Crikey this heat is hot.

I have been in Australia for exactly 16 days. I've been away 22 days now but I am only 16 days into a 365 day visa, and it feels like I'm running out of time.

Tonight I'm seeing the Brisbane Christmas tree lights being turned on. They're solar powered, because if you didn't know, Queensland is the Sunshine State of Australia. So here I am, sweating my bits off in 30 degree heat, celebrating the approach of Christmas.

Talk about head screw.

16 days, feels more like 60. Feels like so much longer. 2 weeks ago I jungle surfed through a rainforest. A rainforest!! I've snorkelled the Barrier Reef. I've held a koala. I've taken a train ride that lasted a day and a half. I've been burnt three times, and I've peeled too. Parts of me are still milky white. I've partied, got drunk, thrown up. I've made new friends. I've tried octopus, and lobster. I've been scared the day lights out of when a massive (not poisonous) spider crawled out from under a TV unit whilst watching a creepy tv show.  And I've had work experience at an Aussie production company, and there's more to come.

And I've been here only 16 days.

And in the next 16? More work, as well as a short road trip to the beach and to Australia Zoo.
And then maybe a train ride to the Gold Coast.

I came here to find work. Unlike other backpackers, I wasn't coming to see Australia, to experience the beaches or the outback. These last 6 weeks of 2013 were for holiday, and then 2014 I would work as much as I could. Now I realise there needs to be time for both. I've been here 16 days, and I want to see more. I want to see it all.

And I only have 349 days left to do it in.

A Rant About Misogyny because I saw a Flo Rida video last night)

In a nightclub at my hostel last night, I noticed this video on the screens. And all I could see was ass. Ass, booty, the junk in this girls trunk.

What really shocked me was not that there were beautiful scantily-clad woman dancing in an RnB song. It was the complete disassociation of these butts from the women that own them. In the first three seconds, we see a reflection of a bottom in Flo Rida's shades. You can just about see that this bottom is attached to body. But then Flo Rida is standing astride a long line of oversized arses. Seriously. They are just everywhere.

At 20 seconds, the creepiest thing I think I have seen on a screen in a long time appears.

I'm not sure I should show you, but in the interest of research.this blog. I print screened it for you.

Why, in 2013, are female bodies still the main fucking attraction? (Damn I try hard not to swear on this blog but I'm a little bit angry right now).

These women, where are their faces? At 0:30 we get a fleeting glance of two women sitting n the front of Flo Rida's speedboat. It's so quick, and they are not even doing anything. Just sitting there, looking pretty. 

Oh wait, more faces! at 0:46, there's are two women whose faces we see as they...sit...there...looking pretty... (as mermaids?! Do mermaids even have asses???)

OOH! At 0:49 we get a face, as she does an awesome hair flick towards the camera. And then at 0:58 we see her face as she returns from bending over. 

My favourite bit (wait, can you tell that was sarcasm? It's hard to know sometimes when you're reading something so just to let you know, that was sarcasm) is at 1:01 Flo Rida is holding a booty-cone. Oh yes, this girl's booty is positioned like some fine piece of ice cream that Flo's just gonna get his tongue around. But wait! The booty-cone girl is holding a booty-cone of another girl, who is also holding a booty-cone and oh my I'm a bit dizzy.

(Also, it's just after this bit I started asking myself "what do crocodiles have to do with ass?" And I'm still not sure.)

Mermaid girls are back for a second's glance at 1:30. 

And at 1:46, did Pitbull just call women "monkeys"? Or just women's asses? Or just the asses of women of colour (this latter possibility is sort of nullified by the fact that Flo Rida just "can't believe it" that a white woman has a booty, and thus giving us the whole [terrible] premise for the song.) Maybe I misunderstood him. Maybe he just wanted to get a Michael Jackson reference in there. 

Wait! 5 seconds later I think I have made the connection! The chorus is "bubbleyumbum" or something like that. And Jacko's monkey was called Bubbles right? So it was just the reference he was going for then. Right?

I seriously hope so.

2:04. More creepy mirror images. At 2:12 you get a tiny glance a the girl with purple hair's face. It's so quick I thought it was Jessie J pre-head shave for a moment.

2:40 - :44. Mirror. Images. 

And then yeah. Last minute is just the same as everything before. Asses, booty, junk in their trunk. And you barely see the women attached to them.

Now, you could argue artistic whatsit. You could even use that age old argument that the women in the video have made a choice to be in the video. And you could say some women might enjoy Pitbull and Flo Rida drumming on their asses like fucking bongo drums.

