Less than 24 hour back in Australia the whole ‘COVID 19 thing’ still seemed somewhat abstract. We disembarked the sparse Virgin flight where attendants confidently strode masses down the aisle into the normally buzzing halls of Melbourne airport which ghostly silent. Scrambling to retrieve credit cards, pay for trolleys, we waited for the carousel to spit out our voluminous luggage. I had planned for a year in Tonga and taken suitable supplies. Having rehired some items, the expensive shampoo, snorkelling gear, kitchen blender and relatively new clothes that might have been discarded at the end of 12 months, found their way back to Australian soil. Greeted with mild autumnal weather, it was the absence of humidity that poignantly underlined our uprooting from the south pacific. Here at Tullamarine airport the commonplace had been supplanted with the unfamiliar — an eeriely empty pick up zone. Julie, Minh and I hugged briefly before dispersing, phones in hand, hurriedly voicing instructions to our respective chauffeurs as we waited, a little shellshocked by this abrupt change to our 2020.
William, my 20 something second cousin, had been recruited to collect me and drive to a midway point between Melbourne and Sale. 3 pm on a Thursday afternoon, the Tulla was deserted. Dad’s frequent lament ‘there’s never a quiet time on the roads these days’ no longer applicable. As we passed through a suburban street or two it wasn’t just the absence of cars that hit me. Where were the people? Everyone, heeding government advice, safely tucked away at home hoarding toilet paper and baking sourdough? Bright play equipment cordoned off in parks, as if the site of a grizzly crime. Shop front after shop front posted a single white piece of paper, a hastily printed notice of temporary closure. What a strange new world. Back on the freeway, industries soon to be on life support still transported their wares. The arterial, normally clogged and clotted stifling the city’s breath, now flowing freely as trees swayed and birds sang their gratitude.
Yarragon, a strip of cafes, bakeries, homewares and the esoteric was a quaint rest stop. But in these early days of COVID a blanket shutdown meant we were destined for takeaway coffee from Maccas. Les than four hours after touchdown I arrived to a picturesque 80 hectares on the Stockdale Road, ten minutes out of Stradford. Ahh a piece of home, as Tammy (my cousin’s ex) and Emily, her youngest welcomed me for an indefinite stay. Everything about COVID seemed indefinite. Everyone was impacted, each with a story of change, sacrifice, doing without. For Tammy — keeping our supply of chips and dips going at outlets throughout Gippsland was designated as an essential service. But a secure job came with the anxiety of working in a myriad of supermarkets, encountering countless people throughout the week. For Emily, already 1 week into online schooling — the commencement of the marathon of isolation from peers. For me — no job, a temporary home, limited income, and two weeks of isolation to ponder ‘what next’.
Two weeks of isolation. The nearby Alpine national park punctuated the horizon, stunning sunsets, rolling hills, four cats, eight horses and one dog. Isolation could have been worse. After the treacherous summer of bushfires to the north and east rain had come. Late January I witnessed parts of the bone dry fields transform into rapids, and there had been plenty since. Walking the circumference of Tammy’s property took a good hour but with warm days, long grass and weary of snakes I stuck to a restricted path, taking a few turns of the steep drive way (a heart pumping activity) to keep active. Never one to be idle, a creator of routine where ever I go for however long I am there, I soon found my groove. Up late (why not, while I can), empty the dishwasher as coffee brews, breakfast to 774 through headphones (Emily was ‘at school’ zooming in the dining room), tackle the daily Wordscapes puzzle, shower, set myself up out on the deck in the morning warmth, hit the keyboard churning out a review of my Tonga project or scribing my blog. A litany of options filled the day — put out/bring in the washing, lunch, gardening weather permitting (there were just a few weeds to tackle), housework when the weather turned, an hour walk with Marshall in tow, and, post isolation, food shopping and cooking were options. Wandering down the drive with Marshall approaching the gate was bizarre. To know it was against the law to walk beyond seemed crazy. A few days later it was not just me under confinement. The country had gone into stage 3 lockdown. Chatting with my niece and musing about her visiting we reflected on this strange new world where the idea of seeing a relative could be classified as illegal. The fines of A$1600 were a deterrent to most.
