…and suddenly, I had left mid-winter and hit mid-summer and everything was upside-down. Or should that be right-way-up?
Though, if you’ve been following my adventures, you’ll know there was a lot more to it.
It all happened two weeks later than it was meant to, for a start.
But first: many apologies for this very overdue newsletter. Stuff has happened, clearly.
In May, people might recall, I was still in Beautiful (if a little uneventful) Ballarat, living in my son’s and almost-daughter-in-law’s front room and trying to keep out of their way. I was looking forward to my exit back to France, and it looked as though that would be mid-June. My ticket with Etihad had been credited; two weeks/two weeks was the chant, especially when chatting daily on Fb messenger with mon amour. I’d come over to celebrate the wedding in mid-March, watched from quarantine as wedding plans fell apart with the new rules, moved into the front room in April and then …. sat. No, occasionally I visited or went for a stroll with my other son. I admired the black swans by the lake. I printed out numerous documents to help me find my way back home.
I also rediscovered a friend from way, way back. Caroline was very active in politics, on local council and then in the Victorian parliament. Visiting her and her lovely husband was a very bright spot in my stay, not to mention going to cafes with her when we were allowed.
Then there was confusion while Etihad blamed Air France for cancelling the Paris to Toulouse part of the voyage, until it became clear this was a ruse to get passengers to change their date to Abu Dhabi’s preferred one of July 2. It wasn’t Air France’s fault at all. I worked this out when Etihad (which is owned from Abu Dhabi) simply cancelled everything and there was no option but to rebook. Two weeks/two weeks started to sound like something from ‘Groundhog Day.’
While I was eminently comfortable where I was, and looked after and fed well (I have expanded disastrously), actually it took quite a lot of Zen-like self-control to withstand the growing frustration and sense of insecurity about the future. I was wondering if I would ever get out. I cannot imagine what it’s like for asylum seekers and the unjustly imprisoned: mental stability could not withstand that.
For my own clarity, and for anyone who asked, I put to mon amour that testing would be a good thing, especially since his own daughters and their husbands were planning to land on him from England almost immediately after me. So I made my test-appointment on the Thursday for the next Monday and assured the young woman I had a symptom (place loud sniffle here). She pointed out I would still have to have one (symptom) on the Thursday and I said I would do my best. On Thursday, I made sure I was a bit too cold (not difficult in Ballarat in winter) and then overdid it so had to spend the rest of the day warming up in hot baths and so on. But all was good: I was negative, mon amour also, and so were daughters, sort of.
Anyway. I finally got away, was carried off to the airport by my friend Jo, who had dashed over from NSW for a few days with me and other friends. She had her own adventures, of course, which included discussing with police at Mascot such interesting topics as ‘being allowed back into NSW’ (she was).
At Tullamarine, it was like the Marie Celeste. Almost. The International section was empty except for passengers from my own flight, which was the only one left on the notice board. All other flights were cancelled. Extraordinary. Passengers were mostly people who had been caught out as tourists – some trapped since January – or Australians going back to their scattered homes elsewhere. In fact, we Australians were scrutinised very closely by Border Force officers. These collected our passports (presumably they could recognise our eyes in the photos since we were all masked) and actually rang Canberra to see if we were allowed to leave.
So if anyone thinks the authorities don’t know about you or where you are or have been, they do. They certainly know that I have a visa (renewed several times) for France, probably that I have been in and out of it, and that I have a house there.
All of which also meant that many of the documents I had carefully collected to prove my legitimacy was unnecessary. Incidentally, being the only plane-load of passengers scheduled to leave doesn’t mean anything moves any faster than usual. It doesn’t.
Distancing on the plane was rather loosely applied. This was partly because, I think, Etihad management had been feeling a bit stressed about money and had ‘offered’ passengers the chance of bidding for an extra seat in Economy class (bidding for a Business upgrade was so way beyond me it was laughable). I got my extra seat, but not on the longest, night-time, leg from Melbourne to Abu Dhabi. On that leg, it was young men over the aisle who got to stretch out flat. One of my crammed fellows found a spare seat elsewhere and scampered off to it, so I pointed out kindly to the remaining young woman (tucked up close to my left shoulder) that she could actually move up now. How is it people don’t work these things out for themselves? How was it that the young women entirely alone in the row behind us still chose to sleep sitting up? Honestly, there should be a sociological/psychological study done.