But actually it's the bongo drumming hand gestures that really seal the deal for me. "Look at that ass! I want to drum it. Like a bongo drum. Like an actual fucking object. Because this isn't a woman, a human being with feelings, thoughts, ambitions, brains or brawn. It's a wonderland created to help me improve my drumming skills."

And the misogyny and sexism in popular culture doesn't just stay in popular culture. For a start, it's created by those that continue perpetuating misogynistic and sexist views. And it doesn't stay isolated, but not matter how much you say popular culture doesn't affect you, it does. Like the excellent "She Didn't Buy It" strips for Page 3, you don't have to buy into something to be affected by it. The people on the bus in Stirling didn't buy into the misogynistic lads culture of the hockey team. But they were on the same bus and had to be subjected to their pathetic chants. You don't have to like the song Blurred Lines, or you can see it as harmless fun, but juxtapose the lyrics against rapist's actual words, and maybe you'll think a little differently. 

Blurred Lines, and whatever this Flo Rida song is called, are just two in what seems like a bazillion gillion songs in mainstream music that makes objectifying women, telling women what they want, dominating women, etc etc, totally normal. Totally normal. 

But I am more than a piece of ass, or a great rack. But this is just so freaking normal now. The hostel I'm staying in, at the nightclub attached, had a pole dancing competition last night. Ladies only, of course. On Ladies Night, after the topless champagne waiters had packed away. And at the end, all the women lined up for 60 seconds more dancing and the MC kept saying stuff like "get naked, get dirty, get your lesbian on". 

And I'm not going judge the girls on the stage for what they did, as long as they didn't feel pressured into it and they enjoyed themselves, but what the MC was saying was pressure, and it was just typical misogyny - women, get your bits out for our enjoyment. And I felt guilty that I was watching it all. A passive bystander. But what could I have done, jumped on stage and tried to pull the plug? Am I going to stand by when there is jelly wrestling, wet t-shirt contests, and Gladiator fights where the female contestants are nicknamed "Love Black Cock"?

I'm not going to watch, or participate. But that doesn't mean I won't be affected.

And my room mate just came back from a bar where one guy harassed her, trying to get her to have a drink (she's not drinking tonight as she's diving tomorrow) and when she refused him politely he grabbed her arm. 

I am raging. And it's exhausting. Which is why this rant is probably incoherent and rambling. 

You don't expect old men to touch you up

But, Erm. Why not? We live in a culture where women are objects, meat for the taking.

And why not from an old man? Because old people are so much more polite than the 'yout' of today? Perhaps but they lived in a time where women were still striking out and beginning to live beyond the home. 


It's hard to guesstimate how old this old man actually was. Old enough that he was shuffling along (though I do that in the morning with a hangover). Old enough that he was wrinkled and had baggy skin. Old enough that he was sensibly dressed for the cold weather. 


The more I think about it, the more righteous my fury becomes. I am practically apoplectic as I replay the events in my head. I am walking down the slope of the Lidl car park towards the station. After having to wait for a car to reverse out of its spot in order to leave, I continued walking, and there was an elderly man walking towards me. Nothing out of the ordinary, looking slightly like Victor Meldrew as he shuffled along, adorned in long black coat, black beanie hat and red scarf.
And since he was shuffling and wasn't going to change his path of direction to make sure we could pass each other, I moved over slightly. 

And that's when I saw what was coming. His left arm moved out from his side, at perhaps a 30 degree angle. I thought maybe he was going to stop me and ask me a question so I instinctively slowed down just a touch. 

Ha, just a touch, what an apt turn of phrase. Because as we passed that's what he did. He touched me. The 30 degree angle became a 45 degree angle and as we passed it touched my jeans just left of the zipper and dragged his hand along the top of my thigh. And I kept walking, but said out loud (not very loudly) "what the..?"
I turned to look over my shoulder at him and I could see him still shuffling along, arm down again, but he turned his head slightly back towards me too. Only briefly. 


I was in shock. An old man, shuffling past me in the car park of Lidl, just touched me up. And I know I didn't imagine it because my left thigh is incredibly sensitive since I got my tattoo, and not just directly on my tattoo but all around it. 


And I kept walking. I was in so much shock. Now, shock has given way to downright anger and disgust. I was not shocked when my friends got touched up in a bar last night. We take that kind of sexual harassment for granted in bars and clubs. 


