I’m not who I was when I started traveling fifteen years ago. I’m not who I was when I lived in a van three years ago. I’m not who I was before the pandemic started. It’s a process, it’s a change, and it’s a chance.
A global pandemic wasn’t exactly on our checklists of things to plan for down under.
Her pants are drenched from trudging through weeds still wet from the weekend rain, her boots are covered in the mud she sank through five minutes after starting her shift, and her socks have now been drenched for six hours because her boots aren’t waterproof.
If one person has a fever we all have to stay home and quarantine. Not exactly on the top of our to-do lists when most of us only have a few days wiggle room to get our 88 days for our visa extension.
The branches pull free from their twists and whip me in the face and we curse loudly at the bushiest of the vines
I’ve moved into a working hostel in Northern Victoria – snagging a job in the brief few weeks that farms allowed new backpackers in before slamming their doors shut once more due to coronavirus spikes.
What no one had mentioned, yet what is all over the internet, was how ridiculous the weather is down here.
Somewhere along the lines I think my name blended into Alice, and I just rolled with it. Sawadee ka! I bowed my head to my pressed palms.
A year is not enough time. But oh, what a year it was…
I have not been a useful blogger in these last months, but then again, I don’t know if that matters.