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spacecharr · 5 years

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Why I’m Not Threatened By Old Men

A (high) treatise on why young women shouldn't be afraid of all old men.

Written by a (high) young bi woman of colour.

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Lemme start by saying I wrote that title because I thought it would be clickbaity. And I wrote the subtitle like that because I'm being "funny" and I anticipate it will generate trolling. My popcorn is getting cold, and I want a show.

And incidentally, it's all true.

Because this is SpaceCharr pontificating on #authenticity and weed, son!

My local Starbucks is small, has a tiny little patio, limited seating and serves a wildly diverse customer base. From your Basic Skinny Pumpkin Spice Latte Bitch(TM) to uniformed police, from sharply dressed businessmen to soccer moms with three kids and a Burberry purse, from punk-rock loud and proud visibly LGBTQ folks to button-down sweater-vest old-schoolers, and from local college kids to retired old men.

It’s fascinating to see the crazy range of people and it makes for eavesdropping lazily on some hilarious (and sometimes very serious) conversations ranging all over the place.

And for some reason, I have a really really easy time getting old white men to talk to me.

Lemme lay some context: I’m a friendly gal. I’m sociable, (I’ve been told) charming, easy going, and very casual. I remember in elementary being given feedback by my teachers that I was “unapproachable”, and they were worried I would have difficulty making friends. From junior high on, I purposefully (after much coaching from my parents and my mom especially) sought out opportunities to learn better social skills. As an only kid, I didn’t have any siblings to be guaranteed friends with, and my relationship with my extended family was spotty at best.

So if I wanted friends, I knew I’d have to get them on my own. (Troll Note: I know some dipshit’s gonna be all “omg sure #thathappened. Like a grade schooler can know that” - and you’re right! Grade like, 3-6 me had no fuckin’ clue. But 20s me? Who’s gone through a bunch of psychotherapy? Now she knows a bit more)

I learned interpersonal skills. I did drama, I joined clubs, I did Toastmasters (fuckin’ fantastic, btw, look for your local chapter), and I even did the Dale Carnegie Interpersonal Skills course that’s based off How to Win Friends and Influence People (1000% recommend, A+ on how to be a decent human despite its manipulative-sounding title which is brilliant). I learned how to be a more approachable person - and I learned why people find it approachable.

I saw the difference in how people received me when I spoke formally versus when I spoke in a very familiar tone (”hello” vs “hey, hey!”). I noticed that I could easily put the people I was dealing with off-balance in a good way (relieved surprise) with humour and well-meant self-deprecation. I learned through trial and error what body language and touch cues elicited in terms of responses across various types of people. It became second nature for me to analyse and act on these, and my knowledge of these techniques helps me daily in my work as a consultant.

So now, after several years in the workforce, multiple significant life events (aka I’m relatively old), and more overall life experience, I’m often described by my coworkers and friends as “very friendly and often happy”. Of course, according my sibling-like co-scoundrels in my cube farm, I am “disgustingly upbeat” - but they say it with love because they know I’ll tease them relentlessly, too.

I have found over the years that I have actually changed down to the core of that grade school girl. I’ve gone from a kid who struggled to make friends and who was seen as unapproachable, to a person who can very quickly establish good rapport.

(side note: holy fuck I just realized I went from Dandere to Deredere... I’m a fuckin’ anime side character, shit)

Kind of the best example of what I mean is an interaction I had with a new massage therapist at this place I had a gift card for. That is to say, a complete and total stranger whom I had never interacted with or seen in the past. The shop I was at had you wait in the reception area with the receptionist until the RMT came to get you. So this dude came out to meet me, introduced himself and we chatted easily for a bit. After not even a minute of us chatting, he and I were laughing together and shared an easy chemistry. The receptionist - remember, who’d been there when the RMT and I introduced ourselves for the first time - then asked me “oh, are you two old friends?” to which he and I laughed and said “no, we’re just friendly”.

Anyways - that’s the context.