I developed a new skill at Tammy’s, eventually becoming quite adept at building a fire. I expanded my cooking repertoire to accomodate their tastes and expanded their culinary experience adding some of my recipes. Yoga with Adrienne helped with the writer’s neck and gardeners lower back complaints. Chats with friends in Melbourne seemed different to those of the previous 14 months, from Africa or the Pacific. Was it the lack of time difference lending spontaneity to a call? Was it marginally better telecommunications (I was in regional Australia so we won’t get too carried away and say ‘improved’ telecommunications)? Was it the sense that I would see them soon? Anyway from my bubble of a rural property, excluded from shops with empty shelves and fist fights over toilet paper I waxed lyrical on the spiritual opportunities the pandemic offered. The literal ‘breather’ it was giving the environment. The importance of living in the moment, of giving up our sense that we are in control. And I reflected on my comment to Gemma, the awaiting of ‘what’s next’. And here it was.
Holy Thursday. I was free to step out the gate. Tammy and I drove to Sale. A Macpac delivery had eventually arrived and then my Peter Alexander PJs, but I was in dire need of some winter clothes. While in lockdown where shops were closed, their online portals thrived, Australia post and couriers flat out. Some stores remained open. A staff member clicked the counter as I entered Target. Gazing out over the vast floorspace filled with racks, she could have counted the number of shoppers on one hand. Unable to try clothes on due to the health risks, I gathered an array of items that if unsuitable I had 3 months to return. Hmmm, wonder how they manage the inherent health risk there? My first foray into the COVID 19 world, it was striking to stand on an X, 1.5 m from other customers, awaiting the cashier. No cash accepted, I tapped my debit card to the reader, picking up the receipt it spewed out. But the cashier touched the clothes I had touched. I took home the clothes she touched. This social distancing and infection control appeared an inexact science. At Chemist Warehouse the cashier mumbled from behind his facemask. My brain worked hard to fill in the gaps as he repeated the utterance, muffled inaudible speech and no lipreading cues. Goodness, how do people with hearing loss cope? I tried to sort out my Optus service, returning to the store a few times. The call centres and online supports were inundated, effectively inaccessible. On Holy Thursday, before a Good Friday closure, the normally buzzing shopping centre was startlingly empty. Supermarkets normally be throbbing with the public stocking up for camping trips, family events, Ester treats, had cautious shoppers walking the aisle. I noticed I held my breath when I walked past someone, silently berating those who did not abide by COVD etiquette. I was more than happy to return to the relative remoteness of Tammy’s home, to a quiet routine rambling the hills and dirt roads, hunkering down with a blazing fire as an early winter front blasted southern Australia. Good food, very nice glass of red from Aldi and Foxtel.
Easter Saturday I awoke with a sense of unease. Having completed a review of my Tonga project it seemed that chapter was over. My back up plan for 2020 had been to head to Kariba. With international travel apparently one way, everyone trying to get ‘home’, two weeks hotel quarantine now the Australian norm, and with the spread of COVID 19 declared a pandemic, heading to a country with no healthcare of note was not a realistic nor rational option. It would need at least six months of restriction to tackle this I surmised, and for humankind to reflect sufficiently to reevaluate what the priorities really were. This left me with only one option. Work. Somewhere. Reluctant to tie myself down again, particularly to the fast paced life of Melbourne, I toyed with the idea of renting down by the beach or a move to Brisbane (friends Rhi and Phil, now based in Brissie, were throwing that option out regularly). But with the level of uncertainty infused into the atmosphere ‘home’ presented as the most logical albeit momentous decision.
The tenants were given notice on Easter Tuesday. 60 days. It was in the contract supposedly, the contract I never sighted when the tenants moved to fixed term to month to month. Though I count my blessings. I ‘got in’ just days before the government’s moratorium on evictions. The positives of this lengthy notice — it afforded me time to adjust and organise.
Still in my bubble, living a simple life, paying Tammy board, temporary financial support from AVI, I remained cushioned from COVID 19. Until my friend Gemma became unwell.
