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: Jan 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781426975332

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.

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© Copyright 2012 Laurie J. Rutherford Pederson.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Author photo by Stephanie Kendall.

ISBN: 978-1-4120-1934-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4269-7533-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011960020

Trafford rev. 12/28/2011

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This book is dedicated to my two beautiful and supportive daughters, Nicole Joyce and Stephanie Michelle. Never stop dreaming of your next adventure; travel far and wide and create your own books of memories.

To my new grandson, Aaron Alfredo Tinoco, may we share many miles and roads together, for this is a wonderful world that each generation must share with the young.

Lastly, to my handsome Captain, my Prince, my husband—Thank you for the best years of my life!

With love and gratitude,

Your wife, mother, and grandmother.

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

DISCLAIMER

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER ONE 

CHAPTER TWO 

CHAPTER THREE 

CHAPTER FOUR 

CHAPTER FIVE 

CHAPTER SIX 

CHAPTER SEVEN 

CHAPTER EIGHT 

CHAPTER NINE 

CHAPTER TEN 

CHAPTER ELEVEN 

CHAPTER TWELVE 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 

CHAPTER NINETEEN 

CHAPTER TWENTY 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 

CHAPTER THIRTY 

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN 

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT 

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE 

CHAPTER FORTY 

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE 

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO 

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE 

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR 

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE 

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX 

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN 

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

How does one acknowledge in a few brief pages the many hours of work and dedication to a project that has spanned six years since I first decided to put my old and tattered notebooks into print? Carefully would be the correct answer. Thus, I begin with the hope that I do not leave out someone’s name, for that is not my intention; rather this special entry is my small attempt to say, Thank you .

My first thought is for my beloved parents, Colin and Hibbie Rutherford, who sadly never had the opportunity to read a single page of my collected journals. But as I kept writing and rewriting year after year, refusing to give up, their love and presence filled each chapter. For like my journey, they may not have physically ‘been with me’ most of the year I followed the Sun—but they were and always will be in my heart—each and every day, each and every sunrise and sunset—for they gave me the ultimate gift—life—and the joy of living in this wonderful world we hold dear.

The next two people who, like my parents, never saw a page of this book but knew of my desire to share my stories were two of my parents’ oldest and dearest friends: Pip and Catherine Holmes. It was their love of travel and adventure that encouraged me to go forth and seek the wonders of the world at a very young age. They helped introduce me to so many special individuals along the road—people, who to this day are still good friends; when we meet, no matter what side of the Pacific or Atlantic, our first toast is always the same: To Pip and Catherine! The touch of glasses is followed by a brief silence as we each remember their wonderful spirit, helpful guidance, and generous hospitality; so, once again, my grateful heart acknowledges their part in this book, with love.

I wish to thank my special friend of thirty years, Diana (Kelly) Slane, who was the first person ever, outside the family, to have seen the original notebooks in July of 1986 that my mother had kept down in our basement. Diana offered to read through them, and six months later she presented me with the now ‘famous’ black three-ringed binder. Famous you ask? This poor old binder has travelled as well; from Irvine, CA, then north to Santa Rosa, and finally to Victoria, B.C. Sadly—and perhaps fate had a small part to play—all the original notebooks have been lost. Thus, with my gift from my special friend, this book was created and all the events are true. As Diana encouraged me years ago—Come on, L.J., you should write the book. After all, old girl, it has a very happy ending! With that she gave me a wink and a smile, and that smile has helped me to stay with this project, year after year.

My first attempt to hire a ‘professional’ editor ended very badly after several months with the woman, who will remain nameless, when she tried to sue me for a job she found far too daunting (that in itself is a good story). I wrote a large cheque and retrieved my precious black three-ring binder in disgust. Would my story ever be told? I waited a few weeks for the sting to die away and contacted someone I love and trust implicitly, my sister-in-law, Audrey Squire. Anyone who can put up with my brother surely could handle this little job, right? (Just kidding, Jimmy. You and I will always tease each other, even if you are my big brother!) Over hundreds of cups of tea, and two years of hard work (Jimmy commenting on many lost dinners) my British sister-in-law finally threw in her tea towel. But thanks to my dear Aud, the formatting took place and the proper British spirit kept both of us on track. Thank you, Aud. I was ready to give up, but you carried this dream through its darkest days.