I’m a friendly gal. Sociable, a bit charming, easy going, and easily able to manipulate her own behaviours in order to make the other person feel more comfortable.

In Harry Potter-code: I’m a Slytherin who can play a Hufflepuff, but only because it gets me what I want - your cooperation and rapport - more easily. However, I also do genuinely mean those nice Hufflepuff-like actions - just, there’s an ulterior motive attached.

I’m also young, and obviously with South Pacific Islander blood in me (exotic features - I’ve been told I’d be cast in Miss Saigon if they ever did a musical in my city - I took it as as compliment, since I’m friends with the old white dude who told me that and he did mean it as a compliment).

Let’s put this together:

Exotic, tan-skinned young woman

Chatty, friendly, skilled at making people feel comfortable

Can make someone feel like an old friend

Easily self-deprecating and humourous

In a Starbucks with chatty retired old dudes and a lot of shared seating

Can anyone else see why my title makes more sense? (Legit, I am high, so if it doesn’t make sense, that makes sense)

Lemme spell it out for you bois: I’m an old perverted white man’s wet dream.

(yes, I’ve been told such to my face; yes, I believe from experience that most of the people who won’t believe me are straight young men - not out of malice, I think, but out of a belief that people aren’t that bad [not that old men finding young women attractive is bad - acting on it in certain ways however, can be]).

I’ve worked out of the Starbucks I mentioned several times in the past. As a consultant, I have a measure of flexibility in my schedule and I find I work best on some of my problem solving and documentation work when I’m out of the office. The change of scenery and the need to shut out the environment to “see” my work helps me - plus I don’t get drawn into the co-scoundrel shenanigans.

And I’m not kidding you - 8/10 times that I go there, I make a new old white man friend. Even the bi dude I met (srsly, it feels like since I made the decision to be openly out, I’m meeting more and more bi people everywhere when before there was nobody) was an old white dude.

I fuckin’ love it.

I am a young, bi woman of colour who loves having old white man friends.

Because they’re just as chill, non-judgemental, self-deprecating, sociable, and easy-going as I am. And they appreciate my dad jokes and bi puns. Seriously. Dads everywhere - we all secretly love your jokes.

And, y’know what? I think more young women - LGBTQ or not, PoC or not - should want to have old white dudes as friends.

INB4 tumblrinas: I don’t mean resurrect Hitler and be his gal pal. I mean don’t dismiss a possible friend just because they’re old, white, and have a dick. Use your brain - not every human is good, but likewise, not every human is bad. We come in shades in all ways.

I won’t tell you what to do, because I don’t know. What I want to share with you is why I feel the way I do. And let you do what you will with it - because I’m not interested in changing your mind. I’m interesting in trading stories and adventures - and understanding more about each other through that exchange.

Here’s why I love being open to talking to old white dudes:

Dad jokes. I’m not kidding. I love Dad Jokes.

They’re often past the point of giving a shit about society, so if you have a genuine, good-natured conversation about your point of view, chances as they won’t give a shit as long as you’re happy and no one’s dying.

They have amazing stories. I can’t tell you the number of times a new friend of mine has launched into crazy tales of things they got up to when they were younger.

They have great advice. Often, they’ve made some pretty bad mistakes. And they’re all too happy to share their lessons and spare someone else the trouble.

They often just want a chat. They don’t need a new friend, they don’t want your number, they just want a lively conversation with someone who isn’t gonna call the cops on them.

It’s so freakin’ easy to make their day and make them smile. And the genuine surprise when they find a young chickie they’ve no doubt had to weigh the pros-and-cons of talking to, who is easy-going and as happy to make their acquaintance as they are hers? It’s so cute. Old man smiles are so cute.

