The Year I Followed the Sun

By Laurie J. Rutherford Pederson

While many contemplate roaming the world, at 22, Laurie Rutherford Pederson embarked on a solo journey of 365 days, beginning in December 1976. She recorded her many adventures, sublime to horrific, in twenty-seven journals from which this book emerged.
The Victoria, B.C. native worked as a travel agent, creating her own itinerary to countries that intrigued her. She explored these exotic locations, each replete with its historic and often perilous political landscapes, using all means of transport: from a luggage rack on a train in India to rickshaws to horseback, even a boat on the Canal du Midi.
Family friends in several countries provided respites of gracious hospitality and rollicking entertainment; but, to her credit, Pederson writes with equal appreciation of the many strangerslocals and fellow travellersshe encountered along the way.
Her prose sparkles with hilarious interior monologues and a cinematographers attention to detail. From a near-fatal motorcycle accident on Bali to a brush with death at the Israel-Lebanese border, there is adventure, romance, fear and reflection.
The author left her secure home in Victoria as a young adventuress; she returned a woman. Pedersons memoir is contemplative yet spontaneous, capturing a time of great change in the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: May 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466910683

Laurie J. Rutherford Pederson

Laurie Pederson lives in Victoria, B.C. with her husband Ned, often ‘commuting’ to their daughters’ homes in Napa and San Diego, CA. She’s currently working on a novel based on her grandfather’s experiences as an early twentieth-century Shanghai merchant. She and Ned continue to follow the sun around the world.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

FIJI

The same sun rises and sets wherever we go.

Nadina Stewart Schaddelee

A wake-up call startled me at five in the morning. I had a quick bath in my hotel room, adjacent to the Vancouver airport, and arrived in time for my flight’s seven o’clock departure. The DC8 was full; however, I was pleased to have a great window seat over the wing. Sitting next to me was a man from Toronto, and beside him was a non-stop talking divorcee from Vancouver named Joy. Everything I never needed to know about her I learned before we left the ground. It promised to be a long flight .

Just after the seatbelt sign flicked off, we were served breakfast trays of ham and scrambled eggs. A few hours into the flight, the stewardess brought out champagne and cold cuts. The trip was definitely improving!

Joy talked incessantly—all the way to Honolulu, our brief stopover—and after a smooth landing, there came a great sense of joyous relief on discovering that she was leaving the plane.

After take-off for Fiji, a delicious dinner was served with a complimentary beer, courtesy of the pleasant Toronto man. Thanks to such good company I felt I was holding up quite well.

We arrived late into Nandi, but that was all right; I was just so grateful to see land again after spending fifteen hours over the ocean. Oh my, what a beautiful land, with lush palm trees, thatched huts, a patchwork of farms, and high rugged green hills reflecting the last rays of the setting sun. Having cleared customs, I walked across the road to the Fiji Gateway Hotel and checked into my simple room with its cot-like bed, and private bathroom. Alone at last.

I set down my luggage, opened the windows, and stripped down to relax in my undies and tee shirt, having already removed my pantyhose in the plane’s head hours before. I let the warm ocean breezes waft over me. Despite feeling somewhat saddle sore from the long flight, having recently had surgery to repair painful fissures (something of a bum deal!), I knew that a good sleep was all I needed to rest my tired eyes and slightly swollen ankles.

-o0o-

I awoke refreshed, at dawn, to birds chirping outside my window. After reserving a room for the following week when I would return to catch my flight to Australia, I checked out. Unsure of whether to take a bus or taxi to see the sights (the hotel had not provided me with any information about fares) I decided to take a taxi over to the airport and from there plan the rest of the day.

On the way, the East Indian cabby told me about a bus that ran between the airport and the Beach Hotel. Perfect. I had been hoping to stay there for the next few days, having heard it was ‘the’ place to visit.

A little while later a modern bus pulled up to the curb and I asked a pretty Oriental girl with a young child if it was the right bus to the Beach Hotel up the coast. That simple question proved to be a real find! She told me I would have to ask the Fijian hostess’s permission to board, as all seats were reserved. The air-conditioned coach only ran once a day. Local buses ran more frequently but were very crowded and hot. I was out of luck; it was fully booked! Just as I was about to walk away, the Oriental girl offered me the seat beside her, suggesting that her daughter could sit on her lap. The hostess agreed but did not seem very pleased.

Luckily for me, my new friend, Bridget, was a travel agent and more than happy to explain the local traditions and customs as we travelled through lush farmland filled with sugar cane, corn, and taro. I learned the meaning behind the different license plates: black identifying a private vehicle, and yellow a rental. Police uniforms varied. The Fijians wore black wrap-arounds, like a long kilt that reached just below the knees with black shirts, whilst the Indians wore black shorts with white shirts. The bus seats were soft and the temperature was just cool enough to keep us comfortable. After a while, we stopped for tea, or plo, at the main hotel.

A little before noon, we arrived at the Beach Hotel. A tall Fijian named David showed me to my room. As he handed me the key, he gave me a quick slap on the bottom, so I tipped him with a firm handshake instead of the expected coins! The room was open and airy with two single beds, a carpet, a tea maker, and a small fridge. Best of all, I had my own private balcony, or lanai. I joined Bridget in the dining room for curried fish crêpes before she boarded her bus home to Suva. As we hugged good-bye, she made me promise to spend a night with her family, a very generous offer indeed!

-o0o-

The weather was superb, 90°F with clear skies, tempered by a cool ocean breeze. A small puppy followed me on a long beach walk. I returned for a quick nap until four o’clock, and then I moved outside onto my lanai to catch the late afternoon sun. An older Fijian man wandering along the beach noticed me and called up, What are you doing there alone?

We had a friendly chat, although it was difficult to hear him over the roar of the surf. I understood he would be returning in a few minutes with a coconut for me. ‘Oh Romeo, Romeo!’ When he came back, he called for me to join him down on the beach, which I did.

He introduced himself, explaining that the hotel employed him as head fisherman and house builder, or buru. As he talked, we enjoyed a local beer together. My new friend, Captain Joe, suggested we meet later that night—around 9:00 pm—to listen to the local hotel band. Why not? He seemed a decent chap.