Now what? Where could I look next to find someone I could trust not to destroy this project or take my words and my personality out of the book? Again, I found renewed hope within my family—this time in the person of my youngest daughter, Stephanie. On a flight home from our mother/daughter trip to Italy she innocently asked, "Say Mom, we all know how you met Dad, but what happened to you for the rest of your journey?" With that simple question, I suddenly realized I must share the whole story with my daughters; thus, while flying over the Atlantic at 36,000 feet, my determination to make this book a reality was reborn—thanks to my little Hummingbird and her soon-to-be husband, Scott Kendall. These two young people could sense my profound disappointment, so during their senior year at San Diego State, they took the time to review the whole manuscript, making many spelling corrections (ah, the wonder of spell check!) and smoothing out the verb tenses. They presented it to me on Christmas morning of 2007. That Christmas was an especially significant one because I was introduced to our ‘new family’—the Kendalls: Scott’s parents and his other relatives. When I learned that Scott’s favourite aunt, Claudia Kendall Salewske, was a retired English teacher, currently advising college students and other adults with their writing projects, my heart sang. Could this be the person to help complete this long drawn out project? Could Auntie Claudie save this work of so many years? How should I approach a very new relation and seek her help on what I knew would be a huge endeavour? ‘Ah, the heck with it old girl, just ask!’ Ask I did, and thank you, my dear Claudie, for being so supportive in completing ‘our’ book. Because of Claudia’s superb professional background, she carefully kept my words and my story true but has also been so amazing with making sure all the particulars were correct to the history, spelling, and facts—details that, if not accurate, can easily destroy such a project.

Further, there is someone else who carried this book to its fitting completion. No, not another relative, but a very special husband and wife team who live here in Victoria and have come into our lives with such love and devotion—I could not have dreamed of being so fortunate. Keith and Kirsten Davel have had their own journey: from their home in Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), to South Africa, to Canada. Keith is our tech man, or as I call him, our ‘Professor.’ An electrical engineer and a computer whiz, he and his beautiful bride have helped the Pedersons, not only with this book, but they have kept our home and sanity safe! Kirsten is a highly regarded Geography teacher at the very same school where my father and Pip met in 1930, St. Michaels. It is interesting how events and people come in and out of your life and are sometimes intertwined, is it not? Kirsten was a natural because of her background in Geography, but her greatest gift to me was that of being a gifted teacher, for she gave me the courage to write and to believe in this story and its author, and for her steadfast support, I will be eternally grateful.

To my ‘Spirit Brother and Sister’—Maarten and Nadina Schaddelee—who live nearby and have, bless them, walked with me these past six years and never given up, encouraging me with their loving words, beautiful art, and special friendship that knows so many sunrises and sunsets, rainbows and dreams: thank you.

To so many, many individuals, here in Victoria, in America, Australia, England, France, Africa and around the world, who have been so kind and supportive with your love and friendship—not just for this project but to me these fifty-seven years—I thank you all, for you know as you read these words, who you are.

Allow me to also take this opportunity to thank and reflect upon the nameless people who crossed a young Canadian girl’s path back in 1977 and who showed me kindness, their countries’ beauty—and, in some cases, its horror. They shared their stories and languages, their pride of their traditions of faith, love, and spirit. It is they whom I recall, maybe not their names, but I often think of their faces—some dark, some light, and many of shades in between. For, as I have said, we are all one in more ways than not—regardless of what some may wish to think.