It’s her story to tell but her experience bought the reality into focus for me. Forty years of age, with a couple of risk factors but otherwise healthy, Gemma has homeschooled her kids for a couple of years now and gladly wears the badge of a ‘home body’, it was frightening to discover just how infectious this thing was. As she settled into self isolation for the third time (when a bout of illness 6 weeks earlier and another a few weeks later did not then meet criteria for testing Gemma chose for the kids and herself to isolate for 2 weeks, on each occasions). With all the typical symptoms, dry cough, loss of smell, exhaustion, sore throat and less known symptoms of severe abdominal pain, she was finally tested. Her husband tested negative. She did not want the children to go through the uncomfortable testing process. When the virus triggered her asthma, she was hospitalized for a day. Restricted to her bedroom for 14 days, washing sheets and clothing daily, warm soapy showers throughout the day, disinfecting surfaces regularly, these requirements were merely inconveniences compared to the viciousness of the illness. Any of us who have had the ‘real flu’ (not the common cold aka flu) know that somewhat melodramatic ‘I think I am going to die’ feeling. Gemma’s description on COVID 19, as a ‘biological war on my body’ that wrecked havoc on her brain far surpassed any previous illness. The hallucinations and confusion were frightneing. Thankfully Gemma recovered. It was a wake up call. From a continuum of the majority being asymptomatic or demonstrating mild symptoms, to a the small but loved few who would die, there was the growing group who after a horrendous battle recovered from the acute phase, left with long term, possibly chronic impacts.
Able to wander outside the gate, in mild autumnal weather or rugged up against a cold front, Marshall and I set off for the constitutional 6 km stroll down Sawpit Creek road, Lottons Lane or along Stockdale Road. With the RAAF Central Flying School nearby, the Roulettes practicing their routine over the fields along Saw Pit Creek road, the drone of their engines drawing my gaze above, three jets flying in formation, the skies otherwise empty. The warble of wattle birds, the melodious maggie’s carolling, the laugh of a kookaburra in the distance, a flock of cockatoos squawking as we approached their tree, pink and grey galahs tweeting elegantly drew my eyes up and out, bringing feelings of gratitude filling my heart encompassed by nature as I was. Sunlight played with eucalyptus trees, ruts on the dirt road, the undulating hills and distant mountain range, lines, angles and shadows ever changing. The afternoon light progressed to evening as grey cumulous clouds, gilded at their rim by the sun arcing to the horizon. Camera poised, ready to capture the silhouette of trees on the hill just over, I would stand on the deck as shadows stretch down the steep slope, green grass fading to yellow. Venus twinkled above heralding the night as darkness crept up and over the hill, the west clawing the daylight from the east.
Back inside, dinner preparations completed, washing put away, a few pages of my book read, some yoga poses performed, fire blazing, curtains drawn, I welcomed the night. Emily’s chores included feeding her outside cats (Chocolate Ripple and Ginger Nut were not in on that designation — typically hovering at the back door cunningly scampering across the kitchen floor to Ace and Channel’s upperclass food quicker than lightning, or sitting at the front windows meowing and pleading), bringing wood from the shed, driving the bins down the long drive to the roadside, and doing the dinner dishes. After our sometimes esoteric dinnertime chats, she might join viewing an ABC program or, typical teenager, withdraw to her room to chat with friends. Tammy, up in the cold wee hours and on the road before sunrise, driving most of west and central Gippsland throughout the week, dozed on the couch, sometimes with tea cup still poised in her hand. Emerging into the cold to get more wood from the veranda, witness a beaming full moon, meteor shower, stream of satellites or the expansive MilkyWay, I willingly huddled in the warmth ready to repeat the routine with gratitude.
And so the weeks progressed. Ticking off the tasks: Taxibox alerted, utilities arranged, internet sourced, insurance switched, mail redirection cancelled, removalist called. After some to-ing and fro-ing things slowly fell into place. I needed a bed. Had considered a bed in a box option but increasingly leaned towards something more substantial. Tammy recommended the local furniture store, Morelli’s. Meandering the bedding section, the only customer in the store, Mark eventually approached. We chatted all things COVID, from a socially distant perspective of course. The government’s Job Keeper payment was doing its job as a stimulus package. Mark said their stock was walking out the door. Needless to say I preferred the most expensive bed in store, the manufacturer supplier to Crown Casino. After perusing Harvey Norman and trying a few of the main stayers — Slumberland, Posturepedic etc, nothing compared. Bugger! I walked away to ponder the expense.