Shortly after nine, Joe, dressed in smart slacks and a colourful Fijian shirt, accompanied me for a few spins on the dance floor, then to the snooker table where I held my own. Our nightcap was a rousing game of ping pong. At 11 o’clock, he walked me back to the lobby, and we set another date to go swimming the next afternoon. I wasn’t too sure about him, but time would tell. Weary after the sun and surf, and some jet lag, I headed off to bed with my door firmly locked. But my worries were to prove groundless; I had been in the company of a true gentleman.

-o0o-

My first breakfast in Fiji was a cup of coffee and the last of my friend’s homemade ‘just to tide you over’ banana cake. I spent the morning lounging in my tee shirt and shorts, high up on my lanai, as I watched the fishing boats come and go. At lunchtime I went downstairs for roka, a local banana dish and tea, and made reservations for the next day’s bus to Suva where I planned to visit Bridget.

Joe was waiting for me on the beach as we had arranged. I really didn’t know what he wanted, but so far there had been no problems. We walked almost a mile around the point where the locals performed their Friday night fire walks, and then along to the coral reef. We waded into the warm water up to our waists, and I put on my mask, rented flippers, and snorkel. I also carried my shark knife, just to be on the safe side. Joe led me by the hand as he searched the bottom for black coral, which is extremely rare, and could easily fetch thirty dollars for a small, two-inch piece. It actually turned into a wonderful afternoon. The water was so clear; one could easily see the sea floor thirty feet below. Small colourful fish darted back and forth—bright yellow, orange, and brilliant blue. I was so happy just to float and allow myself this moment to realize where I was—in Fiji.

Back at the hotel, I bought each of us a beer as we sat and talked under a special coconut tree favoured by the Fijians for afternoon ‘siestas.’ While sitting in the shade, I noticed a long, deep scar down Joe’s left leg and asked if it was from a fishing accident.

No. Japanese! he answered. Then he paused, adding, I met President Kennedy in the Solomons!

Joe’s ageless face became very serious when I told him that my father had fought in Europe with the Canadian Scottish Regiment, and that he had been wounded in France. Within moments on a beach in Fiji, our differences in age and nationality completely disappeared. Joe seemed surprised at my knowledge of World War II in the European theatre, and I held my own despite my somewhat limited knowledge of the Pacific battles.

I went on, My father and I used to sit together after dinner, and he’d share his stories and maps. We spent many hours making models of warships and airplanes, and I used to draw Colonel Jimmy Doolittle’s plane. My father escorted me through the war graves in Hong Kong several years ago. As we walked along the bluff overlooking that sprawling city, he told me, sadly, how hundreds of fresh, young soldiers from Edmonton and Quebec had arrived in early December, 1941 only to face surrender on December 16th, a few short weeks after they had arrived. Some never fired a shot and ended up in Japanese camps at Repulse Bay on the other side of the island.

Joe nodded his head slowly; he too remembered.

As young men, we Fijians were often sent to the islands to help protect the Australian coastal waters. We would swim, carve, and paddle canoes. We slipped from one atoll to another, right under the Japs’ noses. We would fish and provide for the Aussies, who were often stationed for months upon some of the islands, counting enemy ships. They were brave young lads. We had a common purpose—defending our kings and our countries.

As he spoke, I noticed Joe looking out to sea, no doubt recalling his own days during the war. Where had he been and what had he seen so many years ago? He looked back at me, smiled softly and said, Come Laurie, time to swim now!

I cautiously ventured into the ‘big surf’ caused by the day’s high winds, and much to my delight, the salt water made me so buoyant that I just bobbed around like a cork as Joe watched, smiling from shore. I returned to my room for a shower and a hot sitz bath in my tiny sink, using bottled water because the tap water here was so high in minerals. Each day, religiously filling the sink with heated water, I prepared a sitz bath while dealing with a protruding faucet poking me in the back. How elegant! But it would all be worth it in ‘the end.’

I went downstairs to an empty bar and was delighted when the local band played Canadian Sunset just for me. I finished my drink and ventured into the hotel’s restaurant for a mediocre dinner of fish kabobs, made more enjoyable by a chat with a friendly couple at the next table.

Joe met me at the bar for a nightcap, but since locals were not allowed to drink on Sundays, we just shared a beer outside. He escorted me back to the stairs and gave me a rather sweet goodnight hug. I fully expected he would try to make his ‘move’ that night but, no, he continued to be a true gentleman.

-o0o-

I awoke that Monday morning to overcast skies, which would sadly do absolutely nothing for my tan. Oh well, I had had the best sleep in days. My breakfast was a leftover bun from the previous night along with a cup of coffee. I headed down to wait for my bus to Suva. Much to my surprise, Joe came by to see me off. He was delighted when I presented him with a little Canadian flag. I will always remember him for his kindness.

The Coral Coast was gorgeous, but the bus was in first gear most of the way, either grinding up or downhill. I’d never seen such hairpin turns in my life! After almost eight hours, I was very relieved to get off at the Club Hotel in Suva. Immediately, I spotted Bridget and her young daughter, both wearing big happy smiles. We took a cab to her charming South Seas-style bungalow and toured the town where she had been born and raised. I met her handsome Australian husband, Michael, a tall blonde with a shy smile. They took me out for dinner to the Travel Lodge for a typical Fijian meal of fish and roasted vegetables with rice. Then we toured Suva’s beautifully lit harbour, with the lights of many ships reflecting off the water.

I had my own room that night with a mosquito net draped over my single bed. Thank goodness because I had over twenty mosquito bites already, and those were just on one foot! I drifted off to the unfamiliar sounds of dogs barking and neighbours, mostly Indian, talking loudly to each other.

-o0o-

For breakfast, Bridget and I had toast with mango, a delicious tropical fruit that I had discovered the night before. We spent the rest of the morning shopping at the largest market in the South Pacific. I found a travel office to cancel my return bus to Nandi, and instead, bought an airline ticket for the thirty-minute return flight, cheap at the price when compared to the harrowing eight-hour bus ride!

