Dream: tragedy at Ashfield station

This dream starts on a platform at Ashfield station. I am standing there with C, her fiance and Marek. Though there are several sparse light poles, it is almost completely dark and I can barely make out their faces.

All around us, trains are passing by. We are discussing where to go to get the train to the city. I suggest that we should go to platform 1... but what platform are we on now? platform 5? we are puzzled as there are very few visual clues.

Steadily, the crowd grows around us. None of the trains seem to stop, but the number of people on the platform is increasing exponentially. Soon Marek and I become separated from the other two, who are swallowed up without a noise by the crowd.

For the number of people there are, it is eerily quiet. We are still walking up the length of the platform when we see some steps leading up to an overbridge. Let's go up there and see if we can see a noticeboard. I say to Marek.

We start up the stairs, but then a rush of people come down the steps and Marek is lost. I am now alone and the stairs seem to never end. They weave left and right, but there is nowhere even to stop and have a rest as there are no landings to separate the flights. I feel out of breath and my legs are burning, but the swell of people behind me push me forward.

I take out my phone and call Marek. The phone goes to voicemail which is fragmented, as if someone tore up the recorded message and scattered them in the sky: please... tone...  message.. not...  It goes on and I hang up. I try calling C but the phone is silent. Suddenly I feel very afraid, my hands and feet cool from perspiration.

Unceremoniously and without warning. the stairs end and I am at the top. I struggle to remember, is this really Ashfield station? It is so dark I cannot see anything on the noticeboards. I decide to go to where I think platform 1 is, and as I go down the steps, weeds grow into them and intrude upon my descent. I trip several times, not being able to see where they are.

I look up and the moon is shining bright. It casts its rays over an area just to my right, revealing a high ledge that looks like a brick wall. I try to climb up the side of the stairs to get to that ledge, convinced that there I will find some answers. It is a rather difficult climb, but eventually I get there and sit down on the cool bricks, utterly exhausted.

It's a great vantage point from which I can see all 5 platforms of Ashfield station. The trains come and go in all sorts of random directions with no pattern to them.

No wonder we couldn't find the train to the city. I think to myself.

Then I see them, dark shadows leaping from the tops of trains. All of a sudden, the truth is crystal clear - to get onto the right train, one must get on top of the train and jump from train to train - these trains cannot be boarded in a normal way. I feel overwhelmed with the idea of doing this though, and feel rather heavy in my heart.

Then I see Marek's shadow on top of a train. Tall and thin, it's definitely him. I stand up and begin to shout to him, but before the words leave my mouth, I see him leap into the air, trying to make it onto the top of the next train. In impossibly slow motion, I see his body falling, having missed the train altogether. Before he hits the ground, I see his body propelled forward in an extraordinary fashion. With a truly sickening feeling in my stomach, I realise that another train has hit him.

My heart feels like it will burst out of my chest. Then I wake up. 

Dream: Marrickville and the elephant sanctuary

In this dream it is dark. I am with Grace and we are off to meet some people for dinner in Marrickville.

We are at a bus stop which appears unfamiliar to me. The bus arrives and I cannot recognise the number or the route, but we get on anyway. It is terribly dark inside the bus, and we can barely see where we are going. We sit and silently watch the abandoned streets pass by.

After some time, we still have no idea where we are. No one else is on the bus, and I start to feel more and more restless. I check my phone for a GPS signal so that the map can show us where we are going, but there is just a flashing blue dot on the screen.

We must get off, I tell Grace, and I press the button. At the next stop, the bus pulls up outside a train station. A sign outside says Central, but it looks nothing like the real Central station (or any other train stations I've been to). We descend the steps as Grace protests that the trains are unsafe in this city.

I look at the clock and it is just after 7pm. We are not going to make it in time, I tell her, we must hurry and find the right train. We try to buy a ticket but all the ticket machines are switched off. There is a ticket booth but no-one inside. The whole station is abandoned.

We go down several escalators to a platform, and an old steam train pulls in. Just as we jump on the train, my phone starts ringing.

And then it cuts to the next scene. We are in an elephant sanctuary and have just reported for work. Grace is the vet and I am the elephant keeper. I feel greatly relieved as I don't think I would be any good at being a vet, especially of elephants!

There are about a dozen elephants in the sanctuary. A few of them are babies, the smallest one being the size of a horse and absolutely adorable. My job is to feed them, observe their activity patterns and do some record keeping. Occasionally the elephants will break into a playful fight, trumpeting loudly from the other side of the reserve. They seem to respond well to me though, and when I show up the fight is broken.

I love my job, and I love the elephants. Then one day I notice that two of the male elephants are both interested in one of the female elephants. I wonder if some of the previous fights have been over her, and I approach Grace to ask about the mating patterns of elephants. She ponders the question and pulls out the files on those elephants, looking at them carefully.