And at last, dear reader, for your choice to follow me and my story around the globe, I am most grateful. This book is dedicated to my children, but it is also dedicated to you. Go now, travel your path, write your memories; we all have some very precious stories. What better time to share them than the present, for as noted professor, Dr. John Hope Franklin, once wrote, We must go beyond textbooks, go out into the bypaths and untrodden depths of the wilderness and travel and explore and tell the world the glories of our journey.

Laurie Rutherford Pederson

July, 2011

DISCLAIMER

This book contains racial references which today are not considered to be politically correct and may prove offensive to readers. However they have been left intact in an attempt to reflect the historical and geographical context of this memoir at the time that the author experienced the events contained herein.

COUNTRIES VISITED

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INTRODUCTION

Victoria, British Columbia, Canada

December 15th, 1976

I watched from my second-storey bedroom window as her car crawled up our long, winding driveway—then waited for my mother’s voice from downstairs to announce the arrival of one of my dearest friends.

Laurie, Marg is here for you.

I’ll be right down—just have a few things to finish! I shouted, loud enough for my words to travel along the hallway and down our wide staircase. I stood in the middle of my bedroom, slowly taking one last look around this special place that had been my own comforting space through my youth and to this moment of departure—some months into my 22nd year. My parents, my older half-brother Jimmy, and I moved into this beautiful Tudor home in 1961. Located in the capital city of Victoria, British Columbia, on Vancouver Island, it was indeed a magical place to grow up—to call home.

It was here at last—the day on which I would say goodbye to my home, my parents, and the memories of my youth. Goodbye to my desk, comfy bed, favourite pillow, worn but well-loved stuffed animals. Farewell, to the posters of my adolescence—from ABBA and Audrey Hepburn (I adored her)—to Bobby and President John F. Kennedy, to Led Zeppelin.

I picked up my tan duffel bag with its small Canadian flag sewn carefully beneath the dark brown handles, smiling as I lifted it off the floor. Oh, you are heavy, and we’d better get used to it; we have thousands of miles to go. Two years prior, I had travelled nine months with the same young lassie who was visiting with my parents downstairs. Margaret Oliver and I had shared wonderful experiences: exploring most of Europe by train, lodging in hostels, and carrying our worldly goods in our backpacks; we both swore the latter would never touch our weary shoulders ever again, hence the duffel bag that would become my trusted travelling companion on this grand adventure I was taking—by myself—for a year.

My plan was to travel west—following the Sun around the globe. I’d been working as a travel agent, so I had written my own ticket, which resembled a small accordion since I had to write multiple tickets for each leg of the journey. I chose countries that most intrigued my love of history and culture. My destinations included places like Fiji, where I’d begin; on to Australia, for a brief tour, or so I thought; up to the spiritual island of Bali and on to Singapore and its Raffles Hotel where I might enjoy a Singapore Sling. I’d go north, next, to Malaysia—to some famous tea and rubber plantations, perhaps, and then on to Thailand. Ah, to walk across the real bridge over the River Kwai—does it exist? I couldn’t let the concern of Communism in that part of the world keep me away. From there, I’d travel over to India and then on to Kenya, East Africa. Next, I would fly to Israel, then up to Greece, followed by a return to favourite places, and some new ones as well, on the continent. Finally, I’d ferry across the Channel to jolly old England from which I’d fly home to western Canada—all in 365 days.

Because my academic career was sadly lacking, my parents and I came to a mutual agreement to use the $5,000 they had kindly set aside for a possible college experience to fund this dream trip. I paid the $1,500 for my air fare—for these tickets with which I could fly on any airline in the world, and travel north or south, but must always continue journeying west; there was no backtracking allowed on the selected route. This adventure was all about discovering more of the world—and perhaps my place in it—as I followed the Sun.

I walked to the doorway and paused, recalling my happy youth in this warm and loving home. Goodbye room, I whispered. I’ll be back. With that, I closed the door and started down the hallway toward the staircase.

