Somewhere in Victoria, Australia

Dear Australia,

We could have had it awwwwwl, rollin’ in the deeeep. You’re older, bigger, and alright, more “built” than those wimpy Kiwis. But you can be a little, well, overwhelming. Sure, you introduced me to some nice people, but c’mon. What was up with that bartender who told me he’s never made a mojito, he “hates” them in fact, when all I said was, “what’s so grand about your “Grand Mojito”? And that news story we’ve been hearing for days about an AFL player who claims he didn’t mean to punch the other team’s player in the jaw, he was aiming for his chest? If we’re going to be a couple, it can’t all be about you. 

It’s not like I’m a princess, but a little warmth would go a long way. The long brick house that was “Arabella” stood bare of trees or bushes, like the austere mansion in “Giant.” There was no sign of life behind the curtained windows and no car parked under the carport next to it. Only us, the wind, and what we would later learn was 500 acres of cattle farm. We pulled up next to what looked like the front door, got out of the car, and stood there for a moment before one of us reached over and pushed the doorbell.  

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Innkeeper Lyn served up lovely fresh fruit and yogurt with breakfast the next morning (7:30-8:30!!) and Neil even offered to follow us to drop off our car and drive us east to the start of our hike on the Great Ocean track. But after 20 minutes of highway driving, I had to wonder why Neil couldn’t drop us at the place we had originally wanted that was closer by. What was the point of all those plowing trophies if he couldn’t get us through a little bush to the beach? Whatever. It was 22k or nothing, so I gamely tied my blue bandanna over my head like Lawrence of Arabia and hiked through your broiling scrub, finally just thinking the words my parched mouth could not form, “after three days in the desert sun, my skin began to turn red.” There’s no need to remind me that the high that day was “only” 70 degrees.

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To my point, the coast here is so inviting that busloads of tourists would rather drive the 6-hour roundtrip from Melbourne in a single day than find a place to stay. Yeah, I know. I’m actually glad about that, especially after we joined the giant amoeba making its slow way out to the viewpoint at Twelve Apostles. But it would be nice to feel a little more safe during our stay. Our bush cabin, Hideaway, basically screams “danger!” with its mounted “fire blanket,” barely potable tap water, and shower that trickles extremely hot or glacier cold. Apart from the millipede-flicking we do enjoy on the carpet, we must trust to God that there won’t be a poisonous snake waiting for us in the tall grass outside the front door. 

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Your local history is really impressive, but it’s pretty clear that the only reason you showed me it is to point out the obvious: I couldn’t hack it here. It’s not just that your ancestors are criminals, the poorest of the poor, hardened not by the petty crimes they committed back in England, but by the hard labor you consigned them to here in the “colony.” It’s that all the people who chose to come over were, to put it bluntly, crazy. So many died watery deaths, their ships foundering on the rocks that lie everywhere just off your coast. Seeing the rusted anchors still embedded in the sand on Shipwreck Beach sent chills up my spine. Only two survived out of 54 when the Loch Ard hit a reef, the rocket launchers that shot lines over the ship having proved ineffectual to save the drowning. It is, thus, an understatement to say that the ones who successfully landed here, beginning in the 1840s, were tough customers.

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At the Otway bluff, 91 meters above the sea, a lighthouse was built in 1848 of stones hewn and fitted together in a circular tower with no cement. One wife of the lighthouse keeper delivered seven of her 9 children here, removed from any doctor and relying only on the food she could grow and the supplies that were shipped and bullock-carted across the bush every six months. Even the men who surveyed the area needed three tries to find it. When they arrived, they stayed for one hour before they turned around and headed back. While I got to imagine I was Ariel calling up the storm that would drive King Alonso’s party mad with despair, I knew it wasn’t make-believe for all the people who died a few hundred yards from your forbidding shore. 

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We’d venture out for dinner in Apollo Bay, but our track record for eating out hasn’t been anything to write home about. Besides, we’d like to be back for nightfall since our innkeeper warned it’d be almost impossible to drive back in the dark. Fish ‘n chips and beer, you and your mates’ favorite food, leaves me wanting. I enjoyed the black rice, salmon dish I got the other night, but who were you reallythinking about when you laid them both on a thick bed of mayonnaise? 

No hard feelings, Australian Bush, but we’re headed back to the city. God bless your historic towns – Winchelsea, Forrest, Birregurra – as they stand up to the next vicious fire season. Your towering forests of Mountain Ash are living monuments to their resilience and courage. 

Your “possum,”

Melissa

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