**laterblog – written three days ago***
I am, by nature, a water creature.
I am a water sign, I grew up by the sea, I moved near the sea, and I always feel most AT ONE near, on, or in the water.
That said, there is something about a shimmering tar road, so hot it appears to have water evaporating upon it’s scalding black reaching out ahead of you as far as the eye can see. And then further to where you can’t.
The dusty, red earth began as a moonscape scape, reaching high above making me feel like I was trapped inside a Mad Max film except my clothes are less futuristic and more slightly grimy city/beach girl, before it shifted into expanses of not much.
With tufty small bushes that punctuate the environment like exclamation marks that were too hot to be bothered.
Today I detoxed from connectivity.
I know I’m addicted to being connected and instantly contactable. Do you know sometimes, with one single person, I’ll have three potential connections running simultanaeously – all of them different conversations?
I’ll can be emailing, and facebook messaging, and texting. It’s insane.
Out here, out bush, OUTBACK, it appears I have Instagram so I can load images of my trip but no Facebook which is great. Crackbook is my true heroin. I can’t see comments and I can’t respond.
Anyhoo, I’m not talking about my connectivity addiction, I’m talking about dirt. Red dirt.
Lots and lots of red dirt.
As the miles slip under the tires I can feel me slip out from the pincer like grip of the SHIT that’s been over me. I stop looking for a bar of reception on my phone and just watch the miles roll by.
The side of the road is riddled with tires that have exploded into snakes of black rubber and been shed by the previous owner.
I actually feel as though my wake is leaving trails of blackened emotional snakes left to rot by the wayside as I move forward into the long road of unknown that stretches ahead.
I’d love to be mega romantic about the desert, but it’s a little hardcore. There really is a whole expanse of not much. There is a film of dust over us all the time. A fine mist of dirt hovers in the air that turns your boogers into concrete before you can say gezundheight.
And nothing prepared me for the flies.
When I arrived my Dad showed me the ugliest hat I’d ever seen. A floppy, white, fairly unremarkable (ugly) hat that has a hidden built in fly screen that you unzip as the need should arise. I scoffed heartily at how foul it was and I knew that I would never be caught dead in such a milliner’s nightmare.
On my way here found this jaunty little orange woven hat. It’s cool as. I envisioned myself sauntering down the beach in my bikini in summer, and thought it would be practical to have a hat of sorts out here the THE BUSH so I picked it up at the airport (does anyone else get so excited about holidays that they drop $100 at the airport before they even flippin’ leave???)
And then today happened.
No, really. F.A.R.K.I.N.G. F.L.I.E.S.
Kiki was dumbstuck. Seriously, could not move for the sheer horror of the amount of flies attacking her moisture. The sound in your ears is surprising, as though you’re a high pitched jumbo about to take off, but their insistence at getting into your eyes and mouth is intense.
My jaunty orange hat had nothing against the barrage of insects and I picked up the frozen to the spot Kiki and decided we should just head back to the Windbag after about 15 minutes of an Aussie Salute so intense we would have made Peter Garret look like he could dance.
So, will we become a family of fly-net hat wearers?
The thought pains me… oh, the ugly. But as my connectivity to THAT OTHER world diminishes and my feet get more and more grounded in this very moment, I’ve realized that snorting a grown-up maggot into your cement-boogered nostril is way worse than a fugly hat.
PS Hate to sound ungrateful. This trip is fucking amazeballs. I’m used to the flies now and balls deep into the grime. I hope to update more soon.
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