Before heading home, we visited the Suva Museum where it was fascinating to see local history depicted in murals of war canoes, clubs, and fishing equipment. Next, we caught a bus to visit one of Bridget’s eleven siblings, Shira, whom I had met that morning shopping with her two adorable children. Angela, her elder daughter, and Bernard, her eight-year-old son, held my hands tightly, not letting go except when I needed to pay for my gifts. I was offered a snack of fresh fruit, as they gathered around me, most interested to hear about Canada. The children listened intently as I spoke, and I could not help but admire their soft brown faces framed with masses of thick black hair, indicative of a beautiful combination of their native and Asian heritage. I felt a bit like a famous person surrounded by adoring fans.

Michael arrived an hour later to take Bridget and their daughter to a dinner party, dropping me off at their home on the way. This was perfect, as I would have the house to myself for a few hours. I showered, put on a traditional Fijian sarong, and went outside to wash my clothes in a tub in the backyard. It was so peaceful here, exactly what I needed. When Bridget and Michael returned, I changed quickly and we went to the local disco, ‘Finicky Eddies,’ where we sat at the bar, listening to a live Irish band. My word, even the Fijians were doing the Irish reel!

After a few good laughs, we finally arrived home well after midnight, feeling very hot and tired, but what a super day this had been!

-o0o-

Awakened at dawn, I enjoyed a cup of strong, black coffee and sat on the back steps with the dogs for company before my flight to Nandi. The day before, Shira’s children had asked if they could come to the airport to say goodbye. I couldn’t believe that all seven of us piled into Michael’s car for the short drive. On the way, I gave Bernard a Canadian flag and Bridget a pin, but Michael completely surprised me with a lovely gift of French perfume. It was a rather sad parting as it had been so much fun to share in the lives of these gracious people, even if just for a short time.

The Air Pacific flight was quick—only twenty minutes—like the one between Victoria and Vancouver. I was so relieved I hadn’t taken the bus! Just as I was leaving the airport to hail a taxi, I noticed that the zipper on my duffel bag was wide open. I panicked and rushed to the information counter where an attendant reassured me that he would do everything he could to find my diary, passport, address book, and traveller’s cheques, lost somewhere between the plane and the small terminal. Well, guess what? After ten minutes that felt like eternity, he showed up with my precious possessions! Thank goodness—for my trip would have been finished as it was just getting started. The Fijians were wonderful, friendly, and helpful.

I checked back into the Gateway Hotel and changed into my shorts. It didn’t take long for me to realize that this was a rather uncommon look here because all the local women wore long skirts or dresses.

I left to do some sightseeing, taking the local bus to Nandi, which was five miles down the road. It seemed the bus was the best way to get around here, but I gathered very few visitors ever used them.

Nandi was forgettable; nothing more than a dirty town with one main tourist drag. I stopped at a food counter for a cheese sandwich and an ice cream cone. I spent the rest of the day wandering around an open market and bought some insect repellent (better late than never) and strolled past a department store with a melting Santa in the window. Funny, I had just realized Christmas was less than a week away! Christmas seemed an eternity away to me at that moment.

On the way to my hotel, I bought a drink of fresh sugarcane which had been puréed through a machine similar to an ice cream maker, releasing the caramel coloured liquid into a plastic cup. It was quite tasty, and surprisingly, not too sweet.

I decided I had to have an early night because the next morning I was flying to Australia to have Christmas in the land ‘Down Under.’ As I listened to my fan droning overhead, I was so happy with myself. This was my first destination on what hopefully would be a yearlong adventure. I reflected on my first impression: People. I firmly believed people would be the highlight of my trip. I might see amazing sights, but I had just realized it would be the people—good, bad, or indifferent—that would form my lasting memories.

In Australia I would meet Mr. & Mrs. Frank J. Sheehan and their family. They were special friends of my ‘adopted’ parents, Pip and Catherine Holmes of Victoria, my hometown. Pip and my Dad had attended grade school together, so my friendship with them went back to my early childhood. Knowing the Sheehans were dear friends of the Holmes, I was confident I would be in good hands.

However, I wondered how long would I stay ‘Down Under’—what would I see? As the fan turned, so did my mind. My thoughts raced ahead to Bali, Singapore, India, Kenya…

And, at last, I slept.

00.tif2.tif

The author with her trusty travelling companion.

My adopted Aussie Family—Kevin, Leonie, Frank, Joan and Val Sheehan. Their lovely home was my base camp for six months while I toured their vast country.

CHAPTER TWO

AUSTRALIA—MELBOURNE

If you approach each new person in a spirit of adventure, you will find yourself endlessly fascinated by the new channels of thought and experience and personality that you encounter.

Eleanor Roosevelt

The food and service on the Qantas 747 were excellent, and just before landing in Sydney, a handsome flight attendant handed me a complimentary glass of chilled champagne! When we landed, the temperature was 75°F and quite humid with overcast skies. Having cleared customs and exchanged some money, I found my way to the Trans-Australia terminal for the flight to Melbourne.

A window seat over the wing again. Perfect! So far, I was loving every minute of this trip, in spite of my swollen ankles and zillions of mosquito bites. While it was certainly disappointing to land in heavy rain, I was preoccupied with meeting the Sheehans. When Catherine Holmes had first learned of my plans to be in Australia over Christmas, she’d insisted that I stay with their Melbourne friends.

I’ll write to them immediately! she promised.

Within two weeks, I received a warm invitation from a family I’d never met, who lived in a country I’d never visited, for a Christmas I would never forget.

Walking through the Melbourne terminal, I searched faces for a sense of recognition—but there was none. I followed the signs to the baggage claim area (where hopefully a Laurie would also be claimed!) and waited for my brown duffel bag with its little red and white Canadian flag sewn carefully beside the handles, a travelling Canadian’s trademark. Soon the area cleared, and I was alone with my bag and a touch of concern.

Suddenly, I heard a voice beside me.

Laurie?