I did not have to hurry—we’d plenty of time. Marg had kindly agreed to take me to the airport, for a public goodbye would be far too painful for my parents and me. I continued my silent farewells to each room I passed, the house drawing out my memories.

My childhood, Tudor-style home, built in 1926, was aptly named, Oakridge, for it stands atop a ridge and is surrounded by large oak trees. My mother designed its beautiful gardens that kept four gardeners busy—almost every day in every season. Lovely small pine trees, bonsais, and azaleas encircle Japanese ponds, their gentle water cascading from one rocky pool into another. Each pond had a small bridge, and I’d race my G.I. Joe doll in his yellow rubber raft under these, dispatching him on countless special army missions. My weekends were filled with playing soldier, or cowboy, or Robin Hood, for we did—after all—live on Nottingham Road. My father was the ‘Sheriff’ and mother had the Maid Marian role, at least in my imagination. My parents encouraged me to enjoy the outdoors as they did, and I loved this acre of gardens with their towering cedar and fir trees that were the playground of my youth.

Television was still rather new then, and Dad and I only watched the evening news with ‘Uncle’ Walter Cronkite and Bonanza on Sunday nights, which followed the Ed Sullivan Show. Yet, truth be told, it wasn’t all innocence here. After a particular swim party with my high school friends, one of the gardeners found someone’s panties in a rosebush; and now and then others of the staff uncovered an empty beer can tucked discreetly amongst the rhododendrons. Yes, little Robin Hood grew up with her ‘merry band’ of girls, who usually had more fun than the guys!

I passed my older brother’s room next, remembering it in his youth. The blue walls had been plastered with posters: of fast cars, of wrestlers with their big chests and skimpy shorts, and of curvaceous women. I recalled finding my brother’s Playboy magazines under his bed—welcome to sex education in the 1960s. Sometimes I’d gawk at the very large-breasted women therein; then I’d sadly consider my much flatter chest, waiting for something similar to develop. Alas, I never measured up to those lovely ladies, but the memory made me smile now; how glad I was to have left all that early-adolescent anxiety in the past.

There were two more rooms to pass before I would descend the stairs to the main floor and begin the dreaded farewells to my parents. The small room to my right always held my curiosity; this was my mother’s studio from which beautiful sculptures of clay would emerge year after year. A wooden sewing table held the needles and threads of her stitchery projects and beside them lay her favourite knitting needles and a sweater that took two years to complete because she had so many other things she loved to do.

Upon the walls hung her many rice-paper paintings of birds and flowers, products of her years of Chinese brush-painting courses with local master, Steven Lo. She loved to sketch in pastel and charcoal as well. My eyes were moist by now, recalling her hands, never still, whether she was creating a magnificent Ikebana floral arrangement or cooking wonderful meals for us. Dinner was always late, mind you; she never came in from the garden until sunset, and in Canada, the Sun sets at 10:00 p.m. in the summer! Dad and I became masters of ‘nibbles’ to fend off our hunger, but I hasten to add, the meals were always worth the wait, for we were blessed with fine provisions. A Chinese farmer delivered fresh veggies twice a week; the milk man came each Monday; the egg lady brought fresh browns on Saturday morning, and David Nip, our Japanese fish man, would arrive each Thursday with his weekly catch and prepare mother’s order—sole, cod, salmon and others—at the back of his ‘rolling market.’ If mother wasn’t home, Mr. Nip would leave his bill on the kitchen table, pat both our poodles (who were more a welcoming committee than imposing watch dogs!), and be on to his next customer. Our doors weren’t locked, for there was no need in Victoria of the sixties and seventies.

My parents’ bedroom was the last. A final look there sent me back to the years when I delighted in sneaking into and dressing up in my mother’s beautiful gowns and fur coats. Her costume jewellery boxes held treasures for a little girl—dangling earrings and brightly coloured bracelets and sparkling necklaces. My mother was a tall woman—5 foot 11 inches and of Swedish descent—so she could easily wear these marvellous pieces with such flair. I’ve always thought of her as a perfect mixture of Ingrid Bergman and Grace Kelly.

