancy on the surface, but was also heavy enough so that he could glide down to the bottom of the sea. He unclipped the rod from the mash bag and made his way along the rocky outlets of the bay.

Big fish were eyeing him and swished past. Fishing had never really tempted David. He liked the water too much and staring at the surface all day had felt like torture to him. Looking for yabbies meant he could swim and dive as long as he wanted and become one with the cool turquoise he loved so much.  The rocky surface of the reef below him with its crevices and folds felt so familiar. Only a few metres ahead was a limestone ledge just off the sand that David wanted to check first. The excitement was tingling in his fingers. He inhaled deeply, dove down and checked the ledge. Nothing. David wasn’t too disappointed.  From mid-December onwards lobsters usually moved out into deeper water and stayed there until late February early March.

There were a few more favourite ledges and holes David wanted to check. In the second spot he found a big brown yabby hiding in a whole, his long feelers stretched out, his eyes twinkling like white stars were giving him away. David’s excitement rose. Back at the surface David took a few deep breaths and returned down to the bottom of the sea. He stayed calm watching the yabby closely while he pointed the long rod out to him. The end facing the lobster had a plastic noose, which David could open or tighten from his end of the rod. Right now he was widening it and digging it into the sand to slip it under the crustacean without touching the feelers and alarm the creature.

So far so good. This was a crucial moment. David knew he’d have to adapt his strategy following the lobster’s movements. Sometimes they’d run towards him and over his head, other times they just sit tight and get looped in, but not often. He had a little bit more breath left to find out what would happen.

*a figment of my imagination, here part 2.

Jan 19

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John and Alex or why you can forget about sharks

The best part about meeting people on their travels is they remind me of everything that at one stage I have also found new, different and exciting. So there we were, five people crouched on a blanket for a pick-nick in the midst of Perth’s Kings Park in the late afternoon. The sun was slowly descending and another hot summer day coming to an end.

While we chopped veggies and fried meat patties and sausages on the bbq K. and J., two friends of a friend that have freshly hopped off the plane from Europe, strolled around watching the changes of light and their reflections on Perth’s skyline.

While sipping wine and chatting along two completely other friends were watching us. Intently. Every move. I’m pretty sure they even counted our pieces of meat, licking their lips. Only, they didn’t actually have lips…

I’m sure these two fellows must have been brothers I could see it from the way they had mischief written all over the innocent looking little faces. I’m not prone to prejudice but here I was knowing it’ll only be a matter of time when the two thieves wouldn’t be able to resist their urge…

Anyway, back to us on the blanket munching away listening to K. and J. sharing their first impressions of the city and people. Suddenly all I remember is feeling immersed in fluttering feathers around my head. A scream escaped my mouth (that’s just me, I like a good scream even if I have no clue what’s actually happening) and I looked around to find K. staring at us with shock and horror saying flabbergasted: “that bird just landed on my plate and crashed into my face. What sort of bird was that?”

Yes, that my friend was a very hungry Kookaburra, who, as predicted, couldn’t resist the urge to steal from your plate. What do you expect from birds that first thing in the morning have a good chuckle? Some even say their naughty laughter sounds like a kafuffle amongst apes.

This cocky fellow had swooped down from its lamp-post where it had sat before and attacked K.’s plate. Because K. was holding the plate so close to her face the bird unfortunately collided with her face. Also very unfortunate was the length and sharpness of its beak, which left a slightly painful scratch on K’s upper lip, which swell up lightly within seconds.

It was quite a clumsy attack. Maybe he wasn’t after the meat and this is what the two Kookaburras actually said and thought.

John: “Look at these people they have meat. And sausages, what do you think, Alex?”

Alex: “Nah, I don’t like pork. What about those guys over there on the blanket? Yummy, they’re having meat patties!”

John: “Where?”

Alex: “There, to the right. The ones with the two jet lagged girls.”

John: “Oh my God!”

Alex: “What?”

John hyperventilating and almost falling of the lamp-post.

Alex: “John, what’s wrong with you?”

John: “I think,…”

Alex; “Yes?”

John: “I’m falling..”

Alex: “What?! You’re a bird you can’t fall stupid!”

John: “…in love.”

Alex: “Are you mad?”

John: “I must talk to her.”

Alex: “Ugh. She doesn’t even speak Kookaburrian, you idiot.”

John: “Oh yes, true. I must do something, she is so pretty….”

Alex: “John, nooooo! What are you…”

Before Alex can reason with him John heads towards K. full speed, comes to a halt just before her face and quickly returns to puzzled Alex.

Alex: “What was that?! You didn’t even get her meat, what the hell went into you?”

John giggles: “Mhhhh, I stole something much better. I kissed her soft beautiful lips and quickly flew away before she could say anything…”

Alex sighs and rolls his eyes: “You’re such an embarrassment.”

This is just another proof why you don’t have to worry about being attacked by a shark. There’s just so much other wildlife here that’s just waiting to acquaint themselves with you…

Jan 15

Sleeping Wombat
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The cuddly and the deadly

Koalas, kangaroos and wombats are creatures coming to most travellers’ minds wanting to venture down under. They are cute, cuddly and pretty. Then there is crocodiles, sharks, snakes and spiders that equally call Australia  home.