I turned to face Val Sheehan and her eldest daughter, Joan. Val and I shook hands. She was on the shorter side of five feet, had bright blue eyes, a warm, welcoming smile, and dark hair with a wee hint of grey. Joan was in her early twenties with short and very shiny dark brown hair, friendly eyes, and with what I would soon come to know as the ‘Joan smile,’ featuring deep dimples set in a very pretty face. I was, indeed, claimed and a few minutes later, whisked into a new Volvo and heading for Melbourne along a busy freeway.

The Sheehans owned one of the largest real estate firms in Melbourne. We stopped at the branch office so I could briefly meet their youngest daughter, Leonie—another darling. Not only were these Sheehans delightful, but I was also immediately captivated by the area in which they lived with its intriguing architecture, including numerous nineteenth-century dwellings, detailed with intricate brick and ironwork.

We arrived at the Sheehans’ spacious one-storey home that was tastefully decorated and had a lovely open feeling. I met Mr. Sheehan—or Frank as I would later refer to him—and their chubby white poodle, Paddy. Frank was everything I had expected in a middle-aged, successful, Australian businessman. Sharp witted, he stood nearly six feet tall, his build that of a man who loves his sports and has lived a healthy, athletic life. His Irish heritage shone through in his full and deep laugh, his sparkling blue eyes (mirrored in his youngest daughter), and the animated manner in which he teased his family. He, in turn, was the willing recipient of their warm humour. I knew Frank and I would get on famously.

Val showed me to my pretty, pink room, adorned with a poster of Robert Redford (how perfect) and suggested I take a nap because we were all going to a Christmas party that night at the new residence of daughter Joan and her husband John. I was feeling rather tired, so I rested for a few hours and was comforted to have a Mom’s concern.

Just before dinner, I got up, had a relaxing bath, and fixed my hair. As we sat down to a great roast-beef meal, I met their only son, Kevin: in his mid-twenties, a nice fellow, not bad looking—but all business! He was teased about his Prince-Charles’ looks and being far too ‘Americanized’ since returning from his college life in the U.S. the previous year. However, I must say it was Val’s adorable Irish father, ‘Grandpa,’ who lived next door, that truly caught my eye that night. Kevin was more my age, but Grandpa Bill had won my heart. While we were enjoying sweets, or dessert, I learned that dinner had been an ‘experiment’ in Val’s new microwave oven. Happy to have been part of her test case, I was sure I would quickly come to love this family. Thanks again, Catherine!

Putting my fork down on my empty plate, I said in my best Canadian, I’m stuffed! Thank you very much!

An immediate hush fell upon the table as quick glances were exchanged and eyes were lowered.

Val cleared her throat and said in a gentle voice, Laurie, in Australia when you say you’re ‘stuffed,’ well dear, that means you’re preggers—pregnant!

Well, I announced with a huge smile, waving my hand in the air, No worries there!

Grandpa raised his glass, and with an Irish twinkle in his eyes said, Welcome again to our table, Miss Canada! Much laughter and clinking of glasses ended our wonderful first dinner together.

The time had come to head off for the party at Joan and John’s new home, and I had a grand time chatting with dozens of interesting people. The Australian accent, although unfamiliar, was already beginning to work its magic. I was charmed by host John’s warm and caring nature, and like so many Aussie males, he had a strong build, loved his sports, and seemed to have played them all. Kevin later drove me home at 2:00 a.m. What a welcome to Melbourne and this wonderful family!

Not long after, I hit the pillow and slept like the dead.

-o0o-

I awoke at nine o’clock on Christmas Eve morning with a slight hangover, and I cannot say it was a surprise. I joined Val for three cups of tea before Joan and John took me on a tour of gorgeous Melbourne, which lies at the head of Port Phillip Bay and comprises an interesting mixture of old Victorian architecture contrasted by a modern downtown core. We passed many elegant homes and luxury cars—Jaguars and Mercedes—and stopped by the Sheehans’ real estate office for the tail end of their annual Christmas party.

When we returned home, I was invited out with Leonie and her friend Joe for a pizza dinner. Leonie was a charming young college student, petite—just over five feet in height—with beautiful, fair Irish skin, soft brown shoulder-length hair, and her father’s bright eyes. She was the ‘baby’ in the family to be sure, but just Irish enough that she could happily stand on her own, thank you!

Later in the evening, we attended a midnight mass at John’s parents’ home, which was an interesting and very different experience. Joan, John, all six of his siblings, and I converged on their family’s enormous British-style home, and I was introduced to a combined Irish, Roman Catholic, and Australian way of life. Best of all, as a somewhat ‘light’ Anglican, I seemed to fit right in!

John’s uncle, a Jesuit priest also named John, spoke seven languages and presented lectures around the world. Dressed in full garb in front of a makeshift altar in the living room, he conducted Christmas Eve mass for eighteen people, replete with an impressive sermon about justice. He was quite a brilliant man with an endearing sense of humour. As the service drew to a close, my thoughts briefly flitted north to Canada: ‘I took communion for you, Mom—in memory of all the wonderful Christmas services we have enjoyed.’

-o0o-

It was pleasant to awaken on December 25th to 70°F sunshine and familiar carols on the radio. So this was Christmas in Australia! Instead of donning a sweater and gloves, here I was slapping on suntan lotion before breakfast—what fun!

The poodle Paddy spent some quality time with me while everyone else went to the hospital to visit Val’s aging mother. At one o’clock, we gathered in the living room to exchange presents. I received bath soap, hand lotion, a lovely scarf, and a bottle of good Australian wine. In exchange, I gave everyone a Canadian pin, Kevin a flag, Frank a book, and Val a decorative BC hand towel. I felt bad that I was unable to pack more to offer, but they knew space in my luggage was at a premium. The true gift for me that Christmas was the introduction to this family and their huge island continent to explore.

Christmas dinner was served at a table beautifully set with silver and crystal. A roast turkey with sausage stuffing and all the traditional veggies were followed by mince pies with brandy sauce. The delightful meal was topped off with lots of pink champagne, which may have had something to do with our lively sing-along of American and Aussie tunes throughout the early evening.