Mother sometimes designed certain pieces with a young European jeweller named Ragnar. Then there were prized works from our past travels, far and wide—and also from as near as our local auction house in Victoria: Chinese porcelain, native baskets and spears, African drums, pre-Columbian pottery. And, as always, where her treasures from many exotic ports of call were concerned, there were code words we shared: Remember darling, she would begin, and I would finish the sentence for her—don’t tell your father. We would smile and she’d give me her special wink because we both knew my beloved Papa would be delighted with whatever she brought into our already art-enhanced home. My life was blessed with so many happy memories, and I could have spent the rest of the day recalling the fun and the laughter which filled that old house.

‘Quickly now, old girl,’ I told myself. ‘Your friend is patiently waiting for you—but the plane will not.’ I started down the long staircase and briefly paused, once more, to gaze through the lead-paned windows to my right. The view always made me smile, particularly to see mother’s huge aviary, filled with over 250 birds. I would miss the sound of the mourning doves, awakening me at dawn, and the joy of the baby budgies and canaries, the charming cockatiel, and the many assorted finches.

I proceeded down the stairs to the landing from which I could hear my father’s kind voice and humorous tone, and, unbidden, a last memory flashed into my mind... one we had dubbed, ‘The Night of the Big Bang.’

It took place years before when Dad had planned a Halloween fireworks show for the neighbourhood. One specialty he’d purchased was called a ‘Slithering Worm’ and it, supposedly, was simply to slip slide along the ground. Unfortunately, the worm went so fast that it slithered right back into Dad’s box of fireworks. Well—that was the best show ever—sending us all running for cover as the entire contents of the box began to explode. The finale came in a little over five minutes, but it was something that we still laughed about, years later. Smiling, I gave my head a little shake.

By the time I had stepped down onto the main floor, my memories were tucked away. For it was now the present, the start of a most incredible future. Thankful for the past, I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath—very ready for this coming year and its adventures. My mother stood before me, still in her famous apron—she had forgotten to take it off—and that was just as well, for it would be my last memory of her on this day. My beloved Papa, my best friend, stood beside her. He was shorter than my mother by several inches, his neat black hair and moustache his trademarks; and on this afternoon, his blue eyes, behind his silver glasses, were moist and so very sad. Being their only daughter that was a day I don’t think they were really prepared for.

We three had travelled the world together—but this journey would be altogether different. I gave my Papa a huge hug, a tearful smile, and then I lightly brushed my mother’s damp cheek with my kiss. I will be back by next Christmas… I could not finish the sentence.

Marg grabbed the duffel bag and my hand, opened the front door, and down the long flight of stairs we dashed. We jumped in her car, headed down Nottingham Road, and the rest was a blur.

Well L.J., (a nickname from school, the initials of my full name, Laurie Joyce), we did it. Now, old girl, let’s hit the pub for one last beer—on me.

I nodded, grateful for her friendship and understanding. Having gone through a similar departure a couple of years ago, she fully understood what having to say goodbye to my parents meant. We shared a quick beer at our local pub in the Oak Bay Beach Hotel, and then there was a final farewell at our small local airport.

Write to me often, L.J.—you know I will be with you in spirit. And do me another favour—come back home in one piece, or your parents will never forgive me.

I smiled, gave her a warm hug, and waved goodbye again as I climbed the stairs to the small plane. In no time, we were taxiing down the runway. I watched the Victoria airport grow smaller and smaller as we rose into the clear sky, the many islands that I knew so well from my boating days with the family now quickly disappearing—Salt Spring Island on my left, Pender Island on my right. Only then did I fully realize—I was on my way around the world—and my tears had been replaced with a huge smile and a pounding heart, for this was going to be a grand adventure!

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.

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The author with her trusty travelling companion.

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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