BUT THIS WAS THE LIDL CAR PARK. I walk through there every day for work. That's how I get to the station. And he was an OLD MAN. Not some drunk sleazy banker guy that we (shouldn't have to but unfortunately do) expect to try and grab us. 

But next time it happens - to me, my sister, my friend, any other woman - I will not be shocked. And he will see my righteous fury. It doesn't matter how old you are, you do not have the right to touch me without my permission. 

   

I'm running out of clock and that ain't a shock.

I'm 6 days away from leaving. I'm 6 days away from leaving an island of family, friends, memories, for an island of family, friends, and memories yet to be made. 

I'm sitting on a train carriage and the man across from me is clutching an oversized bottle of Stella Artois. I like Stella, but the smell reminds me of an ex, and his bedsit, and nights in front of the PS2 playing Lego Star Wars. 
And it reminds me that I think I lost one of my PS2 controllers to him. Just like I lost my DVD (or was it VHS, I was 16...) of the Nighmare Before Christmas to another ex. 

And it's trails of memories like that which I savour, and considering my terrible memory, feel precious to me. Granted, it's not pleasant remembering either of those ex's, but remembering the memories themselves is nice. It's comforting.

Someone commented to me recently that they didn't think I was the sentimental type. But I can be. That's why I have several memory boxes of collected items. That's why I have walls covered in postcards and pictures. But you can recognise the pleasure in remembering times gone past without being nostalgic for them, or wishing that in fact the past was the present.

I'm about to leave the country for anything up to a year, and at times I might be lonely, or homesick, and the memories of all the people I've left behind will battle for space in my mind. Some will come equipped with megaphones, others colourful banners; anything to get my attention.

But when I'm not feeling that way, or maybe despite feeling that way, I'll be in a new country, on a new adventure, making new memories. And that is so exciting. We document our lives so much these days - Facebook updates, 140-characters or less tweets, Instagramming our dinner. Even blogging. There's the criticism that we're so busy posting about our lives that we're not actually living them. 

But how can we resist having an instant memory recall?! How can we resist being able to find out how exactly we reacted to England qualifying for the World Cup or the major storm of 2013. Or our comments on the opening and closing ceremonies of the Olympics, or even as far back as Michael Jackson's death? It's like reading back old diaries and reminding yourself of all the ancient petty squabbles you had with your sister or the time your parents tried to ground you for doing something or other.
I can look back on my Facebook and the multitude of hair colours and clothes I've had in the last 8 years. I can see with a click of the mouse the people I've been sharing my life with up until now. I can see again all the places I've been: America, Belfast, Bologna, Brighton, York. London. Beautiful, miserable, sprawling and crowded London. I barely know London. I want to know it so much better. I still have time. But for now I can make do with getting to know Cairns, Brisbane, Sydney...

I'm going to miss you. All of you. Ok not all of you. In fact, I'm looking forward to putting some memories, some people, behind me. Hey! Hey you! Yes you, the one that acted like a jerkoff to me. I'm looking forward to leaving you behind. The Other Side of the Sea behind. Don't get me wrong, I'll still think about you, because you got under my skin and you're like a scab that I can't resist picking... But when I'm in a country where I'll be in a bikini because it'll be SO DAMN HOT, I won't want to pick that scab.

I'm not stupid in thinking that by going to the other side of the world, I'm leaving all my troubles behind. How many films have we seen when people run away from their troubles or think they've escaped them only to have them catch up with them? I'm taking my issues with me because they are to do with me. But people run away for a new scene, a new culture, a new perspective. So your issues? They might not matter so much an ocean away. 

So when I'm the other side of the sea, missing some of you, and being finally free of the presence of others, you just need to know I'm ok. But you'll know that, cos I'll have posted it on Facebook. You know, that photo of me on the beach in my bikini, in December ;) 

No Freedom Til We're Equal

Yesterday my phone died when I was coming back from Central London. I had no music. I had to listen to the world. I had no choice.

And on the train home I was across the aisle from a young mum and her son. Her phone rang and she proceeded to tell her father that she had no money. Only £60 in the bank. And the Bright House money was going out on Friday and two of her son's friends were having birthdays this weekend and it was her son's birthday this week and she still needed to get everything for him but how was she going to pay for it all?

