Lights, Lanterns, and a Broken Foot.

I feel like I'm trapped in that song by the clash. But whereas when they asked 'Should I stay or should I go?' they were talking about a relationship, and I am talking about a country.

The decision to come out to Australia was not taken lightly. And most of last year was spent waiting, waiting for the 11th January when I would I would fly off into the great unknown.

And when you take that plunge, into the great unknown, the great unknown quite quickly becomes something quite familiar. And you realise, its actually pretty easy to go to the other side of the world. You may be in a different place, but you're still the same person. The same person, but better.

Your eyes become opened to a whole new place, new people, new mindset. Years spent floating around in a pleasant bubble, in the same town, with the same people. Safe, comfortable, but so very boring. And all of a sudden it's all new. That stagnation, that predictability, is gone.

And you meet people. Some of the most amazing people you could ever meet. And because you're on your own, out of your comfort zone, you make the effort. And it becomes so very easy. In a couple of months you have a more intense relationship than you had back home with people you'd known for years. But then, you move on. Such is the nature of travel. And those friends you made in that place, in that moment, become strangers again. And then you find yourself in a new place, with new people, and you do it all over again.

The past year, I have just been floating around. It's like putting a blindfold on and putting your finger on a map, and going there. And once you go there that brand new, unfamiliar territory, becomes familiar. And then you move on somewhere else. I've seen the lights of Sydney, I've experienced being stuck in the outback, I've been to some of the most beautiful places on earth, such as Broome. And then I arrived in Darwin.

Arriving in Darwin, something just clicked with me. I fell in love with the place. I remember exploring the small city centre a few nights after I arrived. The luminous city lights shone against the backdrop of the balmy, tropical evening. And I heard music, beautiful music. I followed the music and arrived in a park.

The trees were filled with lights and lanterns, oranges, reds and indigos against the leaves and the starry sky. There was a tent in the middle where a female vocalist was singing, and people were lying on the grass. Some smoking, some drinking champagne, some just closing their eyes and taking in the energy. I closed my eyes, lay on the grass, let the music and the heat wash over me and I thought, "This is it. This is the place I want to live"

Everything conspired in the first few months to prove my initial reaction. The sunsets, the indigo ocean, the luscious plants, the exotic animals.

The Thursday beach markets were out of this world. Hundreds of stalls selling exotic jewellery, aboriginal artwork, candles, insence, tarot. Lots of food stalls sending the smell of Asia out into the still night air. Digeridoo music floating up to the star filled sky, and me, lying on the beach watching the ocean. Thinking I could sit there forever.

And the job! What a job. Teaching beautiful, well mannered kids, the timor sea your backdrop through the wide open windows.

Then the bike accident.

Hours spent inside. Sitting in hospital wards. Sleeping most of the day. Not able to work. Not able to do anything but think.

Then 'home' loomed in my thoughts. My family, my friends, all the things I left behind ten months ago. Darwin was too hot, too sticky. The heat was oppressive. The slightest task became a monumental event. I needed to take a couple of hours to psych myself up before having a shower, because of the effort it now involved. What was I doing in this isolated place on the other side of the world anyway?

Part of me wants to settle down, wants to get a full time job, wants to be in a position where I can embark upon a relationship in the knowledge that I'm not going to be moving on somewhere else in a few months

But Darwin still has its grip on me. Last night, for example, I went to the deckchair cinema. Outdoors, under the stars, surrounded by trees. The ocean to the left. Distant lights of ships hovering. The beautiful balmy night air. The smell of the plants

I don't want to go.

Frozen in a Moment

The heat is oppressive. You go outside and within minutes you can feel it dripping down your face, dripping down your hair, making your t-shirt stick to your skin. But you adjust, you get used to it. It is the natural state after all. Embrace the sweat. It's all that you can do.

I'm not complaining. I could sit out on the verandah for hours looking at the lush vegetation, listening to the birds and frogs, watching the lizards

I just miss being able to do things. When I think of a few weeks ago, cycling along East Point at sunset, people-watching, looking at the tropical sunset through the moisture, and thinking, "This is it. I'm here."

The last East Point sunset I remember vividly. I was smoking a cigarette on a bench looking out at the swollen orange sun hanging above the Timor sea. And I felt content. Not happy, not sad, just content.

A woman came near, with her daughter. The daughter had down syndrome. She didn't look like she spoke much, and she retreated to the corner, and looked away, to a place where she felt safe.

The woman had spent too many years in the blazing heat and her skin was shrivelled up like a used condom. But there was a kindness in her gait. Kindness and sadness. Sadness at how life can be so uninspiring, even in front of this ecclesiastical sunset.

For a few moments we sat in silence, watching the sun go down.

There were three figures which in the distance had looked like whales, or dolphins. But as they came closer it was clear they were people. People in rowing boats. I was thinking how stupid they were, as there were signs all around the beach saying it was dangerous to go into the water. Unless, of course you wanted eaten by a croc, or stung by a box jellyfish.

"Look at those silly people, out in the sea. Don't they know how dangerous it is"

It was the woman beside me. I agreed with her and went back to my sun gazing. But it was no use. A dam had been unlocked, and she didn't want to close it again.

So she talked and talked. Told me about her history, her life, her family, all that had brought her to this moment, watching another lonely sunset with her silent daughter.

I could imagine her, living alone with her daughter. Looking ater her, wondering who would when she was gone. Watching sunset after sunset. Alone. Silence. Endless silence all day. Endless silence to think about the past, to think of the people you met, and lost, to think of the people you never met, the things you didn't do.

Too much time alone is a dangerous thing.

My initial desire to experience this spiritual sunset with my constant companion of the past year, Solitude, was quickly surpassed by my desire to be nice to this woman. To listen to her, to talk to her.

Her daughter stayed at a safe distance, looking over occasionally, too frightened to come close.

As the sun went down over the horizon the old woman said,
"That was a disappointing one. I've seen better."
I laughed and said,
"There'll be another".
She then said she must go on, and that it was nice to meet me, and that she hoped I enjoyed the rest of my travels.

I remember cycling off and thinking to myself how sorry I was for that woman, how afraid I was of getting old, and how happy I was to be young, fit and healthy and on my bike in this beautiful part of the world.

That was the last sunset I saw overlooking the ocean in Darwin.

The next day was the day I fell off my shiny new bike.

The old woman and her daughter are probably sitting there right now, where they will always be sitting. Looking over the ocean, watching the sun go down.

Frozen in a moment.