Also, over-60s on night-flights should get any spare seats. Just saying. After touchdown, after all, my legs were swollen for three days.
So, travelling was about 27 hours, with stops, from Melbourne to Toulouse. With masks and much gel the whole way. No distancing at all on Air France which was, mercifully, only an hour’s flight. Interestingly, Abu Dhabi regards distancing as being two metres (which could mean sometimes there just weren’t any seats in waiting areas), whereas Paris was happy with one metre.
Almost immediately after I left Melbourne, the shutters came down entirely on international entry, and now, of course, Melbourne has gone into Stage Four lockdown, while regional Victoria is into Stage Three.
This means that my younger son, who has just been elevated to the manager at the restaurant he works in, spent those three days booking and then cancelling weddings and hiring and firing a new worker, before losing his job (temporarily) again.
I must add that if those who are happy to wear clothes and obey the rules of the road but claim wearing a mask is outrageous could just get over themselves I’m sure this period will be over all the sooner.
Finally, for me, there was a happy ending. Mon amour and I recognised each other immediately despite the missing lower face, and I’m now back home. Daughters and husbands have been, leapt in the pool and created a two-week isolated party amongst themselves, and now gone.
I dealt with the general invasion by heading upstairs to revise my manuscript because I will be meeting up with my agent in August (I hope he’s still my agent after reading the revision!). That’s any minute now. He’s coming down for his annual vacation from London to about three hours from me in France and we’ll have a talk about this. This is exciting. Believe me.
And, I now have a ten-year Carte de Séjour! Weirdly, I’d had a phone call from France to tell me it was ready. That was an odd conversation eg: ‘Vraiment! That’s great. There’s just one thing…’ There was a bit of awkwardness back here, mostly because you couldn’t just go pick the card up but had to make an appointment, wear your mask, wait in line etc. But, hey!
Before I forget, I should remind anyone who hasn’t yet read the novel out now and available, that it’s a literary-historical, called ‘What Empty Things Are These’ and can be found on any online outline and is orderable from any bookshop. Lots of good reviews, promise.
Back to the COVID adventures. Not necessarily mine. For example, one of my Facebook friends of the last couple of years is a lovely young man from Uganda. But in Africa, official approaches to the virus are various and don’t often include financial support. So when he messaged me with a desperate plea for some help I dithered a bit but ended up sending $50 via American Express. I gathered, incidentally, that he hadn’t made this request to every Fb friend at once, and I don’t believe he will keep asking me. He’ll spread out his requests, depending on the ongoing situation. I’m not all that flush anyway – but I see $50AU goes a long way in Uganda, so I’m glad to have helped. People are in fact short on food as a result of isolation and not working.
It was amusingly tricky, actually. From things like ‘but what’s the street and number?’ and ‘we don’t do street numbers in Uganda’ to welcome back-and-forths from American Express just to check that I trusted the person, I was sending money to.
Then there was my friend Marian, whose career and life normally permits her to spend half a year each in Australia and in France, with the occasional excursion to Morocco with her own amour to visit his friends and family. They were, of course, trapped in the Moroccan desert (in a village, never fear) by the virus and local regulations. I asked if Marian could give us a first-hand account of the Moroccan experience, and she sent this in early June:
” I’m still rocking the kasbah just outside Rissani. It’s getting hotter by the day but still averaging around 40. Soon it will be more like 45.
They recently extended the lockdown for another 20 days so we can’t move but will head to the coast as soon as we can. On the plus side, Ramadan is over and I bought a beautiful red Caftan for the end of Ramadan party. It does have a few sparkles on it but that somehow seems appropriate here. The heat is obviously getting to me. Despite their being in lockdown and only essential food chain and medical open they opened some clothes shops a few days before Eid because as we all know a new frock is essential for eid. Filling in the day cooking, playing with the kids and reading lots of books. I’ve mostly been with the family in the kasbah so very comfortable. I think you know we went camping in the desert for a couple of weeks too which was nice until the sandstorms arrived so we came back to the house.