They respect you for being unapologetically who you are. They know that they’ve invited themselves into a talk with you - and they’re willing to carry and/or exit that talk if they find you being openly yourself. (which means if “yourself” is a fuckwit, they’ll just drop you if they know what’s good for ‘em; but then you’re just a fuckwit in Starbucks)

I guess for more location context, I should add that I live in Canada; it’s not an uncommon occurrence here for spontaneous conversations to happen. It might be more rare in other places, though. My city is also quite progressive and has a fairly active and supported LGBTQ scene.

All this said, it’s just a really nice experience in my mind to have good relationships (passing conversations, spontaneous coffee clubs, casual friendships, or more serious friendships) with old dudes as a young woman.

It’s like having a legion of second father figures, or uncles, more accurately fun drunkles, and older brothers.

I enjoy several significant friendships with old dudes:

I go for coffee almost every week with two white old dudes and a dudette (I’d say “old” but she’d punch me out): our conversations range from politics to wood relationships to name calling to sibling-like teasing.

I have three co-scoundrels at work that I’m close friends with, all are old men. None are in a position to help me with anything at work, but damn are they hilarious and they’re a ready Friday-afternoon morale boost with their antics.

I have a very close old Japanese-Canadian friend. We have a complicated and somewhat tense relationship, but ultimately I think it can be said that we have a certain platonic love for each other. Though we don’t speak frequently, we’re both very significant to the other. He was my taiko instructor.

I have another very close relationship with one of my long-standing old dude friends. He’s known me since I was 9. A single hug from this man can stop an anxiety attack in its tracks. We kiss each other on the cheek and like to weird out the ladies at Starbucks when we go there with each other by holding hands - we’re both Slytherin trolls.

Don’t forget the OG Old Guy: my proper Old Man. My papa. Our relationship was strained by my mother’s unhealthy approach to all her familial relations during my early years. But as I’ve moved out, gotten older, and gained more life experience, it feels like my dad is finally realizing I’m not a little girl anymore - that I’m a woman, with woman needs, woman wants, and woman expectations and behaviours. We don’t talk about all things, naturally, he’s still my dad. But I can’t tell you how great it feels to have a dad who I know has my back no matter what.

I feel like there’s a certain conditioning for young women to “fear” the “old white man”. Certainly for me in particular it feels like there’s lots of factors in play: my “tropical” ethnicity, my youth, my LGBTQ nature (still haven’t been asked for a threesome as a bi woman - I’m impressed with my city), and, naturally, my gender.

While I do know that those are all things that certainly do warrant a certain amount of wariness around strangers (old in my neighborhoods usually means highly conservative about, depending on the age of said person, “the immigrants” or “the non-whites”. Age from young-old to old-ass-old. They’re a product of their time.), I also think it’s vital not to let that wariness get in the way of making a possible new friend.

Anyways, I need to wrap this up.

How does this loop back into #authenticity and weed? Well, it’s been my experience that the old (white + some Asians, in my case) dude friends that I’ve made are some of the best people to help you be yourself.

They have anecdotes to illustrate benefits, cons, risks, and rewards; they have dad jokes and puns to bring some much-needed levity; they don’t give a fuck about the other Starbucks goers - for better or for worse; and they - just like you - just wanna have a good day and be able to be themselves.

Does this apply to every old man? No. Does it not apply to every old man? No.

If you’ve read this far, you have the brain capacity necessary to give someone a chance. Now, you’ll wanna do some preparation if this is nearing your max capacity, because you wanna make sure you’re not letting the wrong old man come talk to you all friendly-like.

But once you find one who’s just a swell dude? Cut ‘im some slack, maybe remember that he’s struggling to speak your vocabulary as much as you’re struggling to understand his.

Sit back, drink some coffee, smoke a joint, and share a story once in a while.

Anyways. That’s been SpaceCharr Pontificating.

Cheers, buds.

Stoner note: My hand rolling’s gotten so much better. And the weed I have doesn’t seem to smell as strongly as the pre-roll I had that one time, so I might sesh in the park at some point. I have my inaugural shroom trip this weekend - bestie agreed to tripsit! Yay! And she’s bringing the whole Planet Earth HD collection! - so it might not be for a while. I want to give the experience the attention it deserves, plus I need to establish a clean baseline to experiment accurately with microdosing.