You must keep this elephant away from her. She says solemnly.

Why? I ask.

Because they will make really ugly little elephants. She says without a trace of expression.

Then I wake up. 

Dream: J and a military coup

Some years ago, I met a man who was quite into the remote areas of Yunnan - the history, the early explorers who lived in the area, and the mountains. We spent Christmas of 2008 looking for Catholic Tibetans in a remote valley. Here he appears in my dream.. for no apparent reason.

The dream starts in a holiday resort. It is so non-descript it could be anywhere in the world. The beach is wide and sandy with no distinguishing features. A row of umbrellas and deckchairs line the slightly grubby sand, complete with a gaggle of sunburnt tourists slathering themselves with suntan lotion.

I feel a minor sense of annoyance at being in such a place, not really my choice of holiday destinations. But I soon realise that I am with my friend J who has just married this man. I feel puzzled and struggle to fill in the gaps - how did they meet? how did they come to be married?

We are walking along the beach when we hear loud explosions.. not unlike firecrackers, or gunfire. All around us, people are getting up from under the umbrellas and shouting in a confused way. Many start running in the direction of a tall building at the end of the beach which looks like the hotel. Some start running in the opposite direction, where there is an empty highway.

Something bad is happening. I say to my companions. We must leave immediately.

They say that we must go back to the hotel to get our things, and J complains about being in a dress - how can I escape while wearing a dress? I will be found out for sure. My mind is blank as we walk as quickly as we can towards the hotel.

As we approach, I realise that the front of the lobby has been completely overtaken by heavily armed men. Gunshots are still ringing out from some distance away, and the crowd are murmuring about a military coup. We go into the carpark entrance, thinking that we can access the lift from the carpark. When we press the up button, we realise that all the lifts are stuck on level 16.

Still standing at the lift, we argue about what to do next. The sound of gunfire comes closer and closer, and we can see armed men entering the carpark. We start to run in the opposite direction, and as we emerge from a difference entrance of the carpark, I see a steam train. There are so many people hanging off the train that it is difficult to see where the doors are.

We must get on this train. I shout. This is our last chance!

J continues to grumble about her dress and the man is complaining about the money he left behind in the hotel room... I feel panicked as the train sounds the very last toot-toot!  Then I wake up. 

Weekend in Murrurundi

J and I both felt like we needed to have a break from our lives, so we set out for a long weekend in the sleepy depths of August. We wanted to go to Barrington tops, but some twist of fate led us to Murrurundi..

Setting out one sunny morning, we stopped in Newcastle for lunch at the excellent One Penny Black. This place was so hipster that there wasn't even a sign outside!

Top: Beetroot, roast pumpkin and quinoa salad.
Bottom: Roasted field mushrooms, leek & chive hash brown, a couple of perfectly poached eggs and goat cheese on sourdough.

After such a virtuous healthy lunch, I thought we could have chips for dinner! Before that we had to pop into Doughheads for a chocolate smores doughnut.

Driving up north, we planned to stop in Morpeth for some sourdough. Alas the store had just closed, and we ended up wandering into the teapot festival instead. What an incredible selection of teapots! We happened to be there on one of the three annual days set aside for tea drinking, and J acquired a beautiful Japanese sakura-patterned teapot.

When we got back into the car, we had a real fright when we put Murrurundi into the GPS and saw that it would be another 2 hours. The sun dipped low, burnt brilliant orange, and eventually went to sleep behind the horizon.

It was dark after Muswellbrook, and when finally managed to find our accommodation, we were completely floored by the incredible starry sky.

We went out to the White Hart Hotel, apparently the place to have dinner in town. A wedding was on, and plenty of guests were jolly drunk. A live music band came to play, and they weren't half bad. I asked if any of the handful of carnivorous menu could be made vegetarian, and the lady replied she could take the chicken out of the pasta.

Hence I was served pasta with bacon and mushrooms... Evidently bacon is not real meat!

The next day we woke to heavy clouds in the valley, which soon turned into rain. We visited the geriatric horse Rumba in her paddock before retreating inside to a rustic breakfast of homemade bread and a selection of preserves. I particularly adored the ginger jam, and the cute Turkish saucers.

Rumba

We drank tea and played the antique piano, which was a fascinating experience. The piano was in reasonable tune, but everything was shifted one tone down. Playing something in E major shifted it to D.. C became B flat etc. If I closed my eyes and relied on muscle memory, or if I looked at my hands very closely, I could play just as usual and experience the music in a completely different light. However, the auditory dissonance became unbearable if I tried to match my fingers to the music.. Tchaikovsky's October in C minor? June in F minor? Chopin's A minor waltz in G minor? It was like eating all my favourite dishes in a different flavour. Incredible.

So many horsies!