I never give the second list much thought and to be fair how often do I marvel at kangaroos? Having said this, just the last few weeks I noticed a dramatic increase of red back spiders around our place. As most of you know, they are small (usually not bigger than a thumbnail, this one is even a bit smaller, although I have seen some big fat versions too), black spiders with a bright red cross on their backs. Most often you find their well crafted webs, three-dimensional strings attached to pots, outdoor furniture or the like. This one was behind our laundry door (with the emphasis on was).

Unfortunately they are very, very poisonous. If, God forbid, you do get bitten you’ve got to hurry, hurry, hurry, rush, rush…well, you get the drift.

With our last trip to Germany the usual creepy-crawly discussion was inevitable again and usually I tend to play down the dangers of Australia. Yes, this country is home to most of the deadliest spiders and snakes. Admittedly, sharks love these shores and every now and then do take a little nibble on divers or surfers.

I then usually go on and explain that in almost a decade of living here I can count the number of snakes I have seen (excluding visits to the zoo) on two fingers – mind you, we do go bush a fair bid and still have nothing to show for ourselves. I did see plenty of crocodiles and luckily I have never seen a shark in real life (I hope I’m not jinxing my luck here).

To be fair, this personal statistic looks different for a friend of mine who is also from Germany and has worked on farms for many months. Here , she said, snakes were part of the daily scenery.  So much so that she told me the following story – to make it funny for the anglo-tongue you need to know the German word for “snake” and “queue” are the same (= “Schlange”). After having travelled and worked around the country she went back to Germany for a visit. During a shopping trip with her sis and ma they were waiting outside a shop for their mum. Getting annoyed with the long wait her sister took a look into the shop and said “Oh Mann, was fuer’ne Schlange” (“oh man, what a queue” [please remember here it's the same word for snake]). Confused and puzzled at this my friend looked around the ground and wondered what on earth a snake would do in good old Germany.

While the story might not translate that well after all what I want to say is that you pretty much get used to your environment you don’t even think about it anymore.

Back to my Red Backs – I wonder how parents of little infants respond to the danger of all things creepy crawly around here  – parents please share your approaches!

Those of you who still believe visits to this place will cause a sudden and painful death by dangerous creatures that are just out there waiting for you to get off the plane please note the statistics on the leading causes of death provided by the Australian Bureau of Statistics: First and foremost most people here die of hearth disease followed by strokes, dementia and lung cancer.

External causes of deaths account for 6.3% with transport accidents leading the way followed by falls, then accidental poisoning (which could be all sorts of things, I believe, not just snake or spider bites).

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a spider fan myself, but the statistics say particularly if you’re female the odds are in your favor and chances are you’ll be alright.

Jan 11

Magnificent Florence
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Two ladies, two suitcases and a train to catch

Since I already introduced you to the suitcase-packing exercise last week I thought it’d be funny to share another story about the value of a well-packed, lightweight travel bag.

When my mum and I had decided to visit Italy we planned to fly into Rome, then take the train to Florence, then to Venice where we’d take a plane back home.

After five amazing days in Rome we schedule to leave the hotel in the morning, take the subway to central station and hop on to the Frecciargento – the Italian express trains.

What we hadn’t considered was that thousands of Romans would be also on the subway in the morning. There we were, two ladies with suitcases (one containing six packets of tissues amongst other items that may or may not have been of use during the trip) trying to squeeze into an already crowded subway. Did I mention we don’t speak Italian? So we had no way of knowing whether the people talking to us on the subway were scolding our foolishness for trying and travel with suitcases during rush-hour or whether they were telling each other to squish closer and make room for us.

Arriving at Central Station hot and sweaty from all the squishing we were ready for our first coffee break. While sipping on our cups  we were intently eying the departure board to find out what platform we needed to go to. Ten minutes before the train was supposed to leave the board finally revealed the number and my mum and I shuffled through the crowds in the station to get to our train.

Huffing and puffing from all the zigzagging our people we made our way down the station and along platform to get to our carriage. Little groups of travellers where already crowding around the entrances to get on to the train like us. With the clock ticking we cued up and hopped in. At this stage the carriage had already filled up with people still trying to fit their luggage into overhead compartments or between seats.

“Well, we’re on the train, we can now relax,” we thought, but relaxing we couldn’t yet. Slowly we moved along the corridor to get to our seats realising that we probably would have been better off boarding the carriage from the other side as our seats were closer to that end than the one we were starting from. Unfortunately another group of travellers had committed the same felony. Too eager to get on the train they hadn’t realised their seats were closer to our entrance and not their side. So we slowly moved towards each other inevitably meeting in the middle in a conundrum of pushing, more squeezing, lifting suitcases and backpacks to pass each other in the small available space.

As you can see from the picture we did make it to our seats well before we arrived in Florence. We learned our lesson for the journey from Florence to Venice and checked the seat numbers before entering the train, yay! My mum also agreed to leave at least two packs of tissues at home next time…

Let me also tell you, travelling by train in Italy is awesome – it’s cheap, quick, reliable and if you consider it I highly recommend to pre-purchase tickets as counters at Rome’s central station are usually packed. The Trenitalia website is good and this is also a great place to find more info about travelling by trains all over the world.

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