Later, Kevin invited Leonie and me out for a drive in his Mercedes—with the top down. First, we drove to the marina to see where the Sheehans berthed their eighteen-foot powerboat, the ‘Jo-Lee,’ and then we turned our attention to a search for Christmas lights. I was a bit disappointed that we found so few in the downtown. We put the top up on our way home as the night had cooled considerably, and I must say it did feel strange to be gazing at Christmas decor while wearing shorts and sandals. I did not miss my Canadian gloves, scarves and wool coat at all!

-o0o-

We were all up early on Boxing Day, the morning of the famous sailboat race from Melbourne to Hobart. I accompanied Kevin to the marina and watched him prepare the boat that was stored in a three-level hangar because there was not enough room to moor all the boats to the dock. It was amazing to watch how little time it took a giant forklift to find and secure the ‘Jo-Lee,’ then gently plop her into the water beside the loading dock.

From out on the bay we had a prime view of the ten o’clock start, a glorious sight, but the sea was quite choppy with four-foot swells. We managed to return to the marina safely and headed home to watch the start of the day’s second, most famous, and perhaps the most dangerous sailboat race in the world—Sydney to Hobart—on their colour TV. These Aussies were completely sports-mad—cricket, tennis, and sailing all in the same day—and all equally important!

During our steak-on-the-barbie lunch, Frank got a call from his office colleague Doug, confirming tickets for Leonie and me to attend the Australian Open Tennis quarterfinals, that afternoon as well—a wonderful surprise—with box seats in centre court! The first game was an excellent match: American Arthur Ashe facing Australian John Alexander, and sadly, Ashe lost. We were also fortunate to see Australian Ken Rosewall defeat his fellow countryman Mark Edmondson in another quarterfinal match.

On arriving home, we found everyone next door at Grandpa’s place, sipping iced tea and playing snooker. I took up the invitation to play, and surprisingly won both games against Grandpa and John. Lucky fluke! I especially enjoyed Grandpa—a very independent senior, greatly loved by all who knew him well. It was clear that he was very grateful to have his family so near at hand. And for me, being so warmly accepted by these new friends had truly been a wonderful way to spend my first ever Christmas ‘Down Under.’

-o0o-

The following morning I felt so content snuggled in my warm bed that I did not even think about getting up until after ten o’clock. Once up, I made a quick coffee while waiting for Joan and John who were to kindly show me more of the sights around Melbourne.

Our first stop was at the beautiful Rippon Lea Mansion with its immense private ballroom, two pools, and gorgeous peacocks wandering the grounds. We ended up at Rob’s, Australia’s first U.S.-style drive-in for lunch, where I ordered a Bloody Mary with a fruit salad, (try that order in America!) and treated John and Joan to steak sandwiches.

More touring in the afternoon was followed by dinner at the fashionable ‘Water Pump,’ which consists of a downstairs pub and an upstairs restaurant, housed in a historic building. We left the pub just before midnight, and stopped for cappuccinos and Italian ice cream before they dropped me off at home. ‘Just another ‘boring’ day in Melbourne’, I smiled to myself and drifted off to sleep, full of thanks for the generosity of these lovely people.

-o0o-

I felt pretty good the following morning in spite of my imbibing the previous night. At breakfast Val asked if I would mind bathing Paddy that morning (help!), but it was actually quite a lot of fun shampooing and blow-drying that little fellow. Paddy looked adorable, and we were becoming close pals!

Later Frank and I moved all the houseplants over to Grandpa’s to be cared for as we were planning on staying at the Sheehans’ beach house in Sorrento for a few days. I made a lunch for the men as they watched a televised cricket match, and then John dropped by to take me to their place for the afternoon.

John and Joan’s new home was charming but needed a little work, so I helped paint some doors. When we took a break, I looked more closely at several of their wedding photographs placed around the living room. Theirs had been quite a formal affair, and the lovely gowns, I learned, were made by Val. Seeing these pictures made me wish I had known them at that time.

-o0o-

My alarm sounded at seven-thirty, but I slept for another half hour—I just loved this bed! I washed my hair and grabbed a quick breakfast before Joan arrived to take me shopping. Joan was searching for a bathing suit, or bathers, as the Aussies refer to them. She couldn’t make up her mind for over an hour but finally selected the ‘perfect’ suit.

With final instructions from Val, Joan and I headed southeast to their family beach house in Sorrento at noon. I ended up sharing the back seat with the television set—very exciting! John drove for an hour or so before we pulled into the Palace Hotel that had the best salad bar I had ever seen.

Our bodies fuelled, we continued south beyond bustling Melbourne, round the eastern shore of Port Phillip Bay, through the small towns of Chelsea, Frankston, and Mornington, along the ‘high point’ of Arthur’s Seat, and through a quaint ocean-side resort called Rosebud. I loved that name! After three hours, we arrived at Sorrento, a delightfully laid-back seaside community with tiny cottages and small shops. It was no wonder the Sheehans bought their holiday home here.

The beach house was much bigger and better equipped than I had expected, plus I had my own room. After unloading the car, we went out for a few drinks at the local ‘in place,’ the Portsea Hotel—with beautiful lawns rolling down to a bay brimming with moored boats. I quickly surmised the affluence of this Sorrento area. We did a bit of sightseeing before returning to the cottage to relax for the rest of the evening.

-o0o-

Our first full day at the Sheehans’ vacation home was a balmy 75°F. After sharing a pleasant breakfast outside, we went to Shelley Beach to lie under our ‘brolly’ or sun umbrella. We reminded each other to turn over every half-hour, but it was not long before John and Joan were so pink that we had to leave, just as I was beginning to turn a lovely golden colour.

I grabbed a quick shower and then wrote my first letter home. I’d had little chance to feel homesick since my hosts had been showing me such a great time. At five, we dressed in our best and went back to the Portsea for cocktails and a little mingling with all the beautiful people. The next stop was the old Sorrento Hotel for a magnificent Chinese dinner. Who knew Chinese cuisine in Australia could be so good? Grandpa, Val, and Paddy were waiting for us at the house, and we watched a little TV together before heading to bed. Joan bunked in with me, while Grandpa and John shared the other room.

The following morning we awoke to overcast skies—darn it! After a sorry attempt at sunbathing, Joan and I prepared hamburgers for everyone—while sipping several Bloody Marys, I might add. We sat down for a leisurely lunch before heading back to a cloudy and humid Melbourne.