We got distracted by this baby cow which was on a paddock with a herd of horses. The thunder and lightning were causing the horses to behave somewhat erratically, but they stood around the calf and seemed to be protecting it. The dairy cows on the other side of the fence didn't seem to pay any attention to a baby of its own kind at all, so we wondered if that farm had bought just a cow.. or whether its mother had come to ill health.

By the time we got to town, it was pouring. In fact, the rain timing itself with any time we went walking became a recurrent theme. We poked around the pink house shop with all sorts of interesting knickknacks, including over 3000 salt & pepper shaker sets. The man who owns the shop travelled all over Oz with his wife before settling down in Murrurundi - they had a map of Australia covered in black squiggles detailing their route, a true sight of envy!

Then we sat down to have a lazy long lunch at Telegraph Cafe, and were surprised by how tasty the food was.

Top: Baked camembert with walnuts, figs and honey. Perfectly gooey, the sweetness balanced the richness of the cheese.
Left: Eggplant ragu on a bed of polenta. More goats cheese!
Right: Chocolate cherry pot, with a sprig of wildflowers from the garden.

Inside Cafe Telegraph 

These buildings were incredibly old - the telegraph office was over 100 years old, and the white hart has been there for 150 years. Everywhere we went in Murrurundi, we met interesting people - lots of seachangers, grey nomads, people with stories to tell.

Random images of town

Michael Reid gallery

The Michael Reid gallery had a lush garden full of flowers and vine leaves. Inside was an exhibition of pencil print animals with strangely disturbing black dots signifying their blood(?) and slaughter. Outside a cuddly brown lab wandered the puddles and we marvelled at how such a place can be.. well, in the middle of nowhere.

Sunday dinner at the White Hart was even more quiet. The barman explained that pasta & pizza night on Sundays comes from the busy trade of the weekend leaving the pub with relatively few ingredients before the next week's delivery. Now that's the stuff us city folk never even think of. On our way to dinner, we managed to get bogged down in the grass as it had rained so much. Never felt like such city girls before!

Rain is different in the country. One can hear it approaching even before you feel the raindrops, like the sound of a wave. Raindrops on the tin roof of the shed were almost musical. After the rain came a brilliant patch of sunshine, which saw us squelching outside in the mud to take some glorious photos of the shed.

We stopped in Scone on our way home for lunch at the super popular Kerv Cafe.

Though the corn fritters were too doughy, the frittata was perfectly light and wobbly. Then it was a long rainy drive home, and our weekend getaway seemed so quick all of a sudden.

Finally, a few more photos from Gilly's amazing shed.

She has lovingly restored Runnymeade as a residence, and completely renovated the shed into a B&B style accommodation. The shed is decorated with a quirky collection of eclectic finds, and it feels like one has walked straight into a treasure trove (or an antique shop!)

Of course my favourite piece was the 115yo Berlin piano, complete with candlestick holders.. just imagine how that piano started life..

Aaboll cafe, Merrylands

I was delighted to read about Aaboll cafe, an Ethiopian eatery that opened in Merrylands just over a year ago. Sadly Sydney hasn't had a real Ethiopian place until now (there is a place run by a Somali-Ethiopian guy with a Swahili name.. one can make up one's own mind about that!), and I'm so excited to find that the flavours are authentic.

The shopfront is unpretentious, with a black easily overlookable sign . From the outside, it looks like every other bog-standard cafe with a coffee machine and a selection of cookies & muffins. When we got there mid-afternoon on a Saturday, there were lots of Ethiopian people lounging around drinking coffee and chatting - a good sign!

Entry through a little doorway leads to the backroom decked out in a huge mural. All around are Ethiopian knick-knacks like traditional servingware, scarves and paintings. It felt like my living room when I first got back from Ethiopia with all my souvenirs scattered around!

The owner comes from Addis and tells us that they had been thinking about opening up an Ethiopian place for some time, to serve the original flavours. His wife is a good cook, and they found this affordable prime-time spot in Merrylands. As they say, the rest is history! He was delighted when we told him about our Ethiopian trip and even more so when we showed him some of our photos.

The regular fasting days in the Ethiopian orthodox calendar mean that the cuisine is well accustomed to vegetarians. The beyanetu (selection) is probably the best way to try out all the different flavours. I would challenge any carnivore to appreciate the differences in the way the legumes are cooked in Ethiopian cuisine - the variety of flavours is just incredible. From left there is cabbage, collard greens, yellow lentils, green lentils, red lentils, vegetable curry, and down the bottom shiro (chickpea puree). How I missed shiro.. the buttery gloop that I ate with so much injera all over Ethiopia. I demolished it all.

My friend had the doro wat (chicken curry) which was served with a little dish of cheese and a hard boiled egg. The mildly spicy sauce with berbere was perfection, just like in Ethiopia. The injera here is made from millet & rice flour (teff apparently is very expensive to import), still fermented to give the characteristic flavour and aroma. It is a bit more filling than the usual injera, a very good substitution indeed.

