An upside-down new moon is shining above the town of Eden where the old teacher has left Sindbad a few hours earlier. A vegetable soup is boiling in the battered steel dish. People love to build big bonfires, Sindbad thinks. Not everyone knows that you can prepare a meal with two handfuls of wood. The simple food feels good after all the fish and other protein gobbled up in the friends' house. Sindbad hides his belt bag and walks down to the long, sandy beach. The ocean waves are mild in this protected bay, yet he stops time to time, as he was taught, to probe for inward currents. He submerges himself under an Orion in headstand with Syrius and Aldebaran having traded places.
The next day he quickly dissembles the tent before bathing. Then he fights a long battle with an army of objects, in vain, as after a few steps the whole knapsack has to be taken apart in search of hastily repaired sandals. Shoes are not good for newly acquired blisters.
There is very little traffic at the service station on the old highway number one. The first car takes him to a tiny gas station a mere 25 kilometers away. He prefers hitchiking in the country, but this place in a beautiful, tall eucalypt forest does not bode well. Cars drive too fast, if one occasionally stops to buy gas it's a small marathon to reach them. As the hours pass, temperature mounts. With Friday being near the seafarer is busy trying to type on his phone while hitching. As the shade on the roadside gets swallowed by the sun, he moves to another spot. Then to the last one. Then all shade disappears. The sun is stinging like an echidna in the sky. It's only 550 kilometres to the city, yet I sensed yesterday I won't make it. How do we know these kinds of things? he wonders.
I saw you, you've been here since morning, the old man with missing teeth says. No one will stop for you in this curve. I can take you to Genoa.
How far is that?
50 keys.
But the next gas station is at a 100.
Believe me, it's better than here.
When the energy gets stuck, you have to move. Sindbad gets in the car. There are no more hitchikers, the old man says. People are scared to take strangers. When I was young I criscrossed the whole country by thumb. Yeah, people are terrified in my country, too, Sinbad agrees. Even though nowadays it's totally safe to take someone. You can just take their picture and send it to your mum. But stepping on the gas doesn't require even that much I.Q. Upon arrival the seafarer politely refuses the joint offered. He goes to a house to ask for water, quickly grabs a bite from the sack and gets on the road. As hardly any cars are coming, he squats above the phone hidden in the shadow of the knapsack and continues translating.
A half hour passes and a young couple pulls over. French tourists. Your French accent is like my mother-in-law's who is Finnish, the woman remarks. We are distant relatives, after all. The next place is very good. It's shaded, after a roundabout where the highway from Canberra joins up with the coastal road. This is where Sindbad should have arrived from the mountains. In less than ten minutes an old woman stops. Are you a murderer? Yes, a mass murderer. O.K, then. She explains that the state of Victoria came up with a ten-dollar bus ticket anywhere if it's in the same day. That's cheap even for us, Sindbad admits. But money's not the main reason for hitching. In the USA I spent enough time on that mental asylum set on wheels called a Greyhound bus.
At the next spot the very first car stops. The driver's a youthful middle-aged man, his smile lets on that this will be a good one. What do you do? I'm a hippie. I write stupid things. I'm kind of the same, the man says, although now I work as a CEO. Of what? An organization working with and for aboriginals. I've met a great number of good-hearted people on this trip, Sindbad sighs, but it feels so good to be able to discuss more interesting matters. To go deeper, the driver nods. There's an inmediate understanding without words, but a lot of words follow, of course. At some point the man indicates the enormous clouds on the horizon. There's a big thunderstorm coming. If you want, you can stay at my place, I'll make supper and will bring you back to the road in the morning. Sindbad hesitates. He has a couchsurfing place in Melbourne for the night. But travel is about letting go of your plans, isn't it? His new friend holds up a beer. Sindbad's not too fond of beer, or alcohol in general, but after the scorching heat the buzz feels good in both throat and brain.
Arriving to a green, green place with horses. Talking about the inner makeup of aboriginals. And Australians. The new Hungarian feudalism. The secrets of ultramarathons. A few friends come over. There'll be a traffic jam in Melbourne because of Taylor Swift. Because of whom? They exchange a look: it's so good someone hasn't heard of her. At some point they jump up and leave. Storm's here! The wind, blowing mad, sweeps away everything from the veranda like sheafs of paper.
Rain and cold are a relief after the heat, but getting caught in this outside would not be good, Sindbad thinks. They eat supper, filling up the body, the mind and the soul.
The next morning a lady with dishevelled hair in her seventies. It slowly dawns on Sindbad that the somewhat crude exterior and speech mannerisms hide a very interesting character. Therapy with secret helpers and buckets of water, Erickson would whistle with appreciation. A lot of aboriginals were massacred around here, she says. I've heard about them being pushed of cliffs. And poison. What?? Their water sources and the flour they gave them. That's a bit too much for both of them. Let's talk about something else. Nowadays some protected areas are jointly administered by state and tribe. I've been to many aboriginals' homes, they were all clean.
Where are you going? Meeting with a dealer. I sell grass. How strictly is it sanctioned? It depends on whether they want to get you. We know the policeman's wife has some plants. We're full of abused and other problem people and grass is a much safer relaxant than meth (here called 'ice') or tranquilizers. The dealer will probably take you to Melbourne.
The dealer is a tough dude in a cowboy hat, with the advantage of not respecting the speed limit which is quite low in Australia. I just came back from India. What a horrible place! There's nothing to eat! What? Everything's full of spice. And you can't get a decent steak! They don't eat cows, the beasts just lay in the middle of the road and you have to get around them! You drove in that chaos? Of course! Now I understand why everyone wants to come to Australia. I'll never again go abroad. This country has everything.
Sindbad gets dropped off in a suburb. Train to the centre, knapsack left at the host who is busy on his computer. Out on the street. People of every conceivable color, a perpendicular grid of streets, well-off throngs of people, consumption. Everyone's eating. Pedestrians tend to respect red lights but if you cross they don't look at you with killing eyes. Wide bike lanes separated from car traffic. Liveable, not cozy. This is another Australia.
Sindbad feels a stranger. Yet he needs to stay another day because the ferry is cheaper the evening two days later. He heads to a big park.
After much rambling he sees Aboriginal flags. And a Palestinian one. A fire. He starts to walk towards the small group of people gathered around it.
Well — Sindbad said. Here it is. The more specific events readers demanded. A lot of details were left out, nothing added. By the time you read this I will long have been the Tasmanian devil's advocate.