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roodiaries · 7 years

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Can’t All Be Peaches & Cream: Citrus Farming, My Car & the Working Hostel (Renmark, SA)

Apologies, because it's very late and very long, but finally here is my blog about what I did from late July to early December 2016. This article may be the most negative one so far, but I committed to writing an honest account of my time in Australia so I'll keep to my word. It can't all be peaches and cream. In fact, it's oranges, with no cream, no bowl and no spoon.

It seems a while ago, but I was happy to end my Tasmanian adventure and head back to the Aussie mainland in late July. I was ill on my first nightbus journey on the continent, a 10-hour cross-state one from Melbourne to Adelaide, capital of South Australia and the country's fifth-largest city. It might have been because I was feeling flat on arrival, but I immediately disliked the City of Churches, which was disappointing because I was just conforming to all the stereotyped opinions of Adelaide as the 'Boring' Capital. I ended up back there five more times and my opinion still hasn't budged: its spacious streets and quiet centre might sound pleasant in a city of 1.3 million, but there's a serious lack of atmosphere throughout most of the CBD, while its empty, insipid and uninspiring streets are a ghostly shell at night and not much better in the day-time.

Saying that, I had a good time there with my mate Mark from university. We found some very good bars with live music and cheap 'pints' (for some reason, South Australia has smaller pints than actual pints, so when you order a 'pint', it's really a schooner (425ml) in the rest of Oz; I guess SA just does whatever it wants). We also rented a little Honda and cruised down the Fleurieu Peninsula to seaside towns like Victor Harbor, Goolwa and the mouth of the mighty River Murray, Australia's longest at 2500km. As it turned out, I would be living on this very river, far upstream in the Riverland heart of darkness, for the foreseeable future. Mark and I also visited the famed Barossa Valley north of Adelaide for some wine-tasting. Not knowing anything about wines, we turned up at the Rockford Winery in Tanunda and just asked the woman to tell us everything. “You've never been to a winery before?” she asked, puzzled, as if we'd just told her we'd never heard of Steve Irwin. We knew wine was from grapes and that was about it, but learned a lot that day and found the knowledge intoxicating... or was that the alcohol?

I moved to the fruit-picking hotspot of Renmark (300km north-east of Adelaide, near the tri-state border with Victoria & New South Wales) on 26 July, to finish collecting my 40-odd days left that I needed for the second year visa. I planned perhaps 3-4 weeks here, but didn't end up leaving until 7 December! Renmark became the first irrigation settlement in Australia in 1887, designed so fruit could be cultivated, and is now surrounded by various fruit farms (from stonefruit to nectarines) so it felt appropriate that I was here to work in that very industry 129 years later. However, the appropriateness of the job did not overcome its drawbacks. I spent July & August picking oranges for $25-29 per bin, making around $250 per week (enough for rent, crap beer and little else). It was probably the worst job I've ever done, at least in the hard work-to-wages ratio. You were mostly put in pairs: I had a few different partners (Jakiah, Suki, Kira, Pete), but the one I worked with the most was Ellie from Taiwan, and we worked at the same speed and enjoyed longer lunch breaks. The main trials involved high ladders (teetering, tottering, collapsing), heavy bags weighing down on your neck/back, branches belligerently poking you in the face and scratching your arms to shit (so you wore a sock over them and got sweaty instead), the occasional large spider, and eagle-eyed supervisors constantly telling you to pick the oranges you definitely couldn't reach and then doing something with the ladder that you were unable to do to make it look embarrassingly easy. I spent most of the time frustrated, bored, stung, sunburnt, sweaty, unmotivated and panting heavily beneath a hot sun wondering why my life had taken this turn for the worse. Things even became animalistic at stages: when thirsty I would resort to biting the orange open with no patience to peel the entire skin, and then simply squeeze the juicy goodness into my general face area to try and imbibe some vitamin C. It was my revenge against this malevolent fruit.