When we arrived, I fixed my hair and quickly dressed for two New Year’s Eve parties that evening. I was looking forward to getting together again with several couples I had met previously at the office party.

The first port of call was the home of Jan and Doug, but few people were there because many of their guests had cancelled. No worries though. We stayed for about an hour, and then minutes before the stroke of midnight, we made it to the home of some other good friends of Joan and John’s—Marg and Oly’s—to find a lively party in their huge backyard. Lord, there were lots of people and all dressed up so stylishly! The women wore elegant cocktail gowns and the gents were decked out in jackets and ties. It was great fun with good music and a table filled to capacity with tempting food and drinks.

My word, I realized about then… I had not had a dry day since arriving in Australia! Even when landing in Sydney, I’d had a glass of champagne in my hand! As a soft drizzle began to fall, we welcomed 1977 ‘singing in the rain’, and we did not leave until after three in the morning—damp, tired, and in a wee bit of a blur…

CHAPTER THREE

AUSTRALIA—MELBOURNE

TO TASMANIA

January 1st, 1977. Happy New Year, World!

On this New Year’s morning, Joan was a bit under the weather, and I was no exception. But I did manage to make tea for everyone before we headed back to Sorrento Beach. Along the way, we stopped at the highest point, Arthur’s Seat, for a scenic view of the bay.

Grandpa had his heart set on a counter lunch, which is a common tradition in Australia. One orders a large meal in a pub, usually steak, takes a number and sits down to enjoy a beer while waiting to be called—and why not? We ended up at the Kooyong Pub and were invited to join some of the Sheehans’ friends. Eight of us squeezed around the table, and I was able to savour a delicious meal of whiting (fish) and salad with a pint, and then onward we went.

We drove along the coast, through remote ranch lands and stopped for a short visit with Frank’s Uncle Bill, who, at sixty-two, was quite a character. A wild Irish-heritage Aussie, he was full of life, proud of his Emerald Isle background, and equally proud of this vast land ‘Down Under,’ of which his large homestead was a part. Men of Bill’s generation had carved out this land, just as the settlers once did in the Wild West of America.

It was back to the beach house after our visit with Uncle Bill. That evening we enjoyed a superbly satisfying dinner of fresh crayfish and prawns, topped off with fresh strawberries and ice cream, which I had bought for a treat. The evening was so perfect that we ignored the dishes and drove to Kooyong Beach, perhaps my favourite, with its fine golden sand and twenty-foot-high dunes. With my furry companion, Paddy, I blazed a trail over the dunes with Val and Leonie not far behind. After a brisk walk along the cliffs, we returned to the Volvo where Grandpa waited patiently. Shortly after, we made another stop to watch the breath-taking sunset when we reached Rhys Back Beach. Frank was not with us as he had left two days beforehand to watch the Australian Open Tennis championship. Sports mad, all of them! Thankfully, I knew enough about tennis and cricket to share in their pleasures.

Yet again, it had been another very peaceful day. I was so pleased to be here with this wonderful family. Thank you, God, for everything!

-o0o-

The next morning I didn’t get up until ten, in spite of the puppy next door barking at Paddy from early morning. We were heading back to Melbourne that night, so I helped wash windows, change sheets, and vacuum the beach house. It was also my turn to make lunch, and I prepared a fresh fruit salad with ham, which they all seemed to enjoy.

Leonie and I went to Portsea Beach for one last swim, but the surf was too high, so we walked along the rocks to Sorrento. Afterward we packed up the car, and once we left Sorrento, it took us just two hours to reach the Melbourne city limits. We were pleased to find Frank at the barbecue doing up steaks, the best in the world, you know! he’d said. Ah, more great food—that caused me to ponder. In Australia they use the weight system of ‘stones’ instead of pounds; I wasn’t anxious to know how many ‘stone’ I had acquired with all this incredible hospitality!

-o0o-

My plans to leave for Tasmania were delayed by a few days, but thanks to Frank, we had tickets for the following day’s big event in Kooyong, the Australian Open Final.

That night I looked up into the sky and saw the Southern Cross for the first time. It was simply beautiful, but it seemed upside down. It was so odd not to find the familiar Big Dipper. The stars are always constant, say the Greeks—well, not if you are ‘standing on your head’ in Melbourne!

-o0o-

Frank, Leonie, and I arose early the following morning and were in a huge rush to leave on time for the men’s final of the Australian Open. Joan and John met us there, and we watched an exciting match between the top-seeded Argentinean Guillermo Vilas and American Roscoe Tanner. Although a wonderful event, the temperature was a scorching 96°F. Frank and Leonie were keeping cool under the covered VIP box, but it was unbearable for the rest of us, so John, Joan and I returned home to catch the remainder of the game on TV with the air-conditioner going full blast. Second-seeded Tanner emerged victorious by defeating Vilas in three straight sets.

Later, we went out for pizza to an Italian restaurant called Sophia’s. Our potent nightcap was the specialty of the owner (another Frank), and it featured espresso and brandy. We were home by eleven-thirty, and though exhausted from the heat, I was delighted to have seen my first Grand Slam Tennis final. ‘Thank you, Frank J. Sheehan.’

-o0o-

Feeling poorly the next morning from the rich food and my old enemy brandy of the night before, I drank some juice and crawled back into bed for another few hours. After lunch, Joan and I went into town to firm up my reservations for Tasmania. First, we stopped at the New Zealand Travel office to collect my return ticket from Melbourne to Auckland. Next, we headed to the Tasmania office where I discovered that I was unable to get a round trip on the boat. This meant I would have to fly both ways to the island. And lastly, I picked up my train ticket for Sydney leaving on January 25. Whew! Three tickets going in three different directions; the pace was literally picking up!

Later, Joan took me to the Sir Cohn Mackenzie’s Sanctuary in Healesville to see my first koala and roo. The one-hour ride from Melbourne was great until we were pulled over by a policeman for running a red light. It was a first for Joan, and she could have easily received a forty-dollar ticket, but luckily, the cop was in good mood. Joan’s beautiful smile was a big help, and she got off with a warning. A pretty girl and a kind Irish cop made for a gentle consequence that afternoon.