I'm busy telling all my friends to visit because I would love for this place to stay open for a long time. I also can't wait to return for breakfast where they have traditional goodies like chechebsa and injera firfir!

Dream: no water in Venice

In this dream I am flying into an European city, and I have my violin with me. I know instinctively that I am there to play as part of an orchestra. Momentarily I wonder what my position is and what pieces we will play, but soon I am distracted by getting off the plane.

Emerging from the plane, the landscape reveals no clues and I still have no idea where I am. I am travelling with a man who has a cello, and we get into a taxi with our instruments. The taxi driver doesn't speak English, but drives through many narrow streets before we finally emerge at a canal. We are in Venice! I think to myself, what a beautiful place to play music.

We get out of the taxi and into a gondola. The gondolier is extravagantly dressed, as if he is part of some show, but the gondola itself is old with peeling paint. I am sceptical about taking our instruments onto the gondola, but seems like we have no choice. The gondolier pushes away from the side of the canal, and we are smoothly gliding down it.

I soon realise that we are all alone and there are no other gondolas around. We emerge from the small canal into a much larger one, but still there are no signs of people on gondolas. On the ground though, people walk about just like in any other place.

I turn to the man I am with and ask him if he has been here before. Sure, he says, but it was much busier last time. As we turn a corner, I see that the water is sloping in the canal, such that only half of the canal is covered with water. We travel further and I start seeing people walking in the canals, and I wonder where all the water in Venice has gone. Here I was worrying about our instruments getting ruined, there's hardly any water to row our gondola in!

The gondolier points out a structure in the distance, a grand majestic hotel. A few hundred metres from it, we hit a sandbank and the gondola abruptly stops in the middle of the canal. The gondolier jumps out and kicks the gondola violently, sending our instruments half into the air. Watch it!! The man calls out loudly. The gondolier throws up his hands and gestures for us to get out of the gondola.

We start walking down the canal, lugging our instruments. The violin is remarkably easy to carry, I thought to myself, whereas the man seemed to really struggle with his bag and his cello. We arrive at the lobby of the hotel, a beautiful place with a huge chandelier over the entrance. We join the line to the reception desk, and recognise some other people with instruments.

As we reach the front, I see a tall middle aged woman wearing a heavy winter coat, her hair carefully set in curls. She is holding some sort of woodwind instrument (?a clarinet), and is gesturing wildly at the check-in clerk, speaking some unrecognisable language. Next to her is a teenage boy with a sullen expression, his clothes untidy and his fingernails grimy, holding a large brass case (?a tuba). The boy looks away as the woman raises her voice even more, and the clerk looks at me for help. I approach the woman and ask her what the trouble is.

They don't have any more rooms! She shouts. They put me in the same room as this little stinky boy! The boy looks embarrassed and stares intently at his feet.

I am a lady! How am I supposed to sleep in the same room as a little boy? She snarls at the clerk, who murmurs apologetic words.

Why don't we swap so my friend here can stay with the boy, and I can share a room with you? I offer to her, gesturing to the man I am with. After all, we are part of the same orchestra.

She smiles at me widely and says, that would be wonderful, thank you so much.

The man looks quite cross now. He leans over and says something in my ear, which I can't quite catch. He says it again, and I still don't understand him.

Then I wake up. 

Broken

Can a human being be irretrievably broken?

From a physical perspective, doctors often talk about the point of no return. Regardless of the original pathology or the timeline of disease progression, there is usually some intangible point at which one stands before the very reality of death. This is the very last point where medical intervention may save life. Going beyond it is like being on an escalator to heaven with no stop points to get off.

What about psychological brokenness? I have often wondered how patients came to be so terribly broken. Stories of abuse, maltreatment and horrible relationships are incredibly heartbreaking, and it never fails to amaze me how human beings can hurt each other so much. Some people get into a rut, an endless cycle of self hatred and harm, followed by some completely unrelated intervention (an ICU stay, anyone?), some other random "treatments" and then back to it. Some people spend their entire lives on psychotropic medications, trying to "control" their mental illness which is a manifestation of all the problems they have had in their lives. A few manage to escape the cycle and lead a seemingly normal life, but how normal are they really? How can one heal from being battered and bruised? Is there a threshold beyond which it is not possible to heal again?

It's like a vase that has been broken into a thousand pieces. With some sort of roadmap, one can try to put the pieces together. External help like counselling, loved ones, and (maybe) drugs can behave like glue that allows you to stick the pieces together. It takes a numbingly long time. The end result is infinitely more fragile than the original thing, and it is never ever the same. Can it still function? maybe, in the rare occasions that people manage the impossible feat of putting it back into a normal shape. Otherwise you live with a pile of broken pieces for the rest of your life...