Thankfully, Kevin (the hostel owner) found me a new job with his old school mate, Humphrey, in September. It was on a private organic farm called Fat Goose Fruits, exporting oranges, lemons, avocados, mandarins and grapefruit across Australia and some to Malaysia. It was run by Humphrey and his wife Michelle, and they followed organic practices, using sheep and geese to keep the weeds down (and feeding the geese oranges unfit for sale), keeping away from harmful pesticides and using compost instead. My job was hourly paid ($22.16) in the little packing shed next to the house, running the fruit through the machines and sorting it into five different grades: bin (rotten or split fruit); 'seagulls' box (for the general public – slightly damaged but not that bad); juice (for ugly ones or with big marks on the skin); second-grade for netting; first-grade for loose in the large cardboard bins or in the 17kg boxes. It took me a while to get the hang of netting in particular, and Humphrey got annoyed one morning when my hands were cold and I kept dropping oranges (“stop fumbling, you need to be quicker than this!”) But he was a top bloke, and we had many in-depth chats about politics, history and travel, all while listening to the full ABC Radio programme which I grew to love, especially the Phillip Adams section at 4pm. As time went by, Humphrey left me alone more (he's a busy guy, with a prominent position in the Renmark Irrigation Trust while running a business), and I was given more and more responsibility, which I enjoyed. I still fumbled and dropped stuff from time to time of course, and will never be the fastest packer. I was often distracted/fascinated by the huge quantity of spiders that lived in the shed: wispy ones, red-backs and hunstman in particular. A few times, I had a giant fang-bearing huntsman crawl over the orange I was holding and scare the crap out of me!

I did other odd jobs when in Renmark, including working as a dishwasher in Chill-N-Grill restaurant at weekends, tutoring my friends' Chinese supervisor in English twice a week, and other farm jobs, including at Gillainey's, a larger scale packing shed where I injured my arm, attaching spiral clips to irrigation tubes in a vineyard, constructing solar panel frames in a garden, putting up a fence at Kevin's farm for his giant pigs while they shat shamelessly and tried to eat literally anything (including a chainsaw), and picking small green plums at a farm owned by an eccentric Lebanese Christian called Moses, who told us about kangaroos biting the trees which made them scared and the fruit smaller. The funny thing was, I didn't necessarily think he was crazy for having this view... That's Renmark! The tutoring was definitely my favourite of the jobs as I was actually able to use my mind to excel, something I hadn't done much when working in Australia.

I also did a sleep study in Adelaide for 5 days in late August, getting paid a bit of money for that. I had my own room, which was nice, but was observed and studied by a bunch of PhD students the whole time, and we weren't allowed to know the time or leave the lab. There were six of us on the study (four Brazilians and one Indian), and we had three hour-long mealtimes per day, and saw the students a lot when they tested us, so it felt fairly sociable. It was mostly reaction-time and stress-related tests and questionnaires throughout the day, more tedious and repetitive than anything else. During much of the day you had free time to read or watch films (you spent more time deciding from the long list than watching, like with Netflix). At night, we had about 15 different wires gelled all over our head and a few on our chest, so that they could monitor heart and brain activity and would know when we fell asleep or were dreaming! On the last morning, all of us (in our separate rooms) had to make a 5-minute speech to the wall about our life, immediately after having woken up, which was extremely weird and awkward. “Ummm, I was born... I went to school... this one time in IT, Atkin poured out the hole-puncher on my head...” Haha.