I’ve had a hideous infection on my leg probably from a spider bite. Been getting treated by Youssef’s mum with local medicine for the bite. That’s a good thing cos the doctor in town wouldn’t see me cos I am a dirty, Corona carrying foreigner. She did a phone consultation and even though we told her I’m allergic to penicillin and its synthetics she prescribed me synthetic penicillin. I also asked the pharmacist if it was penicillin and she made a phone call and said it was ok. It sounded like one to me so I asked Dr Google and it was synthetic penicillin. Jesus. Fortunately, I have a doctor friend in Melbourne who told me what to take, as well as a bag full of antibiotics. It’s on the mend now but was pretty hideous and still not healed after 2 months. The local remedy is onion to start with. That’s amazing. I looked it up and it is antibiotic and anti-inflammatory. The infection was like a golf ball under the skin. It was excruciating but the onion took a lot of the pain away. Then once the infection came to the surface they used a powder of dried desert herbs and local honey. The local honey is incredible. It’s really dark and really tasty. So interesting to see the local stuff at work. They say it shouldn’t scar much cos of that magic powder. Youssef’s now deceased grandmother was considered a doctor in their traditional medicine so his mum knows a lot about it.
Apart from that Ramadan was interesting. The so-called fasting month which in reality is the month where people sleep all day and stuff themselves silly all night. Should be called the gluttony month. As you know my birthday fell during Ramadan. Not a good time to find somewhere to chill the birthday Champagne though. Nobody wants alcohol in their fridge, if they have one, in this very religious community. The sister in law made a birthday cake though. We did eventually take a bucket of ice and the champagne and had a very romantic dinner and night in the desert under the full moon and away from prying eyes. Mission accomplished.
The family are really lovely and there is a huge family next door with some intermarriage between the two households, which we see a lot of too so we are doing lockdown Moroccan style which means we only have contact with our closest 200 friends and family. Hardly anyone here speaks English and my Arab dialect is pretty shaky so I’m being proactive and teaching all the little kids here English, which is fun. They are such fast learners and I’m also helping one teenage girl with her maths. My biggest fan is the gorgeous 3-year-old nephew who follows me around all day and greets me every time we cross paths with a very enthusiastic” hello Malian” and a big cuddle. He can count to 10 in English but he calls 6, kiss. Too cute. There are about 10 little cousins ranging from 3 to 9 years old. They are usually hanging out together in a little gang. If I pass by them I am met with a chorus of “gooda morning Marian. How are you? I am fine. 12345678910. What is your name? Thank you very much.” They provide hours of entertainment. It’s a very poor community and those kids own nothing, so my gifts of pens, pencils, exercise books, and pencil cases, and even toothbrushes, are so enthusiastically embraced. They can spend hours playing with an empty sardine can, digging in the dirt and a multitude of other simple pleasures. Two of the boys planted wheat in the yard complete with a little fence and irrigation channel. It’s growing. Kids here don’t get that much positive attention from adults. Most of the adults are too busy working. My sister in law makes 20 loaves of bread a day for the big family she is part of next door. She told me her day starts at 5 am and finishes at midnight. Obviously the bread is just one of her jobs. So it’s mostly kids bringing up kids and while there are some nice aspects of that it can be a pretty harsh environment. There are a lot of savage whacks dealt out. So because I’m an adult that doesn’t yell at them or hit them I’m very popular. My spag bol is very very popular as well.
They are so easy to please.
The lockdown here is pretty heavy: you are likely to be jailed if you get caught breaking the 7 pm curfew, which is not to say people don’t break the curfew. We snuck out under the cover of darkness last week to visit some friends in the next village. There are many tracks to take you where you want to go without police. Youssef insisted we didn’t use a torch and I came within inches of standing on a scorpion. It wasn’t the deadly black one though, just the white one that makes you wish you were dead if it stings you.
As I said it’s very hot here but it’s still ok in the house with its massive mud walls; in a month it will be hell and around mid-40s. Hoping the internal travel restrictions will be lifted by then and we can head for the Atlantic, which will be gorgeous. We have been looking at some blocks of land to buy, facing the sea. Things move slowly though especially during Corona so don’t pack your bags yet but hopefully we will have a nice little house on the sea here eventually.
