A spontaneous trip to Western Australia to bask in the beauty of September wildflower blooms and explore a place unknown left me with more than I had bargained for.
I wanted to unearth a raw and “lost” version of myself, to
visit pockets of an old and forgotten space, to seek something untouched. This
wasn’t a typical “find yourself” kind of adventure, but rather a nice excuse to
remove myself from reality, be it only a few days, and engage with nature in a
new and intentional way. It began after a two hour kiss with the sunlight when
I should have been studying. It was an impulsive decision to go outdoors, and
with no reading material and limited phone battery I was left to my own
devices. Surprisingly unaffected by the floating pollen, I made a wish to see
more of this sunlit silence. The pause of day, scathed only by a brush of wind,
or a whisper of nearby water, and only if I am lucky enough, the cries of a
bird mid flight.
“To what do I owe this splendid weather?” Spring of course. While combing my fingers at the roots of a family of dandelions I wondered, “What constitutes a flower to be born wild?”. A desolate and spontaneous beauty erupts through the earth, with no assistance and limited care. In either a perfect or imperfect condition blooms a delicate yet enduring blossom. A quick Google, and two weeks of saving later, I was sitting in a refurbished shabby chic room in Fremantle.
The first day remained uneventful. A four hour long stroll
around the whole of Fremantle and I suddenly grew tired of buildings, and aside
from the florets I befriended on the side of many roads (wildflowers pierced
any wake of dirt found, even if just a patch near an old smash repairers yard),
nature was still calling. The next day began with a 6am wake up, strawberries
and black tea followed, and Perth was just an Uber ride away. The driver had
never been to Waverock, my adventure for the day. A bus crowded with tourists
and really lovely old people ensued. I stuck out like a sore thumb no doubt,
and my enthusiasm trumped all. Three hours later we stop at York, a town of
very little, and conditioned with its original buildings from decades ago. It
was beautiful, crisp and delightfully boring. A candy shop here, an old
bookstore there, and two incredibly bad coffees later, we were on the bus
again. The next leg of the tour we found ourselves snapping at fields of
yellow, blue and purple. Large emus, thoughtful cows, and one odd little lama
lost in a family of freshly sheared sheep locked gaze with the passing bus, I
still wonder if he misses his family.
A stop at Corrigin’s dog cemetery followed and we paused to pay respects to the companions of WA’s great farmers. Finally, we arrived at Waverock where we lunched on the most naked salad and overcooked rice kindly provided to us by the park staff. I trekked to the brim of Waverock, a large water-eroded structure in the form of a massive and encapsulating wave frozen in time. Marble stains climbed up its walls and a shadow of the curl emphasised its height and depth. Climbing up the rock's back unveiled plains upon plains of vast and arid beauty, a reminder of just how little I am, in the greatest and grandest scheme of things. The eerie Mulka’s Cave was next, an abandoned and ice-cold cave printed with indigenous hands in colours of flame and white ink. The legend of Mulka describes a 7-foot tall young man whose odd behaviour had him dismissed from his tribe, and after withdrawal from his community took to eating small children in order to survive. It was interesting to witness how such a tale had people either shivering with bewilderment of scoffing with skepticism. I shivered.
The next day I spent hiking the city of Perth, venturing in and out of local gardens before finding myself climbing the steps of Kings Park National Park. Even the most ordinary floral displays became exotic tapestry. I’d never been as excited to behold a wattle in the palm of my hand or bury my nose in the folds of a bird of paradise.
That night, I made way to en empty beach sandwiched between an old industrial complex and a freight station with a friend who offered to teach me how to smoke a blunt. When in the wilderness, I agreed with little hesitation. We had planned to spliff up previously, but my inexperience failed me the opportunity we were promised. While ranting over an untrustworthy friend I pulled almost flawlessly. The wind eventually drove us to his living room where the effect began to sink in. A few more pulls via a glass bong and I was jelly. Laughing hysterically on his recliner. After a drop in consciousness, I awoke from hysteria and the paranoia set in. An hour of recycled questioning and obsession resulted. My first true and whole out of body experience shifted, as if my soul, spirit and body separated into three and hovered over and between each other. After pizza, watching the room cave in like a repetitive gif image on Tumblr, and realizing I’m an awful person who has nothing but her functioning psyche worthy of saving, the weed wore off. I was left with a carefree disposition and an ease that trailed off into silence and eventually, sleep. Although I left the next morning totally ashamed of the unfiltered mess I had evaporated into the night before, I had succumbed to the clarity that the shit was good and I will do it again.
Moments I could not photograph:
No comments:
Post a Comment