What I'm about to say is not a boast, I am not trying to lord anything over anyone. But I have never had to worry about money. Not really. I live with my dad, and I don't pay rent. When I tried to pay rent to my dad, he told me to set up a savings account and pay my "rent" into there every month. So I was paying my rent to myself. I think my dad just wanted me to save more money so I'd be out of the house quicker. At university my student loan never covered my accommodation, because my family had been assessed and it was concluded they could help me out financially. Which they had to. I still worked, but because I wanted to, not because I had to.

I'm not getting out of this house anytime soon, not least because I'm going to Australia for a year and by the time I come back my savings will probably be decimated.

So to hear this woman's fears about paying for things, to hear that she might genuinely struggle to give her son the birthday he wanted, it made me feel uncomfortable.

And that's my understanding of having privilege. When someone elses experience is not equal to yours, and it makes you uncomfortable. It should make you uncomfortable, because only then can you understand it, accept it, and if you can, make steps to correct it. Some shy away from that uncomfortable feeling, and make excuses for it.
I can't change that I was born into a family that is not rich, but is not poor.

I also can't change the fact that I am white. It is frequently noted that the mainstream feminism, the "third wave" is not very diverse. Feminism as a movement has more often than not focused on the experiences and disadvantages that white women suffer. And that is not because the movement is being racist. But because the experiences and disadvantages suffered by white women are not always strictly the same as those suffered by women of colour, and the women propelled forward to lead the movement are frequently white.
That is also privilege.

So now I have recognised that I am privileged in being not-poor and white, what can I do about it?

I can read. I can listen. I can take in what other people's experiences are. I can't change my skin colour or roots but I can learn about other people's roots. I can learn about their lives as experienced because of their skin colour. I have to continue to challenge my own preconceptions - and I do have them, I'm not denying that - of race, sex, age, ability, class, and in challenging my own I can learn to challenge others too. I don't want to be blind to the differences between myself and others. We need to deconstruct the stereotypes, and tear them down piece by piece. Stereotypes of Northerners, Southerners. Stereotypes of old and young. Stereotypes of nationality, or religion. Stereotypes of race. Stereotypes of gender.

Human rights for everybody. I want to be uncomfortable, if it means I become a better person.

The Times They Are a-Changin'

Changes can happen overnight, instantaneously or gradually. But we all change, all the time, and when we comment that someone hasn't changed, we're wrong. That person will have changed, perhaps not in a ground-shifting life-altering way that irrevocably changes who they are, but they will have changed in little ways, by small degrees.

I have changed so much in the last 12 months. Trek is the obvious catalyst to a new perspective of my life. Before Trek, I would never have planned a year abroad in Australia. I cried when I went away on Trek, when my mum and nan came to wave me off. I'm tearful thinking about it now. And that was only for a month.

A year is very different to a month. (No shit, Sherlock)
A year alone is very, very different to a month with a best friend and a random group of people you have to spend everyday with.

34 days left to go, and I'm scared. So scared. I'm terrified because I'm going into the unknown. Fearful of the things I'll find, or won't find. Scared that what I'm leaving won't still be here when I come back. I think the stupid craziness my brain has been dealing me the last week or so is down to me desperately feeling the need to make more roots here.

But the fear isn't stopping me from going. My excitement, my expectations, my desperation to explore, the bubbles of curiosity are carrying me ever closer.

A lot can change in a year. I've changed a lot in a year. I'm not expecting to come back in a year, or however long I go for, and everything be as it was when I departed.

I think that's one of biggest evolutions you can go through. Understanding that things change, and that it's okay. Accepting it, and embracing your own changes.

Evolving Forwards, Not Stuck Behind.

Those Walls I Built, Part 2

Boxes. Lots of boxes. Different sizes. Different weights.

That's how I'd like my mind to be. That's how I would like to compartmentalise the bad memories and the good memories and the grey memories. I could keep the bad memories in a dark corner, hidden from view, gathering dust.

In the same dark corner in which a flame burns. A flame that refuses to be extinguished. A flame that threatens to give life to paranoia, give light to jealousy. It burns bright for self-loathing and held to closely it smokes out my self-esteem.

I am still to work out how exactly I am meant to deal with rejection, and let go of crushes. I feel like every time it happens I haven't learned anything from the last time. Or the time before that, or the time before that. 

So I am a bit fed up of feeling so crap over this one thing. I feel like I'm only focusing on it because I'm bricking it about Australia. But I've got shit to do. So whilst I would love to feel the feelings and work on sorting myself out, I think the best thing to do is keep having the small brief cries, and compartmentalise. Like I said, shit to do man. Shit. To. Do.