The negative aspects of working long – usually 8-10-hour – days alone at Humphrey’s sometimes took its toll (depending on how much coffee I'd had and what radio segment was on). I would often return to the hostel feeling flat, tired and antisocial, and be overwhelmed when entering the back gate to a swathe of chatty, beer-drinking hostel friends, unable to escape and feeling like I was making a statement of non-sociality if I retired to my room too early, which I hate. I really value my privacy and I received none in the hostel, which sometimes got me down. Cooking is also something I have never enjoyed and something that others seem to spend time dedicating themselves to, hence I was often judged for cooking basic, strange or generally terrible things (because I'm easily pleased and have unsophisticated tastebuds apparently), and that's another part of hostel life I dislike. To be honest, I’ve left my comfort zone many times - and I never regret that - but it doesn’t mean you’re going to enjoy everything. I’d say I’m well and truly over the hostel life and hope to never spend more than a few days in one again. Anyway, I talk more about my ‘home’ away from home below...

Hostel life was a major factor in memories of my time in Renmark. I was at another working hostel, the legendary Renmark & Paringa Backpackers, a long low building with a large backyard and intimidatingly metallic chef's kitchen always choc-a-block full of backpackers from all over. Well, when I was there the predominant nationalities were always either Italian, German or French as people came and went. But why am I grouping people only based on nationality? It is something that everyone – myself included – tend to do, as it's more convenient. Why not on something more personality-based? Because nationality matters a lot to most people, I guess. Common stereotypes prevail, as a joke and for real, like the French speaking English with a strong accent, or Italians being over-dramatic, or Germans being clinical and organised. But everyone has their own individual quirks, independent of and also heavily influenced by their own geographies. Generally everyone got along and there really weren't any proper cliques, though people are naturally inclined to speak to others in their native tongue. It was extremely social and everybody knew each other's names. My stay of four and a half months, though ridiculously long, was about average; some stayed for much longer. Kevin the owner was a joker, but very helpful in finding jobs for people (as mentioned above). He wasn't best pleased when I reversed my car into the gas tank, or when I split the girls' bathroom door with a shoulder-barge when drunk... I was trying to help someone trapped inside in case you were wondering!

Lots of localised events went on: impromptu music sessions (there were some talented musicians, especially Stefano & Rocco); intense weekend games of poker to win $50; movie nights where people came in, asked the name of the movie, had to have it repeated because they didn't understand, and then realised they'd never heard of it and walked off; giant group meals & the sharing of vegan/non-vegan philosophies; getting eaten by hungry non-vegan mosquitoes; the odd cross-state trip to Mildura, VIC for shops and cinema; a nice cold shower beer; 'the pub' versus guzzling goon/Hollandia and smoking out the back; free haircuts with Jonny; Pop burning the rice & playing chess; with Leon, Sam & Rose making movie titles with 'Baris' in the name; Wednesday evening library sessions using the only Wifi in town; lots of leaving nights and goodbye cards; everyone asking how many days you had left; kids robbing shoes, speakers and beers in the night; huge storms and a state-wide black-out; some disastrous off-roading; the election of Donald Trump; sitting by the river or pool, kayaking and much much more.

For my part, I couldn't shake my past as an English teacher, and as one of only three native speakers for most of the period, I ended up imparting knowledge of my language and being asked to correct/explain grammar on a daily basis. Not the coolest role, but I relished being an authority on something. I even had to explain to a certain Yorkshire lass the concept of uncountable and countable nouns ('much money' versus 'many bags full of money'). It's difficult to single out people to mention from the hostel, but particularly close friends that I spent the most time with and deserve a mention include my room-mates Sam (the Barnsley-Italian full of knowledge) & Tatjana (confident optical Germanic picking machine); Rose (talented artist & cider-lover), Baris (the Saver of My Car, also a movie legend in his own right), Eisen (the coolest Asian guy in town), Luca (Gianloser, Roadhouse) Yusuke (the Yusuking), Mady & Robin (meine schätz) and Julien (French gay icon). But if you're reading and your name's not there, I am still thinking of you ;) Pop, Elise, Julia, Leon, Carina, Jonny, Thomas, Roxane, Thibaut, Simone F., Rocco, Stefano, Carolina, Simone D.C., Lulu, Cyp, Soo, Kim, Yumena, Sori, Pille (see I mentioned you too!), Triin, Sim, Katri, Adrien, Judy, Michele, Jules, Eddie, Sophia, Mollie, Stu, Rupert, Em, Simon, Carine, Valerie, Jeremie, Manu & Ninja.