The Sanctuary was a ways off—out in cattle country, near the Dandenong Hills, but most of the animals were sleeping in the afternoon shade and too far away for us to see. I did manage to get up close to the adorable koalas, however. They were delightful and well worth the trip.

On our way back, we stopped by a pottery shop where I bought Val’s birthday gift, a lovely hanging planter to match her blue sunroom. Joan bought one for herself in brown-and-tan. Afterwards, we dropped in on some of her friends for a drink and to borrow a projector for movies that evening.

It happened to be my turn to cook dinner, so we stopped to pick up supplies for Caesar salad, zucchini bread, and stuffed mushrooms with prawns. We passed another enjoyable evening together, watching the family’s wedding movies, and I felt truly at home. These dear people had treated me like one of their own. With each day we became closer, and for that I was very grateful.

-o0o-

The next day I climbed out of bed at nine-thirty not feeling so great. Oh well, maybe it was my cooking! Leonie and I spent the morning at the famous Melbourne Art Museum that is surrounded by a moat and contains one of the best galleries I had ever seen. The Australian section was excellent, and the gallery collection encompassed some of the masters, including my old favourites, Rembrandt and Rubens. On our way to meet John for lunch, I picked up an Australian charm necklace—my first big purchase!

I had a three o’clock hair appointment and was pleasantly surprised to get the whole treatment, L’Oreal Ash Blonde for just seven dollars. It was raining heavily on the ride back, so I spent the rest of the afternoon helping Joan paint her kitchen, dressed in shorts and one of John’s old tee shirts. It was great fun listening to ABBA on the stereo while a tremendous thunderstorm boomed outside.

-o0o-

The following morning, Joan and I spent a quick hour tanning on Portsea Beach before another storm blew in. Boy, did it ever pour in torrents—the rain literally bouncing off the roof, so we spent the rest of the day inside.

At teatime, we all donned our best outfits. I chose my pink dress, which looked great now with my tan, and we—the seven of us and two other couples—went to the Portsea pub for a drink before Val’s birthday dinner. Val seemed genuinely pleased with my gift and card. Later, we all gratefully crashed into our beds—except for Grandpa who wanted to party all night!

We left Sorrento by early afternoon, arrived back in Melbourne by dinnertime, picked up some take-out Chinese, and spent a quiet evening at home watching TV and doing laundry. I turned in at a near reasonable hour since I had to be up early the next morning for my flight to Tasmania. I was at last off to see another part of this country, the small island of Tassie.

-o0o-

Everyone was up at dawn to see me off for my seven o’clock departure. We got to the airport with enough time for a quick breakfast together.

The flight was relaxing, and took only half an hour, but I was feeling quite ragged from the lack of sleep over the last few weeks, a result of partaking of too much glorious hospitality, I guessed.

-o0o-

Mr. John Martin and his twenty-two-year-old daughter, Lou, a teacher, welcomed me to Tasmania at the modern Launceston airport. After a short ride to their lovely English-style home, John returned to his office while Lou and I had a coffee and got to know one another. Shortly after ten o’clock, John came back and offered to drive me south to the capital city of Hobart where he would attend a real estate meeting whilst I could do some sightseeing. A wonderful idea! John was a tall, slim man, with a quiet voice, and a kind and unpretentious disposition. He reflected the essence of Tassie—slow and gentle—not in any massive rush towards the twenty-first century. Having come from busy Melbourne, this was a change to savour and be grateful for.

I was impressed with this island. Everywhere I looked there were sheep and cattle farms, abundant crops of potatoes and peas, and fields of lovely poppies grown for their seed—a new agricultural venture for this area. I found it quite delightful the way people talked and drove so slowly. It took three and a half hours to drive from Launceston to Hobart, located in the south of the island.

When we arrived, John pointed out the oldest bridge in Richmond, built in 1863. We stopped to visit one of the first prisons constructed by the British to incarcerate convicts sent from England. The penal colony system of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries was worse than I had imagined. There was definitely a great deal of resentment here over the fact that English convicts—men, followed by women—were the first European ‘immigrants.’

The Australians referred to the British as Poms, a disparaging term for newcomers, particularly those from Britain, and the present Queen was not held in high esteem either. The Tasmanians continually mentioned how the British ‘let them down’ in World War II. John and I shared how sad it had been that almost the same fate, which had befallen thousands of young men from Australia and New Zealand, was experienced by our Canadian troops following the fall of Hong Kong in December 1941.

The Aussies and Kiwis had been shipped out in late December and early January, only to be captured weeks later during the infamous surrender of Singapore in February, 1942. My mind flashed back to Captain Joe in Fiji, and also to the rows of white crosses standing at attention on the hill overlooking Hong Kong where my father had taken me years previously. I nodded in silence. The tragic experience had such a devastating impact on so many of their young soldiers. There was no question that these dear people had always stepped up to the plate; in fact, their neighbours in New Zealand, the Kiwis, had lost more men per capita during both wars than any other country.

John and I parted and arranged to meet back at his car in two hours. I found a tiny bistro and ordered lunch. It was so good to have a moment to myself to compose a thank you letter to the Sheehans. Afterwards, I bought a little book on Tasmania and a cigarette holder from a nice German chap. He gave me a handful of free pipe cleaners because I was a visitor, and even though I did not smoke, I thought it would be a good gift for my mother.

We returned to the Martin home a few hours later to find the house brimming over with young people, dressed to the nines for the twenty-first birthday party of Fran, one of John’s daughter’s friends. The young men were in tuxedos and the gals in beautiful long gowns. I put on my only long dress and headed out the door with everyone for a wild evening.

Fran—the birthday girl—and I rode with Lou and her boyfriend, Tony, in his ute, consisting of a small two-door pick-up with a flatbed and a bench seat in the cab for three. Attached to the front end was a ’roo-bar, a large metal frame to protect the vehicle in case one should hit a kangaroo. The ute is a uniquely Australian vehicle, used for everything from hauling pigs and grain to taking girls to dances!