Youssef Being Youssef, a lovely man has also offered us a house up on the last hill of the Riff mountains between the Mediterranean and the Atlantic. It’s the dope growing area and fairly isolated and very idyllic life. Abundant agriculture, endless pot and the people have a reputation for being fearsome. The police don’t go there. We went up to stay for a few days shortly after I arrived in Morocco and the people and place were lovely. It’s not far from where we will stay on the coast.
We discovered that place because we had a big problem with the car but in Morocco people appear from everywhere to help. The bad luck with the car lead to many bits of good luck including finding the perfect area to buy our sea block.
The Australian embassy know I’m here and did offer me a place on a charter jet about six weeks ago but that is way too risky for me. Not sure that you know but I have a pretty serious genetic immune disorder. I don’t make antibodies. I’m supposed to get a monthly infusion of other people’s antibodies but not getting that here. I only got diagnosed at the beginning of the year, just in time for the pandemic. It did explain a lifetime of illness though. Corona would be very serious for me. I don’t want to go anywhere near Europe or UK. There isn’t any Corona at all where I am so I’m better off here for now.
It’s been really interesting being stuck here. I’ve got to know the family quite well and to develop some great relationships with the kids as I mentioned. Nice to see happy people living very simple lives. I’ve also seen the downside of village life, the jealousy, the gossiping, and judgement. I think I mentioned the lack of dental and health care so let’s not get carried away with romantic notions of poverty. It’s great to have so much time to read as for most of the past 40 years or so I’ve been on fast forward. On the other hand, I’d kill for a chilled sav blanc, some fish and chips, a pho, or some Autumn leaves to kick around. I’m spending too much time arguing with anti-vaxxers and other anti-science numnums on the internet. The internet reception here is almost non-existent so I rarely get to talk to my kids and other family, but overall I feel very lucky to be in a Corona free area.
Sorry for the sometimes messy English but writing on a telephone is terrible. I miss my computer too.
I hope you are coping with your forced stay in Australia and have found nice things to do.
Cheers,
Marian. “
Since then, Marian and Youssef have been allowed to motor off (taking care of young camels likely to wander onto the road to munch on palm trees on either side) to the sea. They have rented a wonderfully terraced house on the beach for a year or so. Occasionally, it’s almost cool. They go swimming and fishing, and someone caught them a gigantic lobster. So not all bad. Also, I take it from the increased frequency of her posts that the wifi is better where they are now. The local camels munch vegetation on the beach too. Thought I’d mention that. It adds to the colour.
Youssef drove off one day to fetch his mother to stay with the couple, and here, at last, is a story about someone for whom the plague year has been something of a positive, and I’m not talking nasal swabs. More from Marian:
“It’s been lovely also having Zinab here. She is much like my mum, very giving person and asks nothing in return. She doesn’t even want us to replace the dead light globe in her room. It’s “unnecessary”. She also insists on eating any stale bread as it’s wasteful to throw it away. I joke that I fight the donkeys outside for some stale bread for her. She has never been to the beach, or had any kind of holiday before, spending 99.9% of her time at home looking after everyone and particularly the 10 young grandchildren. Now she wakes up and takes a stroll on the beach alone. That’s big for her, and keeps being amazed at the ocean and muttering about the greatness of God. Yesterday she had lobster for the first time. She has a smile on her face most of the time here. Not so in Risanni where she looks permanently exhausted and under pressure looking after all those kids. “
And finally: “Youssef is also teaching her numbers which she never learnt. Can’t even tell the time. She is a dedicated student.”
Heart is duly warmed.
Marian and I agree that cultural-greeting stuff has become worrying, with people insisting on hugs, kisses and handshakes. It’s just automatic, we know…but….stop!
Meanwhile, my cousin in Texas is still well and safe, though terrified for the future.
I should also have written a blog by now, but I think I will do this for the next newsletter. Always on the Victorian theme, because this is to encourage you to buy the book (based in 1860) for yourselves, your friends or your family for birthdays and other fêtes, or just because. But next time, for obvious reasons, I thought I would look at epidemics and how Victorians coped with them. After all, they didn’t even know about germs, you know, much fewer viruses.
This will be ready for next month’s newsletter. In the meantime, I will indulge in the hard sell and post this, yet again. Sorry about that:
All my love, and keep well,
Judy Crozier