In SA I also did one of the things you need to do in life: I bought my first car! A 1997 white EL Ford Falcon sedan. I have a decent knowledge on some subjects, but I know nothing about cars. I didn't even know what 'sedan' meant – huh, is that a make of car? People often ask what 'model' the car is... is Ford a model? Or Falcon? Or the EL part? I really don't know, or care. I took a pretty random French guy, Nick, with me to look at one of the cars advertised on Gumtree during a frantic two-day car-searching bonanza in Adelaide back in August. We had to drive in his car all the way up to Middle Beach 45 mins north of the city, where vast light-brown windy fields swept across the landscape out west towards the sea. The guy selling the car was a tall Aussie bloke named Paul who lived in a tin shed constructed mostly from corrugated iron, with wind turbines for power. There was a hilariously awkward exchange where Paul offered us both a scotch and Coke (Coca-Cola, obviously) when we went into his house to do the paperwork – which we declined – and a few minutes later, Nick said “I noticed before that you offered us some cocaine... I was wondering, do you have any MDMA?” I laughed pretty hard about this misunderstanding, since the guy was over the age of 23 and not a student on a night out, and therefore definitely did not have any MDMA, or cocaine. For $650 in cold hard cash, I was happy with my purchase and felt incredibly free that I could just go wherever I wanted, after years of relying on public transport and other people. Mum had been scared I'd drive to the Outback and maybe die, but I reassured her that the car was far too crap for me to attempt any seriously remote journeys.

The car, which was never properly named (the number plate read 'WDM' so I sometimes called it 'Weapon of Destructive Mass'), was a problem child to say the least. I was locked out of it standing in Maccas car park for about 2 hours one evening after work with Ellie, waiting for the RAA guy to break in. This happened again a week later when I forgot to tell Simon at the hostel not to lock it when he borrowed it! Then on our weekend hostel trip down to Adelaide & the Barossa in September, the air filter exploded as the car backfired, shell-shocking me and Baris with our heads under the bonnet. It ran only on LPG, which isn't good for the car, and backfiring is not uncommon. But there was a hole in the petrol tank for some reason so I couldn't run it on petrol. Backfiring incidents occurred regularly over the next few weeks, especially at Maccas, and one time I had to be towed back from Woolies car park by Kevin because it wouldn't start! That was very embarrassing, and I copped a lot of grief from friends about how terrible my car was. Then as a final leaving present, a giant hole inexplicably appeared in the muffler, so whenever I accelerated, people living in the next town were deafened by the noise. All of these problems ran along to the legendary soundtracks of the only three tapes I had and played on repeat for the entire 3 months I owned the car: Sting & The Police, Frank Sinatra and INXS. I felt fast and free as I belted out “There's a little black spot on the sun today!” when cruising down the vast empty freeway. I sold the car for a pathetic $100 in the end, but it was a relief to get rid of it and not have to drive to the Outback and burn it. It was certainly a learning experience if nothing else.

My time in Renmark will not be forgotten any time soon for better or worse and saw some of my darkest days in a long time, and many times I could only dream of moving on. But eventually I did, because all things come to an end. At times that can be depressing, but at other times it's very uplifting. And bonds formed in such surroundings are all the stronger for it. In fact, writing this post has made me see that I did actually have some very good times in Renmark too, in amongst all the dullness, hard work and feeling trapped. This blog post has now (thankfully?) come to an end but see below for photos, inside jokes & more. Blog about my trip to Asia soon to come...

Thanks for reading,

Oliver

#Australia #SouthAustralia #Adelaide #Renmark #FordFalcon #Backpackers #Nationalities #Workworkwork #Gotmy88daysatlast

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