We arrived at a little village hall that had a live band and a full bar. After a great evening, we wound up at someone’s house for birthday cake and presents. At three in the morning, everyone there was still awake with about seven of us listening to Slim Dusty, an Aussie country and western singer. Some drank coffee while others preferred beer, and the boys entertained us with numerous hilarious stories. Just before dawn, things began to quieten down. Lucky Fran got the couch and the rest of us crashed on the living room floor, still dressed in our formal attire, none of which looked its best the following morning.

-o0o-

We all awoke exactly at seven o’clock—stiff, tired, and very hung over. We got a return ride to Launceston in the back of yet another Ute. The cab, with its bench seat designed for three, contained six people crushed together while a few of us rode in the way back. Once home, I spoke to Mrs. Martin for a few minutes before taking a mid-morning nap. Luckily, I felt a lot better when Lou woke me up five hours later.

After a light lunch, Helen Martin took her daughter Sara, two friends, and me for a drive into the mountains, thirty miles away. We passed some beautiful old farms and headed up through the West Tiers hills. What a stunning view! This time, we listened to John Denver’s ‘Rocky Mountain High’ in the mountains of Tasmania. I smiled to myself, realizing how lucky I was to be in such an amazing place, meeting the most interesting people.

We returned to a traditional dinner of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, followed by watermelon and fresh cream for dessert. We ate in the formal dining room at a large oak table, set with silverware and crystal. It almost felt like home. What another delightful family.

Before bed, I washed my hair and dried it in front of a gas heater. I guess I was not supposed to do that, for I wound up with fried hair!

-o0o-

The following morning Helen pulled me out of my dream world so I could accompany John on his drive to the northwest coastal area on business. Before leaving, I enjoyed breakfast at another lovely table. Helen, lovingly referred to as the ‘Little Hen,’ was just that—and she was spoiling me!

John and I drove along the coastal road and arrived in Devonport by late morning. While John went to check on a pub for insurance coverage, I looked around the town. Devonport was a nice community of about 18,000 people with a deep harbour wherein the Melbourne ferry could dock. From there, we drove a little further to visit John’s younger brother, Paddy (not to be confused with the dog of the same name!), who lived on a modern horse farm with his four ‘winning’ racehorses. We enjoyed a congenial conversation over lunch, although I did notice that Paddy was different from the more relaxed John; he seemed to run on nerves, being rather an uptight chap.

We left late in the afternoon, journeying through some of the most captivating country I had seen to this point. Volcanic and rugged, with large farms lining the rolling green hills and tiny cottages dotting the coastline, it reminded me greatly of southern Ireland. We stopped for a quick beer in a little town called Burnie, and then we made our way to George Town.

By dinnertime, we met up with the rest of the family at the Martin’s summerhouse compound at the mouth of the River Tamar on the Bass Strait. Called ‘Low Head,’ it was an amazing collection of 1836 pilothouses, painted white with red roofs. A pilothouse is where the harbour pilot would watch for incoming and outgoing ships. The pilot would rush out into the sea in his twenty-foot pilot boat, come alongside the large vessel or tanker, then gingerly climb up the steel ladder to board the ship and guide it safely into and out of the port.

Fifty families owned the surrounding 500 acres, and each had to look after their own property as well as the community church. No one is permitted to sell his or her share.

After a lovely meal, John and I went out for a long walk around the point to watch the sunset. Like his wife, he was such a gentle person. Actually, they were just like all the people I had met here, yet the Tasmanians might have had an even fiercer pride in their land. Following our after-dinner talk, I retired ‘early,’ at eleven o’clock—but not before visiting the outhouse, a little square tin shed down a well-worn path.

-o0o-

The following morning dawned another gorgeous day, and when noon came, I was pleased to have the kind of lunch I was used to—cheese and crackers—no hot and heavy meals with beer and desserts around here.

I hung around the house relaxing all that day, which pretty well summed up my stay with this family. I never felt I had to be ‘on.’ After dinner, John showed me the long, lonely beaches that surrounded Low Head. This had turned out to be a unique, beautiful place. Later, Helen joined us as we went in search of little penguins. Yes, real live ones, also locally referred to as ‘Fairy Pennies.’ We eventually came across some. They were very small, reaching six-to-eight inches in height, with even tinier babies. They only come out at night with the high tide, so there we were standing in the moonlight, searching the pounding surf for ‘fairies.’ I was so thrilled to see my first real ‘fairies,’ even if they were wee penguins.

We came back in a thunderstorm and met the girls just as they returned from a party. The young people in Tas were an interesting mix of cultures, somewhere between old English manners (all the lads stand up when a lady enters the room), and new-world optimism. I felt fortunate to be among families who loved to be together. Often, in North America, people run out the door to find ‘space and freedom’ and choose to live without the warmth of family. I felt so fortunate to go ‘back in time’ to manners, a genuine interest in each family member, and a joy in being together—especially since I had always experienced such interactions in my own home. This is the memory I’ll forever keep of Tasmania.

Although I was raised in a ‘Yours, Mine, and Ours’ family, I was truly blessed, which I more fully appreciated in my teenage and later years, with the complete knowledge of love and respect that my parents had for each other and for me. We three had travelled together from Scotland to Tahiti, from Japan to California—a team, bound together by deep affection and a trust that had given me the personal confidence to make this journey on my own.

-o0o-

At noon the next day, Lou and I decided to go for a leisurely jaunt to Port Arthur along the east coast. I did most of the driving, and it turned into a wonderful day. I felt reasonably well for having just two hours of sleep. The night before, we young ones had made our way to the capital where we crashed Hobart’s annual dance social, and I confess, our frolicking lasted into the wee hours of the morning.

Port Arthur was interesting and worth a visit but rather depressing because of its history as a holding area for convicts. We also visited Devil’s Kitchen, a sheer cliff dropping to the sea, where a good number of Aborigines have jumped to certain death into a shark-infested sea.

When European settlers first reached the shores of Australia in 1788, there were about 300,000 Aborigines on the continent, belonging to about 500 tribes, each with its own language—similar to our native peoples in British Columbia. The settlers rounded them up, and took their land. In this part of Australia, these indigenous