As the weeks ticked by my resolve to live car free in Melbourne waned. With the tram at my doorstep, 3 train stations within walking distance, buses to the local mall, Uber, Didi and Ola all available, I had considered a car unnecessary. But friends were spread out over the wider metropolitan area of this sprawling, bustling city and my home was no where near a beach. I had put the proceeds of my car sold 15 moths earlier in a term deposit with the intention of purchasing a marginally newer second hand car. Scrolling carsales.com I was a little shocked. Prices had increased. Let alone the logistical challenge of getting around to view second hand cars without a car! Hmmmm…. an idea sprouted. What about a demo car in Sale or Traralgon? Tammy had arranged her life around driving me back to Melbourne on the 30th but if I had my own wheels that would be one less trip for her. I was keen to support regional businesses as well. Sale Mazda Mitsubishi dealership had one demo worth considering. Chatting to the dealer on Monday he eventually took my number but seemed adverse to budging on price. Dad had trained us well in the art of car buying so I was surprised when, following day, there was no follow up call. The dealer asserted they did things differently here in the country but I attributed that to salesman talk. On Wednesday I returned under the guise of a test drive. The blurb told me this newer model, with all the bells and whistles, was more expensive and definitely a step up from my previous Maxx. Cognisant that I had no trade-in to soften the deal, out on the highway I zoomed off toward Maffra. It was a very nice car. Trying to negotiate again, nup — they wouldn’t budge! All I managed was a discount of $350 in lieu of the tinted windows what wanted to throw in. Insurance attested that the 2700km discount I got was in fact a good deal, and by Friday I had a nice white Mazda 3 in my hands.
Tuesday brought bright sunshine. With lockdown restrictions loosening I set of for Seaspray to inhale invigorating ozone (well a google search reveals it is not ozone at all but a chemical with a far less exciting name, dimethyl sulphide or DMS). Driving the A440 past wetlands was when the first pang hit. The last time I drove through there was with dad, just a few months before he passed away. Mum and dad are frequently in my mind, though less as time passes and life is filled with new joys. Other than a brief cemetery visit before flying to Tonga, I had not encountered reminders over the past 14 months. Passing through the wetlands, grief, now gentle and melancholic, was palpable. A few days later, driving past the Foster Road turn off on the Monash, the ‘ohhh, dad’ that had been evoked every time I passed on my way home from work, was still there. I always feel a little guilty as much of the melancholy seemed associated with dad. I put that down to those last 2 precious years where I felt so privileged to become a confidant of sorts for dad, where we shared frequent phone chats, a couple of dinners and a coffee visit each week. It’s when I hang the washing out, iron my sheets, cook soup, knit or wall the mall at Chaddy that mum comes to mind. I am glad they are not here to experience the isolation and the pandemic fear this virus was spreading right now.
9 weeks after leaving Tonga I packed the car. Tammy had collected belongings left with a friend earlier in my stay. I’d bought a few items of clothes and food basics and retrieving the plants Tammy had lovingly cared for while I roamed the world, it was chockers! The feelings were mixed as I headed down the drive, called out to the animals and headed west on the M1. My sojourn on the Stockdale Road had been a blessing and sadness filled my heart as I left my temporary home. Three hours later, turning off at the Burke Road exit, aware I was returning to property damage from the tenants (NOW I know you don’t rent to doctors), my intuition brought a calm feeling. It was time to be home, and to stay. The universe was telling me so, loudly. I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to. Driving down Manning Road, so familiar. Eighteen years living here meant the motor patterns and memories are well embedded. Opening the black gates, noting a repair to be done, pulling the car into the carport, walking into the empty echoing entrance, I surveyed the damage. It was a little heartbreaking but it just bricks and mortar, all repairable, insurance and the bond will assist, I tell myself. Straight to the shed for the blow up mattress, sheets and towels I had there in readiness, the kettle and plates for the first few days, into the bathroom to give it a good clean, a Maccas takeaway dinner (things are tough when I resort to that), and hours later, exhausted from cleaning, I soaked in a bath. The first for 6 months.
It felt so normal. Did the last 16 months even happen?
